#but for some reason strangely disarming to children (when he wants to be)

[malhare-archive]

The line “mommy, I want to play with the man in the tv!” hits different now that we know it’s Six

[granddaughterogg]

Captain John Price comforts you

SUMMARY: You're going through Something (TM) and your commander offers you a hug and some kind words. Wholesome fluff with a tinge of simmering attraction. (Is it mutual? Who knows?)

Captain Price is an extremely perceptive man. He may be quite literally carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but that doesn't mean he can't spot when one of his men (or women) is in a bad way. You were hoping that both your face – unsightly red from all this crying - and your general wet cat aura would have escaped his attention. No such luck.

"A word with you, Private?"

"Yes Sir," you sighed obediently. You have survived a week from hell, and now it felt like you've been called to the principal's office. What could your impressive commander want from you? You didn't particularly feel up to the challenge.

The door of the Captain's office closed behind you with a quiet click, but to your ears, it sounded like the swish of a guillotine.

Price circled around his desk, perpetually cluttered with paperwork. He produced a cigar from his pocket, glanced at it - and then put it back. He seemed to struggle with something, which was strange for such a quick-witted and decisive man.

Finally, he sighed, ran a hand over his face and leaned his shapely bum against the edge of the desk. You waited patiently, keeping a proper distance and staring at your boots.

"Tell me, Private…" 

That honey-smooth voice of his always disarmed you. So rough, so well suited to shouting orders amidst battle, and yet so warm. Like a caress dipped in steel.

Sometimes you imagined him using this voice while talking to his children - two mythical beings whom you've never met. It was meant to stay that way.

"…Are you all right?"

The question blindsided you. You lifted your head abruptly and gave him a wide-eyed stare. You could feel the damn tears already welling up.

You hadn't expected this. You were ready for remarks about the quality of your work, which has diminished lately. For a succinct rebuke even - Price didn't like to prolong such things. 

You didn't expect concern.

He obviously noticed that something odd was going on with your face. It would be hard not to.

"Oh dear." Price stated, cutting you a worried look with those tired blue eyes. "That bad, huh?"

"Sir." You swallowed, desperately trying to cook up some excuse that would be halfway plausible (Something got stuck in my eye.) 

"I'm…"

"I prefer not to pry into things that are none of my business, y'know," the Captain admitted, sticking both hands inside the pockets of his regulation breeches. 

"But it just so happens that you're a part of my squad and therefore you're my business. Your well-being is my business, Private. For the past few days, I've seen you slouching around, bumping blindly into things. You've stopped reacting to Sergeant MacTavish's unsavoury attempts at humour. Yesterday at the shooting range you tried to stick the wrong end of the mag into your rifle. If you go out in the field like this, you'll get hurt."

So he did notice that, too? Damn that old man. Your face was burning.

"So understand well what I'm going to say now, Private…" Price took the damn cigar out of his pocket again and twirled it in his fingers. "I realise that a young woman such as yourself might not want to confide in someone like me. You don't have to confess all your sins, but for God's sake, if you're struggling...with anything, really…then say so."

"Sir." The lump that has been long stuck in your throat finally thawed. Compromising moisture trickled from your eyes.

It was impossible to lie under that inquiring, steely blue gaze. The man oozed with embarrassment. He didn't want to do it any more than you did, but he felt that he should.

Captain Price was such a decent man. It's a shame that decent men are always married.

You decided to repay him with honesty.

"Indeed I have not been at my best lately, Sir," you said in a trembling voice. "Last week's been…difficult, for personal reasons."

"A crisis, eh?" Price sighed and began rummaging through his pockets again.

Your head darted up. "A clusterfuck of crises, if I may say so, Sir."

His chuckle was a raspy little thing. Pleasant. Frankly speaking, every noise that Captain Price ever emitted was pleasant to your ears.

"Eh, haven't we all been there? Here. You could use this."

He extended one of his long arms, firm yet slender, placing an immaculately clean handkerchief in your hand. Like nothing else in Price's possession, it was snow-white and smelled of fresh laundry.

You accepted it and wiped your face in silence.

"I'll give it back as soon as I wash it," you assured him. "And thanks."

"Never mind." He gave you one of those smiles which lit up his whole face, turning those blue peepers velvety and narrow. John Price must have laughed often because he had charming, deep wrinkles around his eyes. 

"Say, Private, would you be interested in a hug?"

You gasped at the idea. On the other hand...

"Yes, please," you declared, smiling at him through the tears. "As long as you don't mind having a wet spot in the front of your uniform."

"My vanity won't stand for it." He spreaded his arms, still grinning. 

"Come 'ere, girl."

You did.

It was a strangely solemn moment. He hugged you slowly, clearly trying his damnedest to avoid any impropriety that might arise. Price smelled like gunpowder, like those cigars of his and some musky cologne – all of the above mixed with the faint undertone of sweat. It was an intoxicating mix. You knew better than to imbibe on it, but it was hard to avoid it while the strong arms of your superior enclosed you in a warm, prolonged embrace. You chased the anxious thoughts away and just enjoyed the here and the now.

"Better now, huh?" He muttered from somewhere way above your head. Price was so much taller than you.

"Yes, Sir..." You whispered into his crumpled green shirt, faded from the desert sun.

"You know, it always feels like the fuckin' end of the world when those things happen...breakups, I mean. But it never is."

He chuckled ruefully. 

"As my ex-wife said when she was fed up with me: It's easy to find a replacement!"

You returned to your quarters fully soothed, warmed up - and stunned by the discovery.

Ex-wife?!

EX-WIFE???

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Broken Trust, pt.4

Part one // Part two // Part three  

Summary: Time passes, but certain things don’t change. In light of their emotions, both make a choice that will inevitably lead them to one another - for better or worse.

Warnings: angst (my apologies), fluff sprinkled on top

a/n - It’s likely the last one before the finale, so settle in and get some tissues.

========================

Y/N swore she’ll never be so stupid, so naïve, so helpless ever again when she  left the orphanage. She swore she’d be stronger, for herself and Mal, yet she found herself in the very same position.

Mal returned to her side, alive unlike what she believed. In a way, Aleksander couldn’t take away the one person she had left and a small part of her loved him more because of it. Mal wrapped his arms around her, aware nothing he says would do them any good as she began to cry. She didn’t want to, she didn’t want anyone to see her weakness for the man she’s supposed to hate. She couldn’t help it, though. She felt utterly alone and helpless. She felt like her mind and heart are breaking into two – one meant to love Aleksander and the other meant for hate.

Her screams echoed long into the night, filled with raging despair and the sorrowful betrayal she had been a victim of. After all, it’s those we love who hurt us most and she didn’t break quietly. It felt like every atom of her being screamed in unison, traumatized by all the things she kept inside since she was a child. She thought she was safe with Aleksander, that she could entrust her heart and soul to him. And she could, but she’d have to sacrifice who she is in return and she caught herself wishing she could. Y/N wished she could shed that part of herself that saw the world as black and white, to see it in the same shade of grey Aleksander did, but she couldn’t.

When the wracking sobs passed, she cried in such a desolate way that Mal couldn’t bear to listen for long.

“We need to go”, Mal whispered, looking around anxiously. They’ve stayed for too long, her cries have been too loud. He could feel it in his bones, if they didn’t leave, something sinister would happen. “Please, Y/N.”

Mal attempts to help her up, but she sinks to her knees. Her entire body is trembling, inconsolable. Y/N found herself robbed of her ability to love and trust, not only others but herself for her heart had lied to her mind who trusted the muscle blindly. It’s much more painful than a simple betrayal – she would have taken a dagger to the heart much kinder than what he had done to her.

And she hated him with burning passion for leaving now. If he persisted, she wasn’t certain if she’d be capable of resisting him much longer. But he left. He told her he loves her, her told her he would be kind to her and then he left her for trying to save his soul.

“If we do not leave now, we will be killed!” Mal raises his voice and she flinches, snapping out of her thoughts. She stands, her tears glistening in the faint light of the moonlight above them. Nodding, she walks with Mal, refusing to wipe the tears away.

She might not be like Aleksander, she might not share his darkness, but she is too proud to surrender, too proud to bend, too proud to lose. If he wants to make war instead of love, she’ll give it to him.

“How do I look?” Y/N raised her eyebrows, hands on her hips as she twirled.

Her cheeky smile acted like a wrecking ball for the wall the Darkling erected long ago, meant to keep the light out. He cultivated his darkness, convinced it would give him all his heart desires, yet the sight of Y/N struggling to stand with his kefta engulfing her the same his arms would if they embraced, it had rendered him speechless.

Y/N’s smile falters in the silence, her eyebrows furrowing as a frown crinkles her forehead. “Should I not have done this?”

The disappointment in her voice forced Aleksander to act, shaking his head while sending her a disarming smile.

"No, it's fine. I just didn't expect you to wear my clothes."

On any given day, she’d be blushing at the sight of his smile. His smile had healing properties as far she was concerned, but today wasn’t an ordinary day and her nerves made her particularly sensitive. Pursing her lips, she attempts to fold her arms with the extra fabric making it much harder, while casting her gaze to the ground. “You don’t like it.”

Raising his eyebrows, his smile grows. He comes closer, placing his index finger under her chin to tilt her head, properly meeting her gaze. "On the contrary", he speaks slowly and clearly, "I find you irresistible."

If she didn’t know any better, Y/N would have guessed he was the Sun Summoner with the way his glowing smile set her alight.

Licking her lips drew his attention, his eyes flickering down momentarily. It seemed like such an innocent moment, but it was enough to make her hands shake in anticipation.

Sighing, Y/N forces her eyes open. While she kept Aleksander out of her mind during the day, the nights favored his memory. It had been an almost that came to her dream, their almost first kiss when she had been in Little palace for a full month – she remembers because he made the dinner all about her presence.

No matter how hard she tried to let it go – to let him go, she always found herself clutching her chest in the morning. She wondered if she ever crossed his mind, almost a year since they’ve parted. Does his heart ache the same? Is that why she had hardly heard anything of him?

Her mind conjured up the worst, most painful explanations in the lonely nights. She wondered if he ever truly loved her and if he had, where had the love gone?

Can a person just stop loving someone? Did Aleksander Morozova finally stop loving her?

She wanted to stop loving him, but she couldn’t. She found herself making up excuses in his place to cover up the mistakes he’s made. In this distance that was freezing her soul and collapsing her heart, Y/N’s sole wish was to meet with her darling Darkling again. But she couldn’t travel to Little palace with the knowledge that he likely didn’t want her there or that he’d still further his plans despite her wishes. She’d have been by his side if he truly wanted her with him.

If he loved her enough, he wouldn’t have deceived her.

If he loved her enough, he would have helped her destroy the fold.

If he loved her enough, he would be here to reassure her instead of letting her question everything.

“I can do this”, she whispered under her breath, reassuring herself. She spent so many months trying to conjure up enough light and maintain enough control for it to seem Aleksander wasn’t wrong about her.

She wanted to make him proud, to draw him in with her light ever since he named her Sunshine. It’s silly, but the endearing name passing his lips made her insides quiver and she was prepared to do anything to hear it again. After all, if she does spectacularly well during an evening where she’s the main attraction, she was certain he’d see her as the only woman in the world.

Yet, as she makes her first few steps into the room, Y/N realizes she was wrong. She hasn’t done anything yet, but his eyes are chained to her regardless. The way he’s looking at her now makes her feel as if she is the only woman in the world that matters.

She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace and the intimidating flare. She wasn’t sure which she found more unnerving the intimidating Darkling or the graceful General.

"We are matching", she presses her lips to suppress an excited smile creeping up on her. She didn't expect his kefta to match hers despite his request to wear it. For Y/N, it felt strangely intimate, but she welcomed intimacy as long as it was with him.

“You look stunning”, he breathes out, a handsome smile appearing on his lips as he holds out his hand for her to take.

She doesn’t hesitate, awestruck by the twinkle in his dark eyes.

“They tell me you refused the gloves”, he raises his eyebrows.

Lifting her shin up, she smirks, “Have faith in me.”

Leaning in, Aleksander’s nose brushes her earlobe, “I never said I don’t.”

Helping her up on the stage, Aleksander stepped before her. She could hardly focus on his words, staring at his broad shoulders as they entirely shielded her from curious glances. He eclipsed her long enough for nerves to subside and she was grateful.

“You still think you’re ready?” Mal settles beside her, lips pressed as he looks at her disheveled state.

Clearing her throat, she nods, “I’ve never been stronger.”

“I know, but if you need more time –“, Mal begins, but Y/N’s irritated glare shut him up.

“We head to the fold today.” Taking a sip of her water, Y/N stands, intent on going into the woods.

“You love him”, Mal’s words stop Y/N in her tracks. “I know you do. It’s why you suffer so much in his absence.“

Swallowing thickly, she exhales through her nose to stop herself from saying anything she might regret. There’s a reason she refused to speak about Aleksander with Mal, with anyone if she could help it. Other than occasionally asking around if he’s been seen, Y/N had kept him out of her mouth. Mal couldn’t understand her feelings, he never would. She knew it to be true.

Aleksander is still an active heartache she couldn’t heal with time nor practice. Truth be told, she wanted him with her all the time. She wanted him there to cuddle when she’s on the brink of breaking, for him to whisper sweet nothings in her ear and remind her she’s loved. She wanted him there when she bathes to splash water in each other’s faces like children, to hear him gasping for air when he laughs so freely like nothing had ever gone wrong between them.

She is his. Despite the way things started, she was truly his and no amount of denial will ever change that. Unable to form words, Y/N closed her eyes as her face contorted. Her lips pressed together to hold in a sob and her head hurt from all the pressure building up in her attempt to stop herself from falling apart. But she couldn’t. There were no walls left inside her to hold the hurt encased from her mind any longer. She was shattering after nearly a year and a half of being strong – silent as she missed him, as she loved him, as she defended him from herself.

Meanwhile, in Little palace, Aleksander sat in her old room with her blue kefta in hand. He brings it up to his face, inhaling the faded scent in hope of remembering the warmth mere traces of her scent could evoke. He missed the smell of her hair when he buried his face in her neck, the gentle touch of her skin, the sweetness of her lips.

"May I ask for a dance?” He asked her with a half-smile, surprised she seemed reluctant to take his hand after her demonstration. “I won't bite”, he winks, making her roll her eyes and giggle simultaneously.

“I can hardly dance”, she admits, nibbling on her lower lip mercilessly.

Taking her hand with his right hand, he brought her closer with his left hand on her hip. She gasps, caught off guard as she looks at him with amusement.

He raises an eyebrow, suppressing a chuckle as he begins to sway her from side to side.

"When I first saw you, I couldn't get over how breathtakingly beautiful you are.” Aleksander tells her, the softest smile adorning his lips and she wished she could just reach out and touch them to see if they feel just as soft as they look. “I tried to stop you from leaving because I was bewitched by you, but then your light came out and I couldn't believe how lucky I was."

Inhaling sharply, she stared at him with lips parted in uncertainty. “So you’d say you care for me?”

Sighing heavily, Aleksander leaned his forehead on his palms, realizing not much work would be done as her face is all he thinks of, all he sees. The night he walked away, he finally saw what his love had brought her – pain and suffering. He took all she was and picked her soul apart until she was left void of love, of hate, of all emotion. After so many lifetimes, the Saints answered his prayers and sent him a dream encased in a good woman, to love and to care for and he had ruined her.

Loneliness was a punishment too kind for his awful actions.

He thought what would have happened if he had given her the truth before – had he told her what he knew, but also what he kept from her. Maybe she’d understand, maybe she would have stayed. Would their bond grow stronger? 

It couldn’t be worse than it is now.

That’s his fault as well.

Pressing his lips together, Aleksander closed his eyes for a moment. “I’d say you’re the light of my life and I never want to see it dim.”

Dipping her, his lips pause at her throat and he could feel the exact moment her breath halted, caught right below his lips. He could feel her quiver, gripping his arm strongly but not out of fear of being dropped, but from a need to be closer.

Bringing her upright, he had no more desire to remain among the people where every action is judged, controversial. He wanted to take her somewhere where he could just be Aleksander, more than the Darkling they branded him as.

“Want to go somewhere more private?” She tilts her head ever so slightly to glance at the grand entry door, waiting for his response. He couldn’t believe how easily she read his mind.

Instead of speaking, he simply pulls her toward the door, feeling as if he had been given a chance to do what he never thought was possible – live. To live and possibly love.

Once they entered his room, closest to them from the reception, Aleksander stopped. He turns to her with a smirk, his hand still holding onto hers. His fingers curl around it gently, encasing it. Slowly, he brings the hand up to his lips, leaving a feather light kiss on her wrist while her cheeks darkened.

Y/N couldn’t ignore the smile upon his lips. Smiles are supposed to be soft and inviting, but his is charming and deadly. She knew he had captured her heart and no matter what she does, he’s rooted deep inside her. He’ll always run through her veins, even if they part.

Problem is, she didn’t mind it. Not at all.

She could feel her lips tingle, parting in need. All she wants is to press her lips against his, close her eyes and take him in. She didn’t care about her previously established beliefs, she’d burn them all down for a single kiss. Barely holding onto who she was before she met her sweet Darkling, Y/N cups his cheek.

His eyes are alight with desire and craving he’s been suppressing for a long time, intoxicating her, captivating her.

Her hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down and he complies. His forehead rests on Y/N’s, the tip of his nose brushing hers while her fingertips grasp at the short hair at the back of his head. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes closing, so she allows herself the comfort of closing her own while bridging the distance between them. 

She presses her lips firmly onto his and the world melts away. His hand clasps gently into the back of her hair, pressing in softly. His lips are softness, passion, the promise of the sweetness to come.

Pulling back for a air, she hears the breathless chuckle accompanying his dashing smile.

“That was a perfect kiss”, she pecks his lips once more and he feels his heart stop. At a loss for words, he blinks a couple of times, seeing her lips curve into a small smile.

“Don’t go shy on me now, Sunshine.”

Aleksander remembered how they made love that night, leisurely, savoring each other’s bodies until their passion mounted. He thought about all the times she had given herself to him willingly and yet it felt like he was the one who gave her small pieces of himself each time. He loved not knowing what to expect with her for she was never the same twice. One time she would be quiet and sensual, the next aggressive and demanding. At other times she would be laughing and teasing. But no matter how she was, he loved loving her. Even the thought of touching her excited him.

She drove him mad, but she also showed him what it means to love someone. She could have killed him at any given moment had it been her true desire, just as he could have done the same to her and yet he couldn’t. Even thinking about someone hurting her upsets him.

Y/N could have stayed or killed him, he’d be fine with either way. At least then he wouldn’t suffer alone. She let him go so easily that he couldn’t help but think her love was never his. He wished he didn’t resent her for it, because a part of him wished she’d let him go long before, he wished for her to go far away from him where she’d be happier.

In his eyes swam ghosts of regrets and self-loathing, for he could have done a lot of things much better, made her life much easier. He could have been a better choice for her, a happy ending she’s deserving of. But he had already messed everything up and it is easier to have her see him as the bad guy. 

She’d let him go easier.

“General?” Ivan paused in the doorway, aware no one’s allowed in Y/N’s room and he valued his life greatly, far too much to dare take another step.

Swallowing thickly, Aleksander remained on the bed while the Darkling rose to his feet. He had been planning for too long, hiding away from what needs to be done. It was time to act and the Darkling’s mind is made up.

“We’re heading to the fold today.”

PART 5

[griff-us]

Title: Free Fall

Pairing: Corvo Attano/Reader

Summary: You see him for him. He sees you as someone else. That doesn't stop you from falling for him.

General Warnings: Allusions to prostitution. Violence. Sex. Angst, so much of it.

Word Count: 2473

Notes: I've been craving some Corvo content and finally decided to make it myself. This is written with a black reader in mind, but I kept the reader very vague. I'll be taking liberties since I haven't played the games in ages and the lore is just massive. But I expect to have more lore accurate pieces as I. write more. This will probably be a two-parter! Excuse any mistakes, I didn't do too much editing. Likes and reblogs are appreciated, minors don't interact!

Called to the Devil and the Devil said quit Can't be bothered better handle your shit Keep about your wits man, keep about your wits Know yourself and who you came in with Can I sit down I've been hustling all day I can't even count how many souls I've made Off the same deal you on Remember, the Devil ain't a friend to no one But fine, true

**

He’s always been there; a distant figure shrouded in shadows. You thought it a coincidence or happenstance when you’d catch sight of him from the corner of your eyes; frame pressed against aging brick or perched on top of crumbling roof tiles. You never thought him odd, the Distillery District has always been overrun with criminals and strange people, that is until flyers began to circulate with his masked face—and a reward. It’s a wonder why a murderer would take a liking to you. Perhaps you were a target? That would surely complicate things, wouldn’t it?  Then again, men tended to flock to your little dilapidated apartment, all of them searching for the same thing. 

He shows one night; three quick wraps of his knuckles against the cracked glass of your window. You huff a sigh, hands scrambling for the candle at your bedside before shuffling towards the source of the noise. Freehand tugs back the curtain and there he is. Hands holding tight to the ledge. You stare blankly for a long moment, stunned at his upper body strength and—well intrigued beyond belief. 

“You know…” your tongue darts out to wet parted lips. “Most men use the stairs, hm?” he doesn’t say anything, and you try again. “It’s two coin an hour. Ten for the night. Weapons are to be left downstairs, and I won’t be feeding you.” he remains silent all the while weight shifts lightly, and a single hand rises to fish within his robes. The strange man drops a leather sack in the palm of your hand; far too heavy to be the requested amount. 

“I need not your services. Only somewhere to sleep and tend to my wound.” ah, so he can speak? You regard the man with slanted lips, and you think to turn him away. After all, he is a wanted killer; not to mention Slackjaw might get his trousers in a twist if he found out. But the weight in your hand is too good to pass up; you could have your clothes mended, and perhaps acquire a few extra meals for that poor boy on Clavering Boulevard. 

“Why come to me?” a reasonable question among many; after all, he has been following you the past few weeks, and now this?

“I helped the boy on Clavering the other day. He mentioned you; said you were a woman to trust.” Damn children, you would have to have a chat with him. A sigh heaves past your lips, and you move aside to let him in. 

“Shoes off please, there’s a plague about after all. I may be penniless but I rather not live like it.” the strange man does as you ask, frame hobbling slightly while he kicks heavy boots off. You watch while he lays them by the window. As he begins to disarm himself you find yourself in awe at the sheer number of weapons on his person. 

“You really do kill people then?” a scoff sounds from the other side of the room as you finally turn to quickly count the coin he had given you. It’s enough to last you months. “I’ll be back.” you don’t wait for an answer; feet pad against splintering wooden floors as you hurry down the stairs and to the kitchen. You wrap the coin purse in a rag and stuff it under the sink, just behind a false wall with other precious items. You’d find a better home for it later after he leaves. 

Teeth chew your full bottom lip, and you wonder if he’s eaten yet. Despite your warning earlier you can’t help but feel—grateful. With a grumble, you quickly put together a plate. Cheese, bread, fruit, and cured meat you had been saving for a rainy day. 

‘I imagine you’ll need nourishment to help your wounds—” you return to him upstairs, hip nudging open the door to your room. The man keeps a silent focus; his robe and shirt neatly folded on top of a shaky chair in the corner of the room. You watch quietly as he finished stitching closed a rather nasty gash on his side with help from the moonlight. 

“Here…” you set the plate by him and quickly snag a bottle of alcohol from under your pillow. “I haven’t a clean rag this may burn.” you make quick work of the cork with your teeth, freehand gently pushing against his torso so that you can get a better look at the wound. His skin is ice against your warm palms you swear he hums at the contact. You resist the urge to smile and make work by washing the wound carefully with small splashes of the liquid. He tenses, a hand falling to your shoulder as if to steady himself. You feel a flutter in your stomach that reverberates in the back of your throat. The feeling is pushed down and squashed nearly immediately; he is a murderer, an assassin. Best not to develop a childish crush on a man like him. 

“There you are.” once finished, you take a step back giving him space and taking a moment to admire the hardened frame before you. He’s yet to remove the mask, but you don’t push him to—killers need secret identities, don’t they? 

“Thank you.” you only nod, and motion to the extra mattress in the room. 

“You should rest.” the man hums in agreement, his frame sinking into the old padding, and you watch from your own makeshift bed as his body visibly deflates. His back is to you, and you trace the numerous scars and bruises that adorned his skin with your eyes. What a strange man indeed. 

***

The stranger is gone by morning; any trace of him from the night prior scrubbed from your home. Even the spare blanket sits folded atop the pillow just as you had them before. A shame you never got his name, not that he would give it. You can’t help but wonder who the strange is under that mask; quiet and gruff as he is—you can’t shake the way in which he treated you. Rather kind, far different from the typical treatment you’ve learned to endure from Slackjaw and his gangs of idiots. 

It doesn’t matter; your transaction with the stranger is complete, and you’ve coin to spend. Within fifteen minutes, you are washed, hair hastily pleated in a thick braid that hangs past your shoulders. With money tucked away within the pockets of your dress you make for Clavering. First a stop to the general store and then to see the boy and deliver him food for the week. His bright blue eyes shine wide when you present him with a basket full of meats and bread. 

“Remember to ration as I taught you, and keep this hidden from everyone, do you understand?” the boy nods enthusiastically, tiny fingers gripping tight to the beaten basket, and you send him off with an affectionate pat on his back. You stand there a moment watching as his small frame vanishes down the length of the ally, a smile on your lips. Head tilts, and your turn to peek up at the rooftops. A flash of shadows darts behind a half-fallen chimney, and you chuckle before continuing on with your daily chores and business. 

**

A week has passed; the sun has long ago set, and a customer has just left you. The house is empty, and silent, save for your snivels. There are times a rather unruly drunkard will call on you, and there are times when gentle is the last thing on their mind. You may have protection thanks to your deal with Slackjaw and his gang, but that only saves you from the law, and death—they still use you as they please. Fingers press to your swollen lip, crimson seeping from cracked and broken skin. You inhale sharply and cuss lowly. 

“Are you alright?” you hadn’t heard him slip in through the window, and you nearly jump from your skin at the sound of his voice. You turn quickly, and there he stands—your stranger. You quickly work to wipe away the tears that had begun to fall from tired eyes, nodding over and over as if to convince yourself. 

“Yes yes. Can you please knock like a normal person?” feet wobble as you stand, and he moves to help you keep your balance. “I said I’m fine!” words are laced with far more anger than you intended, and the strange man silently backs off. “What do you want? I’m not taking any more customers tonight.” 

“I—” you look up as he pauses a long moment, his mask making it impossible to discern any emotion from his face. “I’m not here for that. I came to see how you are doing.” 

“Just wonderful.” sarcasm bites at your tongue, and you turn to him fully. You sense his unease now that he can see the bruises that have already begun to blossom across your neck and cheek. Without a word, the stranger steps closer, a single hand-raising while fingers skim the warm skin of your cheek. 

“I should kill him.” 

You scoff, smacking his hand away. “Oh please. I haven't seen your face, I don’t know your name. What gives you the right?” it is impossible to hide the bitterness that seeps into your tone. The stranger says nothing, and finally, you snap. “Leave. Now.” you turn away from him, arms cross over your middle as if to hold yourself together just long enough until he is gone. There’s a long moment of silence followed only by his retreating steps toward the window. And one word—a name. 

“Corvo.” 

***

Two months pass; Slackjaw ends up getting himself killed. You’ve been spared the details but there’s no question in your mind who felled him. It’s both a gift and a curse; the gang leaves you alone, but with their absence comes the absence of money, and protection. Luckily enough, an old contact gets you into the Golden Cat, a renowned pleasure establishment for the more monetarily endowed citizens. Better coin, slightly better treatment. You’ve got your own room; four walls, a bed, and a dresser for your things. A single window looks out over the city and it’s nice in its own way. 

You haven't seen him since your last encounter—Corvo. Some nights you lay awake wondering what might have happened had you not told him to leave. Maybe he could have taken you away from it all. Maybe you could have stayed in that little hovel, spurred on only by his intermediate visits. They’re foolish, those thoughts. But you would be a liar if one man's kindness hadn’t won you over in the fastest fashion. 

It was only when you had begun working at the Golden Cat and were privy to the talk of politicians and the elite did you realize that it was most likely Corvo Attano that had wormed his way into your heart—-an empress's murderer. 

How foolish of you, you think one night while curled under thick blankets in the comfort of your tiny room. To become infatuated with a man whose face you’ve never seen, the man that murdered the empress and spiraled the empire into chaos. A sad sort of laugh falls from your lips while your head shakes. 

“What’s so funny?” that voice, and from nowhere. You bolt upright from bed, and there he is; stood in front of the open window. Silence follows while you battle with yourself; to hug him, curse him, or call a guard. 

“The bounty on your head could finally get me out of this life.” you decide to challenge him, but the waiver of your tone betrays you. 

“So call the guards.” his boots are silent against the wooden floors as he nears, and you watch while Corvo sits next to you. Silence grips the room firmly, neither of you too sure what to say. Finally, he speaks. “I didn’t murder her. I loved her.” Oh. “She was assassinated, and I have been framed for it. I am here to find her…our daughter. They have her hostage here. That is how I learned of your presence here.” How…sad, you think. How tragic. You reach out, fingers brushing against his neck, and you watch for any adverse reaction while manicured fingers slip beneath the mask perpetually strapped to his face. Corvo tenses while you do, but he allows you to unhook the latches at the side, and slip the metal from his face. 

Tired, hardened eyes stare back at you; laced with a grief not unknown to you. Your chest tightens, and you lean forward to hold his face in the palm of your hand. “You poor man.” His eyes close, frame leaning into your warm touch, and you feel as though your daydreams and longing have come true, but… “Why follow me, Corvo, why…why me?” 

“You remind me of her.” mumbled so softly; each word laced with heartbreak. It breaks you just a little; here you are infatuated with a man who dotes on you, in his own way, because you remind him of his dead lover. Foolish. You’ve been so foolish. 

“I—” you begin, but he cuts you off. 

“I have to bring her home tonight, my daughter. After I leave this place won’t be safe for you.” it dawns on you after a moment, and you grow cold. 

“You’re going to kill them?” 

“If I must.” he takes your hand, lips brushing against your knuckles, and it's a wonder how someone so adept at causing harm can be so—gentle. “Here.” Corvo turns his hand over in yours and places a cloth pouch in the center of your palm. “Leave tonight. Flee through the servants' entrance in the kitchens. Find work, find a home.” You stare in utter silence. He’s come again to uproot what little comfort you’ve managed to forge in this brutal world. To wreck your heart, and your home. Damn him. 

“What else is there for me, Corvo, but this life, hm? Who would—who would think twice of me?” He closes your fingers around the pouch. 

“I would, and I do. I think of you every day, and I would like to see you safe.” you tremble, gaze locked with his, and you nod. Corvo squeezes your hand tenderly, leaning down once more to press another feather-like kiss to the back of your hand. “Take care of yourself.” you chew your bottom lip, and only nod again—you fear the sob that may bubble forth if you dared to speak. He stands, mask fixed to his face once again, and quietly slips out into the hall. 

You sit there a long moment, a wild whirlwind of emotions taking hold. And it is only when you realize his words sounded like a goodbye do you allow yourself to sob.

[vaguely-concerned]

elements of the lupin III franchise I think a person could write a lifetime of essays on:

- at what point does freedom just become emptiness? (and the answer seems to be 'when you have no one to share it with')

- the series' status as transformative work and how it interacts with the original source material

- how the series probably owes much of its longevity but also some of its troubles to its lack of a hard continuity. nothing real or paradigm-shifting can ever happen to these characters for any length of time; they're all locked into an eternal and inextricable 'we must imagine Sisyphus happy' chase scene, because they're driven by their basic character motivations towards things they can never have and that would in fact very likely not make them happy if they got them (as best seen in Zenigata, of course, who doesn't actually WANT to have caught Lupin, because at this point it's his entire identity to chase him and if he ever did get him... in a real way he would cease to be. yeah this shit gets real meta sometimes and it's good for me.). the joy of the forever unresolved that would, in resolving, destroy itself, the eternal satisfaction of not getting what you want. man.

- the absolutely bonkers and frequently deeply troubling gender & sexual politics (it has the distinction of being one of the few shows where I routinely go '...oh no' whenever a female character appears because a good 80% of the time you know... you know something uncomfortable and/or eye roll inducing is about to happen and I just want to go back to having fun adventures again)

- on that note, the weird but probably quite illuminating division of sexuality and domesticity/actual intimacy. much is made of how fujiko is basically lupin's soulmate (and I think they are, it's just the best argument I've ever seen for why you probably should not be in a committed relationship with your soul's twin lol), but almost all depictions of domesticity and emotional closeness seem to be solidly 100% homosocial. there's some real deep down traditional masculinity psyche shit getting aired in this show lmao

- the underlying tension in the series' approach to violence, often even within an individual work -- this is not a criticism at all but it fascinates me endlessly, because so much of the action in this show is fucking Looney Tunes level unrealistic and cartoony nonsense but then suddenly it occasionally has much more severe and realistic consequences than the genre normally dictates (like visible wounds and bleeding)??? and you can't ever really tell whether this is like a slapstick car crash or a '...oh shit dude' car crash until the characters are either merrily running away from it or y'know bleeding out harrowingly on the pavement. I wonder if this works so well because of the inherent lack of tension in the premise of the franchise -- we know none of the main characters are going to die, so you trade the driving narrative tension of not knowing if they're going to make it out for the moment to moment tension of the outcome of violence not being entirely predictable?

what I'm saying is that sometimes the crew just shoots enemies' guns out of their hands like it's a children's show and sometimes they dole out headshots and slice them into thin thin pieces instead, and sometimes for no discernible reason they cartoonishly disarm them first and then murder them, and I have completely given up trying to predict which direction it's going to go at the start of a fight scene lol

ETA: as I've watched more stuff I'm starting to think this is something that pops up mostly in newer stuff, actually -- series 2 for example is full on Looney Tunes logic at basically all times and my brain spends a lot less time going ???? over it haha

- the strange dreamlike logic of time and location -- this series is set in no specific time period, but somehow it also always carries the 70s with it wherever it goes. so it's forever simultaneously no time, the 'now' time of whenever an individual installment was made, and 'safely & firmly before the inception of modern smoking laws'

- in related news, the deep deep homoerotic implications of cigarette smoking in this series. show me one screenshot of jigen and lupin smoking together that doesn't look vaguely but irrepressibly pre- or post-coital

[sulphuryasecretcloset]

What if... Part2

(Amazed and honoured at the reception of this one! So very happy y’all enjoyed this little AU that I was NOT going to write xD And thank you for the reblogs and comments, you wonderful people you! <3

 For the record, I still blame you @phrenic-a and @mountevey And I see you encouraging them @novembermurray ! )

What if Dulsissia hadn’t died, what if she had grabbed Corin and fled? What if she met Davarax? What if...

Part 1

Part 2

She’s lost her mind. Dulsissa has thought this very thought many times during these last three months, but stars above; she really must have lost her mind now.

The Mandalorian, Davarax, is a complete stranger. She doesn’t know anything about him, only some fragments about his children that she has a feeling are real but might as well not be. And here she is holding her son’s hand and following this man to his ship, fully prepared to board it with him and go some place she has no idea where is to stay with a people she has no clue who are.

“This is your ship?” Corin asks with slight disbelief when they come to a halt in front of it.

Like Davarax’ armor, the ship has seen better days.

Embarrassed by her son’s words, Dulsissia gives Corin’s hand a warning squeeze and sends him a stern look that makes him shrink a little and shuffle his feet.

-Think it, don’t speak it, she’s told him countless times. His honesty will cost him one day.

Davarax snorts an amused laugh, saunters forward to reach out and place an affectionate hand to the ship’s hull. He pets it a couple of times like it’s a living creature. “She might not be the fanciest, but..” The helmet turns to look back at Corin. “I can promise you, Corin, you won’t find a better ship in the Galaxy. The Razor Crest is tough, fast and loyal. Treat her right and she’ll look after you.”

The disdain in Corin’s eyes is replaced with awe. “Really?” He whispers.

“Really.” Davarax confirms, giving the ship a final pat before lowering his arm to press a button on his vambrace. There is a click and a hum and the ship opens a side door, lowering a ramp for them to enter. “Let’s go.”

Dulsissia smiles a little as she follows Davarax inside and how Corin now is pulling eagerly at her hand to make her hurry up. A magical ship is irresistible to a little boy, while she tries hard to ignore the scorch marks she sees on the hull and the ominous weapons attached to it.

Inside, the ship is a lot roomier than she expected it to be. The cargo area makes for a great playground for Corin. The sleeping quarters are narrow, but she doesn’t require much space and Corin even less so. The cockpit is fascinating, she’s never been in one before.

And neither has Corin.

“Baby, no.” Dulsissia reaches out to pull Corin away when he walks right up to the control panel after Davarax has found his place in the pilot seat and watches with utmost amazement as he starts flipping switches and pushing buttons to bring the ship to life. “Come here. Don’t bother Davarax.”

“It’s okay.” Davarax reassures her. He glances over at the boy. “You want to help, young sir?”

Corin nods, too overwhelmed to talk.

“Flip that one.” Davarax points at a tiny switch and Corin instantly reaches out and flips it. “Good job. And now press that button.” He lifts the boy up so he can reach the button in the ceiling.

Dulsissia bites her lower lip to keep from getting too emotional as she watches her son eagerly obey instructions and soaking up every bit of encouragement and praise from the Mandalorian, starved for both after all the years his father gave him none. It hurts to watch how such simple kindness from a man stuns Corin but it is also so good to see her son this happy. Maybe she didn’t lose her mind when she decided to go with Darvarax, maybe it was the one good choice she’s made since deciding to leave Macero? She hopes.

“Okay, ad’ika.” Davarax says. “The Razor Crest is awake. Time for you to get in your seat.” He nudges Corin, who reluctantly wanders over to the one seat left after his mother claimed the one behind Davarax. He climbs, with a little difficulty, up on it, and settles. A tiny boy in a big seat.

Dulsissia moves over to buckle him in and frowns. He’s too small. It won’t keep him safe at all.

Without looking over at them, Davarax makes some final adjustments on his panel. “Next to the seat. On the left. There’s this box he can sit on. I use that when I bring Din or Barthor along.”

Dulsissia blinks. It’s not something she’d picture a mercenary to have on his ship. But a peek down the side does indeed reveal a box and once Corin is sitting on that, he gets a better view, to his delight, and the belts actually fit him instead of choking him, to her relief.

The ship takes off and sets course for the darkness above. Dulsissia is not sorry to leave this place.

Now all she has to worry about is what Nevarro is like and how the Mandalorians will react to Davarax bringing home a stray and her offspring. She wonders if the other Mandalorians are like Davarax, if she will get to meet his children and most important of all; will Corin like it there?

-

The journey to Nevarro will take two standard days. It’s strange how two days on a small ship with her husband or her friends would have driven her insane, but the hours on board the Razor Crest feel safe and almost enjoyable as Davarax’ patience with her son’s continued craving for his attention and praise.

Every time her boy butts into whatever the Mandalorian is doing, calls for him to look at what he is doing instead, Dulsissia feels a stab of dread, waiting to hear the sharp annoyance that would always follow his attempts to reach his father, but every time Davarax replies with mild amusement and eternal patience. He even brings Corin along to ‘help’ with some repairs in the cargo area and leaves her to just rest or whatever she feels like doing.

With there being no place for the man to run off with her child, it’s not like he’ll jump into space with him, and a growing trust in Davarax, Dulsissia ends up sitting in the cockpit like an idiot and having no clue what to do. It’s been almost five years since she didn’t spend every second of her day hovering over Corin.

After what feels like a small eternity of just sitting there, listening to the muffled voices from the cargo hold, Dulsissia notices her reflection in the transparisteel and slowly lifts a hand to her blond locks. Oh, she looks a mess. No wonder Davarax had decided she needed help; she looks like a wookiee.

When Davarax and Corin returns to the cockpit, she has eased the final hairpin into place and her sweet boy lights up at the sight of her. He runs over, places his hands on her knees and looks up at her with a smile so bright it makes her smile as well. “Wow. You look really pretty, mommy.”

Davarax ruffles Corin’s hair as he walks by him on the way to the pilot seat. “She always does, ad’ika.”

Her face burns for some reason. Dulsissia pulls Corin up to sit on her lap and she changes the topic. “What does that mean? You keep calling him that.”

“It’s from my language. Mando’a.” Davarax replies, fidgeting with something on the panel to see if the repairs were successful. “It’s what we call our youngsters.”

Smiling, oddly pleased with the answer, Dulsissia looks down and sees Corin has gotten oil on his face and starts the battle of wiping it away while he tries to squirm free.

It’s not just Corin who gets to learn new things. On the second day, while her boy sleeps, Dulsissia takes out the blade Davarax had given her and tests the weight and feel of it. Wearing a dress restricts the movement of her legs a bit, so she’ll need to have a good idea of how to use her arms. Make the most of what she can use.

She feels stupid, waving the blade around, pretending to stab an invisible opponent, but Dulsissia gets so into it that she’s entirely unprepared for a hand suddenly gripping her wrist.

Startled, she flinches and almost drops the knife.

“Not like that.” Davarax’ voice says from behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach.

His gloved hand slides over her pale one and helps her turn the blade so she holds it in a reverse grip instead.

“Like this. It will give you more options during an attack and more power. More power to do more damage. Plus,” Davarax steps closer and slides his other arm loosely around her waist in a slight mimicry of how those men had grabbed her, “you can do this.”

The hand on hers adds a little pressure and makes her lower her arm in a careful swing until the blade goes by her thigh and the tip comes to a halt against the front of his thigh.

“And when the blade is in, you twist.” His voice is so calm. And so close. If not for the helmet, she suspects she’d feel his words on her neck. “Understand?”

Dulsissia gives a quick little nod. Her eyes probably as big as Corin’s tend to get around this man.

“Good.” Davarax lets her go and circles to stand in front of her. “Now, if someone approaches you from the front, what you should do is-”

She still feels silly, waving the blade around and Davarax letting her practice on him when he could disarm her without even looking her way, but at the end of that first session; Dulsissia knows where to aim and how to do as much damage as possible.

Also, when the Mandalorian hands out praise, she can’t blame her son for wanting more because she realizes that she hasn’t heard too much of that in her own lifetime either and it feels really, really good to finally think she’s not hopeless at least.

-

When they land on Nevarro, Dulsissia can’t help but to feel nervous again. She picks up Corin, who allows it with a resigned sigh, and holds him close while following Davarax off the ship. The journey has been another respite before facing her difficult situation, but it’s over now.

Time to find out what will be next for her and her baby.

Davarax leads her through the dusty city, Dulsissia places a protective hand on Corin’s head and shields him from seeing leers and sneers sent their way, and they finally reach a door that brings them underground to the hidden Covert of the Mandalorians.

It’s dark below and it takes a while for Dulsissia’s eyes to adjust so she doesn’t see them until she’s walking right by the other Mandalorians, who stand there, staring at her with emotionless t-visors.

Flinching with a startled sound, she jumps forward and nearly bumps into Davarax’ back.

“They won’t harm you.” Davarax says, not turning around or even slowing his walk. “You’re safe.”

Looking around as they walk, Dulsissia hopes he is right, because there are quite an amount of armored people there and they aren’t exactly rolling out a welcoming committee. “If you say so.”

In the depths of the tunnels, they approach what appears to be the seat of power, judging by the decorations and respectful behaviour of the ones there.

They have taken one step inside the room, it appears to some kind of a forge, when Davarax stops and Dulsissia follows his example. “Stay here.” He says. “Only speak when spoken to.”

She then watches in silence as he steps forward and walks over to kneel down in front of the forge where a Mandalorian in a golden armor and a fur cloak is working on something. Minutes pass and Dulsissia has to hoist Corin a couple of times as the boy really is getting heavy, but they all wait for what has to be the leader of the Mandalorians to finish whatever they are working on.

Finally the one in the golden helmet puts the hammer down, lingers and walks over to where Davarax is kneeling. “Did you complete your mission?”

Davarax reaches into the pocket of his belt, fishes out a handful of valuables and places them on the ground as an offering.

The leader looks at what he has brought, gives a thoughtful nod and then shifts her attention to Dulsissia. “And you have brought something else to the Covert as well.”

“They need a place to stay. Somewhere safe.”

“A foundling is always welcome.” The leader replies in a neutral voice. “This other one does not look like a warrior.”

“She has the makings of one.” Davarax counters in an equally neutral voice. “She will be my responsibility. Both of them.”

“Very well.” The leader says, but she does not sound pleased. “This is the way.”

“This is the way.” Davarax echoes. He gets up and walks out of the room, only pausing to give Dulsissia’s arm a light touch to signal her to follow him. She does.

Once they are at a certain distance from the room and the leader, Dulsissia hoists Corin, who she suspects is too scared by these new surroundings to say anything, and voices her thoughts. “She doesn’t want me here.”

Davarax does his little trademark huff of a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dulsissia sighs and hoists Corin a little again. Her arms are burning. She does not expect Davarax to come to an abrupt halt, forcing her to stop as well, and turn around to hold out his arms.

“Give him to me.”

Dulsissia clutches Corin a little closer and stares at him with surprise at his betrayal.

His helmet tilts a little and Davarax is the one to sigh. “Just until I can show you your room.”

She hesitates for several seconds. What convinces her is Corin pushing away from her and reaching out to him, and only then does Dulsissia hand her son over to the Mandalorian and awkwardly wraps her arms around herself instead.

Corin quickly settles on Davarax’ arm and looks around with bright, curious eyes from his new and taller perch.

The Mandalorian reaches out his free hand and gently touches by her shoulder. “Come.” He says, not unkindly. “Let me show you where you’ll stay.”

-

The door slides open. Stepping inside, Davarax following her with Corin, Dulsissia looks around and finds it small and modest but far cleaner and inviting than some of the inns she and her son have stayed at during these last weeks. There are no windows, but there is a light in the ceiling.

There are two beds, a rickety looking table and some hooks in the wall to hang clothing on.

“It’s not much, I know.” Davarax sounds a bit awkward. “But it will be yours.” Dulsissia looks over at him with a grateful smile. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Davarax turns sideways and points at the door they can see across the hallway. “That’s me. If you need anything.” He puts Corin down on his own two feet and lets him run over to climb into the closest bed and start jumping on it.

“Corin, baby, no.” Dulsissia says, meeting the defiant look he sends her way with a stern look of her own and feels a smug sense of victory when the boy sits down with an annoyed huff. She can then turn her attention back to Davarax. “You have done so much for us already. How can I ever repay you?”

He seems surprised by her words and it takes a second before he shakes his head. “There is nothing to repay. You don’t owe me anything. Neither does your boy. I just want you two to be safe.”

Dulsissia has to turn away to hide her eyes flooding with tears. She’d given up on there being decent people in the Galaxy and then she had to stumble across the most noble of them all?

“I’ll, uh, give you some time to settle in. Get some rest.” Davarax mumbles, backing out of the room. “I’ll be back later. I’ll see if I can get you some spare clothes. I know there are some for Corin. And then I’ll show you two around. Sounds good?”

“Will you show me the training room?” Corin asks with badly hidden hope.

“Absolutely, young sir.” Davarax replies with a bow that has Corin giggle with delight.

When the door slides shut behind the Mandalorian, Dulsissia walks over to sit next to her sweet boy and combs her fingers through his thick, dark hair. “We are going to stay here for a while, baby. Okay?”

Corin nods eagerly and gives her another gap-toothed smile. “Yeah! Dav’rax gonna show me where he trains to fight bad guys. Maybe he can teach me too?”

“We’ll see.” Dulsissia replies, unwilling to make any promises on behalf of the man. While she’d prefer her son to never see battle in his lifetime, she’s not stupid. Once she chose to leave Seswenna, she condemned them both to an existence where they both will have to learn to defend themselves.

She and Corin explore the room, discover there is a barely visible door on the western wall that leads to what has to be the Galaxy’s tiniest refresher room, and they play-fight over who gets which bed, but in the end there isn’t all that much to do but wait for Davarax to return.

When there finally is a knock on the door, both Dulsissia and Corin eagerly jump to their feet and is equally pleased to see the now almost familiar Mandalorian. Dulsissia is fairly certain she’d be able to recognize his helmet and armor in a sea of others at this point.

Davarax holds out a small pile of clothes. “This will at least give you something to change into.”

Accepting the gift, Dulsissia manages another smile, despite once again feeling the bite of humiliation. She thinks about the gorgeous dresses she used to wear. The adorable outfits she had made for Corin. She’ll probably be the first Motti to ever use second-hand clothing… Then she snaps out of it and clutches the clothes close with a sense of appreciation instead. “Thank you.”

“And you, ad’ika, are you ready to check out your new home?” Davarax asks Corin.

“Yes, sir!” Corin replies, back straight and eagerness barely contained.

The Covert, as she understands it is called, is a complicated network of hallways and tunnels. It used to be the old sewers of Neverro, Davarax explains and Dulsissia tries not to shudder. At least Macero won’t think to look for them here.

The other Mandalorians are still staring quietly at her, but the ones Davarax introduces her to give her a polite nod at least. They don’t seem hostile, but they aren’t exactly brimming with hospitality either. Dulsissia suspects that maybe they don’t get too many visitors in their underground home.

She minds her manners, tries to not offend anyone and considering that none of them draw their frankly intimidating blasters says she might not be doing the worst job of it. Dulsissia used to be so very good at socializing. She was the queen of all the balls back on Seswenna. Now she’s only hoping not to offend.

“And I saved the best for last.” Davarax says with the excitement she usually hears from her son. He stops by a door, turns to face her and lets his hand over over the button to open. “My kids.”

Dulsissia has just enough time to feel both surprise and nervousness and then the door slides open.

-

Lined up in a neat row, clearly having been given firm instructions to be followed when Davarax brought her and her son, four children stand in the middle of what looks like a training room and stare at the new arrivals.

The one of the left has to be Paz. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was sixteen, not eleven. He’s a lot taller than the others, but lacks the lankiness that would usually follow such an early height growth. He has the powerful bones to carry the height, but a child’s face. Paz’ dark hair is cut entirely short except for the unruly spikes on top, his mouth is a thin, disapproving line and his big hands are clenched. Next to him, barely reaching his team-mate’s shoulder, is the one that has to be Barthor. He has curly, dark hair that is getting a bit long, scarecrow shoulders and sharp eyes that are locked on Dulsissia like he’s seeing her with a crosshair on her forehead. Next to him is definitely Raga. Like Barthor, she’s small and skinny, but she has the most amazing hair Dulsissia has ever seen. It is a wild mess, but the volume and the curls are stunning. Too bad the glare behind the mane warns her that she’ll get her fingers bit off if she so much as tries to touch it. And then, half hidden behind Raga, is the one Davarax keeps referring to as ‘little Din’. He’s not especially small for his age, but he appears to be a lot more timid than the others. He is very cute, though, with silky dark hair and soulful eyes.

Davarax walks over and starts introducing each child. Dulsissia is pleased to hear she’s guessed right about their identities and gives a brief curtsy. “Pleased to meet you. I am Dulsissia.”

Silence.

Davarax reaches out and pokes a finger at Paz’ head. “Hey.”

Paz’ nose twitches, like a hound about to bare its teeth, then he reluctantly steps forward until he stands in front of her and he reaches out a hand. “I’m honoured to meet you.”

Trying to hold back an amused smile and failing to a certain degree, Dulsissia takes his hand and he shakes hers with a stern look on his little face, trying so hard to act like an adult. She has to stop herself from hugging him. It’s so cute.

Barthor gives her a nod, which is good enough for her but gets an annoyed sigh from Davarax. Raga moves forward, Din following her like a tail, and she seems more interested in something behind Dulsissia.

What… Oh. Right.

Dulsissia reaches back and ushers Corin out from his hiding place. “This is Corin. Say hello Corin.”

“Hello.” He says in a tiny voice, looking from one to the other and probably feeling like prey. She doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t really played with other children before. Macero didn’t think it would be good for him to mix with others. And these ones are already being trained to be warriors.

Paz frowns and crossed his arms. “Are you going to take the Creed?”

Corin blinks. “I…”

“They are going to stay with us. That’s all you need to focus on, Paz.” Davarax replies.

“Is he going to train with us?” Barthor asks, his eyes still too sharp for someone so young.

“We haven’t decided that yet.” Davarax says and glances over at Dulsissia.

“He should play with us.” Raga says, her lip curling in something that could be a smile but is mostly a flash of teeth. When Corin shuffles to partially hide behind Dulsissia’s leg, Raga doesn’t move but her eyes move with him.

“He is going to play with you.” Davarax says and stalks forward until he’s standing next to Raga, towering over her. “And you’re all going to be nice to him. Understand?”

The girl scowls up at him. “I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re not.” Barthor scoffs.

Raga’s mess of a hair bounces as she snaps her gaze over at him and he shuffles over to partially hide behind the still stern-looking Paz.

“She’s going to be nice to my son,” Dulsissia says, her voice sweet and her eyes not, “because he has a mother who will have words with everyone who isn’t nice to him.”

Raga shifts her scowl over to Dulsissia, scans her, scowls harder, but when Dulsissia doesn’t give her an inch, she sighs and her little body relaxes. “Fiiiiine.”

And while all of this is happening, little Din silently watches Corin from his hiding place and Corin curiously looks back at him from his.

-

“I told them to behave.” Davarax grouses as he’s bringing her to where she can find food for herself and Corin.

Laughing, Dulsissia glances down at where her son is walking next to her, holding on to her hand and looking around with curiosity, not fear. “I think it went well.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Davarax sighs and there is actual sadness to the sound. “The others call them lost causes. Troublemakers. I know they are difficult, that their manners aren’t like Corin’s, but.. They are good kids. They really are. I wanted you to see that.”

Dulsissia reaches out and places her hand on his upper arm where there is no armor. And she speaks the truth. “I did see that.”

Davarax comes to an abrupt halt, she does the same, and despite the t-visor she can feel the look of surprise on his face.

“You… did?” There is a fragile hope in his voice that doesn’t match his rough exterior.

Dulsissia nods and smiles. “It’s like you said, Paz watches over the others like they were ‘his’ children. He did not hesitate to protect Barthor from Raga. Barthor, who would not let Raga lie and trick my son. Raga, who didn’t care that my son was an outsider and just saw him as someone to play with. And sweet little Din who despite his fear wanted so much to say hello. I think he and Corin will get along so well. And…” She hesitates, looks down at her son but finds him distracted by staring at something down the hallway and has no excuse not to say what else she saw. Dulsissia looks back up at Davarax, who is waiting for her to finish. “And I saw just how much those children love you.”

Davarax stares at her.

“You are the world, the entire Galaxy to them.” Dulsissia says, remembering the look of pure adoration and love in their eyes as he mildly chastised them for acting like tree monkeys in front of their visitors. She doubts he understands how important his role is to these children. How their happiness hangs on his words. How they will do anything for his approval. “My parents ruled our house with an iron fist. But these children? They don’t obey you because they have to or because they fear you. They do it because they love you. Because you see them.”

He shivers and the only reason she knows is because her hand is still on his arm.

“Dulcy, I…” Davarax reaches up and covers her hand with his.

“I know bad men, Davarax. I know monsters pretending to be men. But you?” Dulsissia looks over at how his hand is holding on to hers, so gently despite the strength she knows he must be capable of. “You are a good man. You are the kind of man I wish Corin had for a father.”

Davarax takes a step closer, is suddenly very close and the muscles in his arm tighten under her palm. “Is he the one you are running from?”

Dulsissia tenses up and looks down at her son. Corin is still caught up in whatever he’s staring at.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Davarax says ever so softly. “I just want to help you.”

“I know.” Dulsissia whispers. She doesn’t want to say Macero’s name. It’s stupid, but she fears if she does; it might summon him. “That is what makes you a good man.”

A light touch to her chin and Davarax’ other hand lifts her face to look up at him and there is a slight smile in his voice when he speaks. “I’m not ‘that’ good.”

Dulsissia giggles. She hasn’t giggled in years. And her face flushes.

“I’m hungry.” Corin declares.

Davarax jumps back a step and Dulsissia jumps in place and they both look down at the little boy like guilty teenagers.

“I-I’m sorry, baby. We’ll get you something to eat now.” Dulsissia stammers, her face heating up even more.

“Food. Yes. This way.” Davarax clears his throat and gestures for them to follow him.

They enter the room where food is stored, Davarax shows them where the fires are so she can cook if she feels like it and basically where all the other necessities of the Covert are.

By the time the tour comes to an end by the door to their room, Corin is exhausted and Dulsissia knows she won’t struggle finding sleep either. Still, she’s almost a little reluctant to part ways with Davarax when he pauses outside their door.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” She asks.

“I was hoping that you might want to bring Corin by training.” Davarax says. “He can observe for a while. Maybe try some exercises. Training is the best way for the children to burn off their energy and learn skills as the city above is not safe for them.”

Dulsissia nods. “I will bring him.” She hesitates, knowing he must be tired of hearing her say it but still has to; “Thank you.”

Davarax shakes his head, reaches out and gingerly tucks a golden lock behind her ear. “No thanks required.” He backs up a step, nods and spins around to march over to his door. He keeps pressing the button to his room so the door opens and shuts twice before he can actually get inside.

Late at night, curled up on her side in her bed, looking over at the barely visible silhouette of her son’s back in the other bed, Dulsissia knows she made the best decision ever by coming here.

[neonphoenix]

The comedic potential of Damian's parenting situation never fails to get me.

Imagine this: you're a twenty-something fourth grade teacher, and it's time for parent teacher conferences.

You have one more set of parents to meet with. You're exhausted. You think you forgot to feed your cat this morning, but you can't quite remember, and it's stressing you out. The office texts you to let you know they're sending the next family up. You confirm, and check to see whose it is.

And it's that kid.

Kids are weird, you think to yourself, His parents are probably normal. At the very least, they can't be worse than the others you've dealt with that day.

Then no less than four people walk into your classroom. One of them looks younger than you. Something inside of you dies.

You knew he was Bruce Wayne's kid, and he's mentioned spending a lot of time with his eldest brother. From what you know about Wayne, it's easy to believe that he might not be the best parent, and you're relieved that there seems to be a stable, adult presence in his life.

You aren't sure about the women, though.

One of them looks a lot like Damian. It’s easy to conclude that she’s his mother. You haven’t heard much about him, but it makes sense that he has one.

The other looks vaguely familiar. From a tabloid, perhaps? You aren’t sure.

Regardless, you stand up to greet them, and simultaneously pull two more chairs over to your table.

The next thirty minutes are some of the most memorable of your admittedly short teaching career.

Mr. Wayne is a massive, hulking man, who, after enthusiastically shaking your hand, plops into a plastic chair that is far too small for him.

Damian’s mother takes a seat at his right without much preamble, smiling politely and introducing herself as Talia Head. She seems friendly enough, but there’s a look in her eyes that makes you want to get this done with as quickly as possible.

The other woman identifies herself as Selina Kyle, which is definitely a name you remember hearing, and sits on Mr. Wayne’s left.

The other man introduces himself last, with a disarming grin and a joke. He’s the older brother you’ve heard about. His warmth seems out of place next to the sterile politeness of the other three.

Before you can really begin, Mr. Wayne’s phone chimes loudly. He pulls it out, takes a look, and excuses himself, along with his partner. He thanks you for teaching his son, “Whatever it is you’re teaching them these days.”

Dick Grayson and Talia Head are left sitting in front of you, two chairs apart.

You run through Damian’s grades, and explain that you would like to have him moved to a more vigorous course, but need parental consent to do so. You talk about his artwork, and how he excels in music class. How he excels in all his studies, really. 

Then comes the part you weren’t looking forward to.

As brilliant of a student as Damian is, he’s rather... strange. And he doesn’t get along well with his classmates. It would be good for him to find some way to connect with people his age, even if they aren’t at the same school.

His mother scoffs. She doesn’t understand why it’s any of your concern whether or not he has enough friends for your liking.

His brother seems more understanding. He explains that Damian has a few friends his age, but they don’t necessarily live nearby. 

You suggest some art programs you’ve been researching for just this reason. Hopefully meeting other children with more similar passions will help him connect.

You finish up the meeting and say a polite good bye. Neither of them stand up. You sit there for another minute before deciding, fuck it, you’ve had a long day, it’s time to go home. They can leave on their own.

When you get back to your apartment, your balcony door is open and there’s a note from Robin on the rail, informing you that you need to remember to feed your cat, or he will personally be getting involved.

His hand writing looks a bit familiar, but it’s been a long day. You throw it in the trash and go to bed.

[theaterism]

MUSE PROFILE

tagged by: @xfaucheuse (you tagged me in this 500 years ago and i’m so sorry i’m just getting to it now!! i couldn’t finish the whole thing bc it was getting Long but i got most of it done! thanks for the tag! <3)

▌𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 : Nathaniel Cammish.

▌𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 : Taken; married to Cerise Fontaine. On a deeper level, they weren’t very close. They mainly bonded over similarities — they were both materialistic, conceited, and fond of gossip.

▌𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 :

Nathaniel specialized in sound manipulation. He could catch sounds, turn them into visible strands, trap them in any glass vessel (typically jars or vials), and distort or stitch them together to form new ones. He also had impressively keen hearing in general.

In addition to enjoying sound collection as a hobby, Nathaniel did business with a motley assortment of people who sought sounds for various reasons. Some reasons were harmless: most sound collectors, for example, simply collected them for the sake of possessing them. Certain sounds were also useful for calming people, potions, or breaking curses.

Some individuals bought sounds for darker or outright malicious reasons. Nathaniel usually didn’t care, as long as they paid him enough and as long as he believed he wouldn’t face repercussions for his involvement. He did care when he felt like he didn’t have much choice in the matter (he inherited a tense alliance with certain individuals, which obliged him to cooperate with specific demands). This alliance was useful to him in several ways, but he still despised it because it made him feel like a dog on a leash.

On the surface, he was simply a successful socialite and businessman (with his sort of “business” always discussed vaguely). In terms of the darker and more secretive side of his trade, he was a scandalmonger and a racketeer (albeit a rather minor one, which he actually preferred because it drew less unwanted attention to himself). He ruined lives by collecting spoken secrets and selling them to the right people (“right” meaning those who offered him enough in exchange). If he believed twisting a person’s life into pieces would benefit him in some way, he usually took great pleasure in doing so. He covered his involvement to avoid consequences and delighted in watching scandals unfold from the sidelines.

Nathaniel also excelled at a torture method called sound-lacing. He typically used this as an interrogation technique for anyone reluctant to reveal secrets. Less often, he used it as a punishment for anyone who crossed him in some way. It was exceedingly painful and could be fatal if pushed to the extreme. Nathaniel rarely killed people, however, considering it a waste of an information source. This doesn’t mean he didn’t kill people, though.

Overall, his ability to turn sound itself into a weapon made him a formidable foe magic-wise. He wielded sounds with the precision of a scalpel. If he wanted to lace someone with sound, he only needed to materialize the sound and snap his fingers to send it toward them. Sounds are tricky to dodge. Binding his hands in a way that prevented him from snapping his fingers was an effective way to disarm him. He did, of course, neither appreciate this nor make it easy. Sound-lacing also took quite a bit of energy and tended to exhaust him if he wasn’t careful.

▌𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 : Blue-grey, a strangely deep shade (close to A60 on this eye color chart)

▌𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 : Brown, with a coppery tinge.

▌𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 : Benjamin Cammish (brother; estranged); Cerise Fontaine (wife); James/Foxtrot, Adeline/Charlie, and Henry/Victor (children); a few other scattered relatives he rarely spoke with.

▌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 : None.

▌𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 : Being outwitted, tricked, or otherwise made a fool of. Both the feeling and the sound of being laughed at.

▌𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 : Chess, coin tricks, gambling (poker), darts, hosting dazzling parties at his mansion, sound-collecting, secret-seeking.

▌𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 : Yes.

▌𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 : Yes.

▌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 : Snake.

(I also associate him with stoats, foxes, crocodiles, leopards, peacocks, rams, and spiders).

▌𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 :

Nathaniel did not forget or forgive anyone who crossed him, and he held deep grudges. He was incapable of simply letting things slide when someone damaged his pride. He typically only sought to harm someone if he believed it would benefit him in some tangible way (such as getting money or information out of them), but he discarded this rule when it came to getting revenge. This was dangerous when he underestimated people.

He was also deeply narcissistic and hated believing/admitting he was wrong about anything (it wounded his pride too much). His mind was a maze of denial and self-rationalization. If he didn’t arrive at a conclusion himself, it was nearly impossible to convince him of anything. He generally refused to admit defeat or take advice that went against his beliefs, even if ignoring this advice was risky.

Overall, he was remarkably clever and perceptive and strong in terms of magic, making him a rather scary opponent when he was levelheaded, but his pride and simmering temper made him reckless at times (and led to his downfall in the end). His self-control, rationality, and composure were most likely to falter when he was angry or especially tired. He preferred seeing himself as above those around him in terms of intelligence and skill in manipulation. This self-assurance could make him careless. He was typically good at reading people and sensing deception, but he sometimes still overestimated himself and underestimated others. He also gambled quite often.

▌𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐒 : His grandfather. None. Although Nathaniel sometimes cooperated with other people for his own benefit, he was fiercely independent and took great pride in forging his own path to success rather than imitating others. If he did have role models, he would never admit them outright.

▌𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : Heterosexual.

▌𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 :

Nathaniel never truly wanted to marry or have children. He and Cerise did love each other (in their own way) and got along well due to their similarities, but they also both knew they mainly married for appearances. Nathaniel was a skilled businessman, and Cerise was a talented and beautiful actress. By marrying, they improved their image among other members of the upper class. They were each fully capable of earning money on their own. However, they each had their own lucrative connections with people that helped the couple gain more money as a whole. Their marriage was fundamentally strategic, and since they got along, it wasn’t unpleasant.

They had children mostly for appearances as well (though Cerise had only wanted one). Nathaniel didn’t mind his children, as long as they didn’t bother him or anyone he associated with. His parenting style was typically impersonal aside from the times he taught them “important lessons,” which steered them toward believing the world was a scary place where they couldn’t trust or depend on anyone.

He believed lessons like these were essential for his children to understand at a young age to succeed in life when they grew older. He had softer moments where he showed them genuine compassion, but overall, he wasn’t a great parent (to put it lightly). He was highly emotionally manipulative, toward Foxtrot in particular because he saw the most potential in him and therefore devoted the most time and attention to teaching him. He wasn’t very fond of children in general, finding them a distraction.

▌𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 : Business casual-to-formal.

▌𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 :

Nathaniel didn’t have genuine friends, nor did he make any effort to form friendships. More often, he considered people allies or business associates. Friendliness was one of his many facades; a performance. By nature, he was cold and calculating, but he was also charismatic and skilled at earning admiration. He made people believe he respected and trusted them because he knew this made them more likely to lower their guard and reveal useful information. He gathered secrets on instinct to use against people in the future if needed. He had no qualms about betraying people if he believed betraying them would benefit him more than staying loyal. He only formed relationships he believed would benefit him (by earning him money, improving his reputation, or for some other reason). He strived to maintain a level of detachment from others to keep them from being used as a weak point against him. This included his own wife and children.

▌𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 : Scotch whisky.

▌𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐓 : The mansion, the casino, or the grand houses of other socialites. He rarely traveled far from home for reasons other than gambling or business.

▌𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 : Lake, though Nathaniel disliked swimming in general.

▌𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 : Indoors.

[alyssaallyrion]

Favor (Iruka x Kakashi)

Rating: T

Summary: When Kakashi woke up that morning, he had no intention of helping a certain sensei carry two large crates full of ancient tomes on Konoha history from the Archives to the Academy. Yet, somehow, he finds himself doing exactly that

A/N: Written for KakaIru Month ( @kakairu-fest ) Day 11 Prompt: Rain

ao3 link

Kakashi chooses to ignore a large, cold raindrop that falls onto his face. A moment later, a second drop follows, then another – and then half a dozen more.

“We should hurry,” Iruka says, looking up at the sky and frowning. Kakashi only nods in response.

When Kakashi woke up that morning, he had no intention of helping a certain sensei carry two large crates full of ancient tomes on Konoha history from the Archives to the Academy. Yet, somehow, he finds himself doing exactly that. He’d like to blame his occasionally charitable nature for his current predicament or even the mysterious road of life – anything, really, as long as he doesn’t have to admit that Iruka’s bright and disarming smile turns his brain into absolute mush and makes it nigh impossible to refuse any request.

Earlier that day, Tsunade had asked him to stop by the Archives to drop off a certain document. Why she couldn’t send somebody else, Kakashi wasn’t sure, but he suspected it had something to do with his last mission. Still, as much as he hated going to the Archives, there was no avoiding a direct order from the Hokage. Kakashi picked up the documents with a sigh, opened his Icha Icha, and set out on his task.

Once outside, Kakashi noted dark, heavy clouds resting low over Konoha.  It better not start raining now, he thought, annoyed. As he reached the building, Kakashi breathed a sigh of relief – somehow, there were no shinobi spilling out the doors of the Archive Room to form a long line in the corridor. That’s a first.

“As I already said,” he heard the archivist say in a stern tone as soon as he walked into the room, “These books are ancient and fragile and can’t handle teleportation.”

Kakashi looked up from his book and felt warmth rise in his chest at the sight of a familiar silhouette – the person standing by the archivist’s desk was none other than Umino Iruka. To the right of him were two large crates, filled to the brim with books.

“It’s about to start raining,” Iruka protested, “I’m sure water would be even worse for them.”

“No flickering with the books,” the archivist breathed, clearly annoyed, “If you don’t think you can safely get them to the Academy before the rain starts, you’ll need to come to get them some other time.”

Iruka sighed, exasperated. Kakashi looked at the crates again – while they did not appear particularly heavy, they were so oddly shaped that one person couldn’t carry both at the same time.

“Iruka-sensei,” Kakashi called out.  

Startled, Iruka turned around, but as soon as he saw Kakashi, a soft smile bloomed on his lips.

“Ah, Kakashi-san,” he said, “I…sorry, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to be here either,” Kakashi shrugged, coming up to the archivist’s desk and placing the documents he was holding on it, “But the Hokage clearly thought it’s been too long since I visited the Archives.”

“I’m sure this can’t be much worse than other places you get sent to,” Iruka laughed, making Kakashi wonder if Naruto had ever told him just <em>how much</em> Kakashi didn’t like going to the archives.

“You’d be surprised,” Kakashi replied, then added, “And what brings you here?”

“I’m picking up some ancient tomes on the history of Konoha for my class,” Iruka explained, pointing to the crates, “I think the children might enjoy these materials more than their textbooks.”

Kakashi nodded, barely holding back a smile – he’d always found it so endearing how much Iruka cared about his students.

“Unfortunately,” Iruka continued, “I’ve run into some trouble. I don’t have time for two trips to the Academy before the rain starts, and, apparently, the books are too fragile to withstand flickering.”

Kakashi looked at the crates again. Perhaps he could…

“Kakashi-san,” a shy smile appeared on Iruka’s face, “I apologize if I’m out of line, but could you help me carry one of the crates to the Academy? That way, we’ll certainly make it there before the rain. Of course, if you are busy, I completely understand…”

All Kakashi wanted was to go back to his apartment and read his Icha Icha, but Iruka’s hopeful eyes and soft smile did something to him, and Kakashi spoke before he could think.

“Sure, I’ll help you,” he said.

“Thank you, Kakashi-san,” Iruka clasped his hands, “You are a lifesaver! I owe you one – seriously, whatever you want.”

What if it’s you I want?

“I’ll think of something,” Kakashi shrugged.

A large, cold raindrop falls onto Kakashi’s nose, dragging him out of his memories.  

“We’ll probably still make it,” he tells Iruka.

Kakashi soon learns that he’s wrong – a moment later, the rain starts pouring down viciously. The next thing Kakashi knows, he and Iruka are rushing towards the tall trees just off the path. Running with the crates full of books is uncomfortable and cumbersome, and by the time they reach the shelter of the tree branches, Kakashi’s utterly out of breath. They are both half-drenched, but the books are, somehow, mostly intact.

Kakashi looks over at Iruka and, suddenly, his breath hitches in his throat, and strange warmth spreads through his body. Sometime during their battle with the elements, Iruka must have lost his hair tie – his dark brown hair tumbles about his shoulders, and Kakashi cannot take his eyes off him. He’s never seen anything so beautiful – and it feels almost <em>sacrilegious</em> at that moment that Iruka always insists upon putting his hair up.

Iruka lets out a sigh and shakes his head, trying to get a few wet strands stuck to his skin off his face. Kakashi doesn’t turn away, utterly mesmerized by his movements. It seems he stares for too long because Iruka meets his gaze and blushes ever so slightly.

“Sorry,” he says, “Just trying to get my hair out of my face.”

Kakashi knows he shouldn’t say anything, but his tongue betrays him before he can think.

“Let me help you,” he offers softly.

Iruka stills, then slowly nods.

Kakashi’s heart skips a beat. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, as he readjusts his hold on the crate, carefully balancing it against his left hip. He reaches over to Iruka with his right hand, stopping his fingers mere inches from Iruka’s face. There is a tense feeling in his chest as if touching Iruka is akin to jumping into the abyss – there will be no turning back.

Iruka smiles - warm and expectant – and Kakashi feels hot blush creep up his cheeks. He doesn’t remember moving forward – only the moment his hand finds Iruka’s skin. There is a tingling sensation in Kakashi’s fingers as he pulls strands of Iruka’s hair away from his face, and a delightfully unbearable warmth courses through his veins.

“There,” Kakashi breathes out once the last strand is removed.

His hand lingers on Iruka’s face longer than it should – Kakashi knows he needs to move away, and yet he cannot. Instead, he finds himself leaning closer to Iruka, who, for some reason, isn’t pulling away. As if in a dream, Kakashi closes the small distance between them, pressing his lips to Iruka’s through the fabric of his mask. The kiss is feather-light and lasts only a moment, yet it makes Kakashi’s head delightfully dizzy.

Iruka pulls away and, suddenly, Kakashi freezes, realizing what just happened.

What was he thinking?

Panic fills his mind, making it impossible to think straight, and there is a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Kakashi wants to apologize to Iruka, wants to say something, anything, but the words don’t come, and he cannot bear to meet Iruka’s gaze.

“Kakashi-san,” Iruka murmurs quietly, “What was that?”

Kakashi forces himself to look at Iruka. To his surprise, there is no anger in his face – if anything, there is a slight glimmer of amusement in Iruka’s eyes. Kakashi doesn’t know what to say. It seems confessing that he’s been in love with Iruka for the last few years – or that Iruka with his hair down was the loveliest sight Kakashi has ever seen – would hardly make the situation any less awkward. Which leaves Kakashi with only one choice.

What would an Icha Icha protagonist say?

“I’ve come to collect on your promise,” Kakashi says, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “You did say I could have anything I wanted for helping you.”

Kakashi regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth, but it’s too late. Iruka stares at him for a moment, speechless. Kakashi’s face feels unbearably hot, and he finds himself wishing for the ground beneath his feet to open up and swallow him whole.

What has he done?

“Oh,” Iruka finally murmurs, breaking the silence, “Well, in that case, I’d like to thank you properly for your help.”

Iruka’s warm smile makes Kakashi’s heart pound in his chest. Iruka steps closer and reaches his hand to Kakashi’s face, pausing before his fingers touch the fabric of Kakashi’s mask as if asking for permission. Kakashi knows he should show some restraint – but he wants it so bad that, before he can even think, he’s pulling down his mask and crashing their lips together.

A part of Kakashi is worried that Iruka would be utterly overwhelmed by the hunger and desperation of his kiss – after all, he’s waited years for this moment – but Iruka kisses him back just as eagerly, and Kakashi relaxes into the utterly intoxicating sensation. His head feels light and delightfully dizzy as Iruka deepens the kiss and his heart pound in his ears. Kakashi bitterly regrets the fact that he’s still holding the crate of books in his arms and cannot bury his fingers in Iruka’s hair and pull him even closer.

When they part, breathless, flushed, and dazed, Kakashi can hardly contain a smile.  

“Perhaps being caught in the rain isn’t so bad after all,” Iruka laughs lightly, looking Kakashi in the face and leaning closer, “But I feel like I should thank you some more – this task did take longer than I anticipated, after all.”

“By all means, sensei,” Kakashi murmurs, reaching out and tucking a strand of Iruka’s hair behind his ear, “You can thank me as much as you want – we’ve got time.”

“Well, then I’ll get right to it,” Iruka smiles, leaning in for another kiss.

[sunsoothed]

perception

Vincenzo loves.

bi vinny! | rated t | 1.5k words | pre-canon, canon-divergence | internalised homophobia, self-discovery

read on ao3

enjoy!

~

It is when he is nine that he has the stirring, growing suspicion of something different. An ad on TV, and the commercial break cuts, and there is a man with another man. And they stand together, but Vincenzo’s mind registers together, and he thinks the shriveled, suppressed excitement within him is indicative of something too similar to pride.

And then Papa changes the channel, a click to his tongue, and Mama keeps her gaze carefully away, and Vincenzo recognises that this is something he’s too young to understand.

-

Too young to understand. Thirteen and walking home, when the seniors from school have a new curse to hurl at him. So this is what Papa wanted to say.

Bitterly, at the back of his mind, he indulges himself. Eomma would never say that.

-

Vincenzo never does find out, for an hour later broken glass will make it to his list of allergies, and a strong, clasping hand will settle on his shoulder; he will forget until Fabio makes him sweat buckets, and bleed buckets, and sentences him to a communal shower.

Vincenzo knows his early rising will be seen as dedication. It is only to hide his shame.

-

Aurelio is from the Abruzzese Familia that Fabio has been trying to establish reluctant ties with. Aurelio singles him out with a look too knowing. One brush of his arm over Vincenzo’s arm, one answering shiver, one grin thrown over a callous shoulder.

A bad seed has sowed in his near-perfect sustenance. Hunched over the sink in the washroom, water dripping down his face, Vincenzo takes in his acne-marred skin, shudders, and pulls out a paper-towel. Why must all these events line up? Eomma’s abandonment is enough to stir a caucus of self-deprecation within him. He doesn’t need to be seen any more than he is already. And now he has to go face a caucus outside of him, of the children he already feels so distant from.

Did Fabio really have to transfer him here at the dawn of fucking high school?

-

It is fumbling hands and breaths too short. That is how he would describe it. Their shirts are unbuttoned. There is no air in their lungs. Vincenzo grasps for breath, finds it in holding onto Aurelio’s upper arm, who, much like him, is disarmed of light.

They hadn’t gone far.

Vincenzo sits up, some energy in him, puts his back against the wall. He stares at his open shirt.

“Are you okay?”

He blinks. Aurelio’s already buttoning up, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Vincenzo.”

“I’m okay,” Vincenzo says. There is a fogging christening his senses. “I’m fine.”

Aurelio seems somewhat suspicious, but he’s not one to be caught up in other people’s affairs. He stands, gives his companion a cursory once-over.

“I’m…” he gestures to the door, one thumb protruding out, and Vincenzo can tell he’s itching to uncover the packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Go ahead,” Vincenzo tells him. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

Aurelio leaves wordlessly. Vincenzo, watching the door scream shut in increments, waits for the silence to clear the fog. Light remains absent.

He plucks at his lowermost button, runs his nails over the ridges formed by thread, and slowly begins to button his shirt. Halfway up, he holds something heavy in his throat. By the time he reaches his collar, his eyes are red with strain.

An air of smoke will hang around him for the rest of the evening. Vincenzo will purchase a lighter. He won’t smoke until he remembers this fateful party again, until he remembers Aurelio’s grip again.

-

It will be years later that Vincenzo finds, out of primal desire, a craving for something dangerous. Him and Luca have an arrangement. It is nothing more than convenience sampling and convenience persevering, but once he will sit up in bed and think, lover, and once he will bake in smoke until his head rings fuzzy and thoughts come and go without intervention.

Luca, of course, notices. They don’t talk about it. They don’t sleep together about it, either. But they don’t cook together that day forward, and Vincenzo bids his leave before the sky can turn the indelible shade of dark it sometimes does, and eventually, even the air they breathe melds back into the distinction of you and me.

Which melds back into the distinction of business and brotherhood, in such vengeance that Vincenzo will forget until, years later again, he will note himself in a particular dilemma and only think, lover.

-

Lover changes and snaps. But lover is markedly known to be sass and self-preservation, and loved is known to be devoted and coveted. Vincenzo sometimes demarcates lover and loved so much so that nights of clairvoyance, under a stranger’s roof, tell him: loved. So much so, that a trap easily avoidable, will tell him: lover.

He scrunches his nose, picks up his cigarette, and draws a Venn diagram.

-

When Hong byeonhosa-nim suggests seduction, an allowance for Vincenzo to be in his element for an act, for a case — to weaponise the one thing he’s kept between his coronary arteries, Vincenzo feels a cold elation.

If this was the Vincenzo of five years past, the one who had come to see his mother served injustice, he would have considered a hotel-room night with Hwang Minseong, conveniently conventional in his preferences, conveniently attractive, convenient enough to push buttons and to shut up.

But Vincenzo knows who Hwang Minseong is, now.

“You’re on board with this, then?” Hong byeonhosa-nim asks.

Vincenzo nods. “What’s the plan?”

-

He lets his fingers dance over Minseong’s hand when he hears about his mother. He knows Hong byeonhosa-nim is watching him critically, Mr Nam even more so, but he lets the words and his anger channel themselves in his bruising grip on Minseong’s forearm, in his request to spend the weekend together. Minseong will take his barred teeth as an invitation. Vincenzo squeezes his neck when he gets up to leave, and Minseong will take that as an invitation as well.

-

Hong byeonhosa-nim accosts him at night, dragging him to the terrace of Geumga Plaza despite the overcast hour. She presents him with a tetra pack of banana milk and nothing else, and declares, as they sit opposite each other, “You were very much in your element.”

Vincenzo, plastic straw in his mouth, only blinks at her. He knows what she’s talking about.

She nods, somewhat at par with his thoughts, takes a sip of her own banana milk. Observing the skyline, marking a line of pollution, she observes as well: “Takes one to know one.”

-

They sentence Hwang Minseong the way they know best. He won’t be lonely in his jail cell. He will, Vincenzo supposes, have to come to terms with himself and what overt pleasures he serves himself as a means to cope. He doesn’t feel sorry. He is not Hwang Minseong, despite what similar depth they carry.

-

Takes one to know one.

Jang Hanseo, over a shared serving of makgeolli. Before he picks up soy sauce to drink, he says, Vin-hyung, and Vincenzo knows what will proceed. He’s known since he caught Hanseo’s eyes trailing after him when they first met, a gaze all-too-familiar.

“No one can take this from you, Hanseo-yah.”

And cue: Hanseo’s hand stills, an image of dried sobriety. “What are you talking about, hyung?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Vincenzo says. He nudges Hanseo’s bowl up, and Hanseo gets the hint, downing the makgeolli. “Don’t feel sorry for your desires.”

Hanseo splutters. “Hyung.”

-

Yeorim. Five years ago, in the dazed streets of Itaewon. Yeorim, he had been introduced. Vincenzo had admired the drape of hanbok upon him, light pink and white, a flower adorning the delicate flush of his ears. He had read Vincenzo clearly, and Vincenzo had read him clearly, and the one-night stay at the Hyatt had been, to Vincenzo’s best knowledge, read and forgotten clearly. Upon the appearance of cream fabric and a white flower, he remembered Yeorim.

Yeorim had prefered his pleasure face-down with a hand on the back of his neck. In the negative space carved between their bodies, Vincenzo, lightened beyond grief and the events of the day, had felt a strange, subliminal connection to his homeland, where he is still expected to run under an industrial daybreak and fend for himself apart from his people. How homely. How comfortable.

-

At the end of the day, it isn’t perfection Vincenzo seeks; it is completion. In a restriction of childhood bedroom, over the brilliant idea of makgeolli in bed, he encounters Chayoung confessing.

She hadn’t loved me, she explains. She hadn’t loved me because we were good friends who just so happened to, ah, find solace in one another.

Is that what she told her parents?

And Chayoung shakes her head. That is what she told me.

He makes spaces for her to wipe her tears in his bare shoulder.

How about you, byeonhosa-nim? I have reason to believe you’ve been popular.

Reason being?

Chayoung wrings her hands to make an awfully crude gesture, which Vincenzo takes great offence to, because engaging with him in any activity of the sort is anything but crude.

I have… my fair share of experience.

You sound ashamed.

I used to be.

What changed?

I loved, Vincenzo finds himself saying. And no love deserves to be shamed, Vincenzo finds himself believing.

[emilou-keen-gear]

Darkwing OC Month Day 13: OC Meets Drake Mallard Pt 1

DWD 91 version:

Excerpt from my fanfic, “Blue Waltz.” It can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33208030/chapters/82449124

The context here is that Gosalyn has set Drake up on a blind date. She says the woman is Binky Muddlefoot’s cousin, but she’s really from a dating service. Meanwhile, Charity Loveatte is a social worker investigating a claim of neglect in the Mallard household. Unable to get ahold of them by phone, she stops by for a visit.

Then the doorbell rang.

           “That’s her,” Gosalyn called out, wiggling from the embrace. She rushed to the end table near the front door and grabbed a bouquet of flowers she had gathered from a number of neighbor’s yards and tied with a ribbon.

           “She’s a bit early,” Drake said, looking at the clock.

           “Answer the door and give her these, Dad,” Gosalyn said, pushing Drake forward.

           Drake shot her a wry smile before taking a deep breath. How long had it been since he went on a first day? He realized that he felt a little nervous, his palms a little sweaty. Was he this nervous when he finally asked Morgana on a date?

           He opened the door, trying hard not to frown as the woman on his doorstep was nothing like what he expected.

           “Is this the residence of Drake Mallard?” The woman was a black-masked, blue lovebird with her hair tied back in a tight bun. She was looking through a pair of glasses at a paper on a clipboard. She wore a simple, light pink blouse and black slacks.

           “Uh, yes. Come on in,” Drake said, fixing a smile on his beak. She may not be what he expected, but she was pretty in a librarian kind of way. By her clothes and demeanor, she seemed the stern, stiff type.

           The lovebird looked surprised to be asked in and did so tentatively.

           Drake turned around and hissed at his daughter. “Binky’s cousin?”

           “A very distant cousin?” Gosalyn said with a shrug.

           “Hi, my name is Charity Loveatte,” the lovebird introduced herself and held out her hand. As Drake shook it, she said, “I’ve been trying to contact you, but was only able to talk to your daughter.” The woman’s eyes found Gosalyn behind Drake and she smiled warmly.

           “Oh, yes. She told me all about it. I think she’s more excited about you being here than I am,” Drake said, laughing a little.

           Charity blinked, looking confused. “Really?” She took off her glasses and put them in her bag. “I’m a little surprised. For a while, I thought something strange was going on since I could only get ahold of your daughter.” Again, she looked at Gosalyn. “I’m very glad to finally meet you.”

           As the lovebird shook hands with the duckling and asked a few polite questions, Drake’s opinion of his blind date rose. A lot of adults often overlooked or ignored children, and in the past, Drake had stopped dating a few girls for this reason. Not to mention, now that she had those large glasses off, he could see her warm, brown eyes better.

           “Dad, the flowers,” Gosalyn hissed, elbowing him in the side.

           “Oh, right. These are for you,” he said, handing out the bouquet.

           Charity gave them a dubious look. “I’m afraid I can’t accept them. My job doesn’t allow it.”

           Drake looked down at the flowers, feeling as if they were wilting from being rejected. What kind of job doesn’t allow a woman to accept flowers? “Well, then how about we sit down and talk for a while.” He gestured into the living room.

           Charity smiled. “That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she said, taking the lead. Just as she was about to sit in one of the arm chairs that was part of the secret passage way to Darkwing’s lair, Drake dashed in front of her.

           “Why not sit on the couch? It’s far more comfortable,” he said with a disarming grin.

           Frowning uneasily, Charity did as requested, taking the middle cushion. When Drake sat right next to her, she scooted away as politely as she could. “You have a lovely home,” Charity said conversationally although her tone sounded a bit nervous.

           “Thank you,” Drake said.

           Launchpad then entered the room, guided by Gosalyn pushing him from behind. In his suit and combed down hair, he looked quite dapper. A white towel was draped over one of his arms. “May I get the lady something to drink?”

           Charity looked flummoxed by the offer. “Uh…some water would be fine.”

           “The same,” Drake told his friend, and Launchpad exited the room.

           “You have a butler?” Charity asked.

           Drake laughed nervously, wishing he had that water right then to drink. “Actually, he’s my best friend. I think my daughter put him up to it.”

           Charity blinked rapidly as if trying to process the information before fiddling with her clipboard. “Gosalyn seems to be such an interesting little girl. I’m afraid that I don’t know the details of her adoption.”

           “Oh, you don’t want to talk about me,” Gosalyn said from her place just outside of the living room. “In fact, why don’t I leave you two alone and go…clean my room.” She made to move toward the stairs when Charity called out.

           “Wait, I’d actually would like to talk to you a little more, Gosalyn.”

           “You would?”

           Charity smiled. “Yes. After our phone call, I’d like to get to know you a little better. How is school going for you? Do you like it?”

           “It’s okay,” Gosalyn said, scuffing her shoe against the carpet.

           “Are you doing well in you classes? What are you learning?” Charity’s voice was kind but didn’t raise her pitch like some adults do when talking to children. It was almost as if she were talking to another adult, to an equal.

           Gosalyn approached, sitting on the coffee table. “It’s alright. I didn’t like my teacher at first, but she’s not so bad. Oh, and I can’t wait to try out for the hockey team. It’s coming up really soon.”

           “Gosalyn’s a great hockey player,” Drake said, and he rubbed the back of his head as if counting the bumps to prove the force of her shot. “This is the first year she’s old enough to join a team.”

           “That’s great,” Charity said. “With that red hair, I bet you’re a spit fire on the ice.”

           “Keen gear, I am,” Gosalyn said before realizing that—while she was enjoying the attention—the point of this date wasn’t for her to show off. “But as awesome as I am, I’m not as rad as my dad. He’s the absolute coolest, right dad?”

           “Oh…uh…I don’t know about…rad, but I…I’m a…” And that’s when Drake realized he had nothing to say. Everything about his life was so intertwined in his alter ego. No social life. Whatever interests and hobbies he had were forgotten for this conversation’s sake. His mind was blank.

           Gosalyn was giving him a look as if to say, “Way to go, Dad. Don’t embarrass me.”

           “Why don’t you tell me about your job,” Charity suggested. “What is it exactly that you do?”

           “Well I…I kind of…It’s kind of like…” Drake floundered, trying to pick a lie that was not only believable, but one he could answer any follow up questions.

           “He’s a security guard,” Gosalyn easily supplied. “He works nights.”

           Drake jumped in, thankful for his daughter’s quick thinking although he’ll have to talk about her lying after this date was over. “Yeah, a security guard. My mind just went blank for a moment.” He grinned abashedly.

           “Really? Then that means you’re home during the day?” Charity clarified.

           “Uh…yeah,” Drake said, although he thought it was an odd thing to say.

           “And who takes care of Gosalyn while you’re at work?” Charity asked, her expression expectant.

           “Well…she’s pretty capable of taking care of herself,” Drake said while rubbing Gosalyn’s head.

           “So you leave her alone all night?” Charity asked with a frown.

           “Yes…I mean, no,” Drake changed his answer. “What I mean is the Muddlefoots are right next door. Gos is over there enough, and if she needs help, she usually knows how to contact me.” At this last bit, he gave his daughter a knowing look.

           “Hmmmm,” Charity hummed, not looking pleased. “Which company do you work for?”

           Okay, this was sounding more like an interrogation rather than a date. But then again, the lady seemed a little odd from the start. Perhaps she just didn’t have the greatest communication skills. At least she was trying.

           Before Drake could come up with a lie, Gosalyn broke in for another save.

           “You should eat dinner before the food gets cold,” Gosalyn suggested.

           “That sounds like a great idea,” Drake said, jumping to his feet.

           Charity was on her feet, putting away her clipboard and papers. “I apologize. I came when you were about to eat. Perhaps I could schedule another time to talk to you,” Charity said.

           Leave it to Binky Muddlefoot to have this strange of a cousin.

           “You’re not going to eat with us?” Gosalyn asked. She was frowning more out of the fact that her effort of getting Binky to cook and cleaning up the house would be for nothing, which is exactly where this date seemed to be going.

           “I don’t think that it would be appropriate for me to join you,” Charity said to Gosalyn.

           “It wouldn’t?” Drake asked, confused.

           Charity also looked confused. “Well, I think so. I don’t know. In all my experience, I’ve never been invited to eat dinner.”

           No wonder she’s been acting weird, Drake thought. It sounds as if she’s only been on bad dates.

           “How about we continue talking in the dining room where we happen to have food,” Drake offered with a smile. “So you can decide there whether or not you want to eat.

           Charity’s gave him a warm smile and followed him through the house, pausing to look at the photos hung on the wall. With a gentle touch, Charity rubbed away a smudge on one of the photos. “Perhaps this was a mistake,” she said softly to herself. When she looked down, Gosalyn was looking at the photos as well. “It looks like you have a loving home,” the lovebird said to the duckling.

           “Yep, the best,” Gosalyn said with a nod.

           Drake was waiting for them in the dining room, standing next to a chair, which he pulled out for Charity. When she sat down, he pushed it in for her. Not long after they both sat down, Launchpad came in with fancy water glasses, ice and a slice of lemon floating in the liquid.

           “Are you sure I can’t get you something else to drink?” Launchpad asked. “I make a mean Manhattan.”

           Charity gave him a wary look before saying politely, “No, thank you though. Water is fine.”

           “Same for me,” Drake said, taking a sip of his water. He knew just how mean of a Manhattan Launchpad could mix up, but that would have to wait. He didn’t want to imbibe while his date was abstaining, not to mention, he would be heading to work later that night.

           Gosalyn came in, having disappeared into the kitchen earlier, and returned with plates filled with fruit salad, pork roast, vegetables and a slice of garlic bread. “Bon appetite,” she said in a terrible French accent.

           “Uh, aren’t you going to eat with us?” Charity asked as Gosalyn headed to the kitchen.

           “I’ll just leave the two of you alone,” Gosalyn said with a smile. “I’ll eat later after the adults have eaten.”

           “Do you always eat after your father?” Charity asked, eyeing the flames dancing at the end of the candles.

           “Only when he has company over,” Gosalyn said, rushing away.

           Drake laughed nervously. “She’s kidding. We eat as a family all the time. She, I and Launchpad.” He shoved a forkful of fruit in his mouth.

           “Oh, I thought you said Launchpad is your best friend. Is he related to you? Or to Gosalyn?” Charity asked.

           “Naw, he’s my roommate,” Drake said once he swallowed.

           Charity raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a roommate.” She frowned.

           Drake felt the familiar feeling that there was something about the conversation that he was missing. “I’m sorry? I should have mentioned it earlier? Is there something wrong?” He was getting a little tired of being polite to this woman. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but some of the things she was saying bordered on rude.

           “Well, usually this would make things more complicated, especially with your situation, that is, unless Launchpad is your ‘partner’.”

           “Partner?” Drake repeated, uncertain what she meant. Yes, Launchpad was his partner, but the only way she would know that is if she knew he was Darkwing Duck. He felt tense, but the woman’s words didn’t match up with that fact.

           “If that’s the case, then I can overlook it. Do Gosalyn and Launchpad get along?”

           Drake’s head spun. This conversation was bouncing around too much for him. What kind of date did Gosalyn get him into?

           “Launchpad is practically part of the family,” Drake replied. “In fact, they have more in common with each other than with me.”

           Charity’s face brightened. “That’s wonderful to hear.” For the first time, she picked up her fork and stabbed a carrot. She had done this almost unconsciously, but as she chewed, her face changed to bliss. “Oh!” She put a hand over her mouth, talking around the mouthful. “This is really good. Did you make this?”

           “No, Mrs. Muddle—I mean Binky—did. Have you not had her cooking before?” Drake asked.

           Charity shook her head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Usually I end up working late and ordering take-out or microwaving a meal.” She quickly ate several more bites, savoring each forkful.

           This sounded more like a date. With a chance to learn about this puzzling woman, Drake asked, “What is it you do? Your job?”

           Charity’s eyes locked on him then darted around as if there were others in the room. “I thought that was obvious.”

           Drake felt like he had just asked a stupid question. Rather than press, he acted sheepish to save face. “Right. Yes. Silly me.”

           “Mr. Mallard, I will be—“

           “Call me Drake,” he interrupted.

           “Uh, I’m not certain that in light of the circumstances that I can be that formal,” Charity said.

           Drake laughed. So it was back to the Twilight Zone. The weirdness of this date was comparable to several he had with Morgana. “Under what circumstances would it be appropriate to use my first name? We’re not exactly in a Jane Austin novel.”

           Charity’s face twisted. “Oh, please. Do not mention those books. I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice, and I just don’t see the point of it.”

           “What? It’s a classic,” Drake defended.

           “I’ll admit, Sense and Sensibility wasn’t half bad, but don’t pull that ‘It’s a classic’ bit on Mansfield Park. That story just went on and on and on,” Charity complained with a shake of her head. “There was just so much gossiping and back-biting, and the characters were so infuriating.”

           “You obviously missed the point,” Drake said, feeling more in his element. He always prided himself as being well-read, and although he had his favorites,  he had made it a point to brush up on as many classics as he could while he was in high school and college. Surprisingly, he had enjoyed some of Jane Austin’s novels. “Her novels were to show the irony of the time period and social classes of the Regency era. And while the stuffy gossip and snobbery was realistic, it was also intended to be a satire to critique the British land gentry.”

           Charity’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Mr. Mallard, you aren’t what I expected.”

           “Neither are you, Ms. Loveatte,” Drake said, addressing her similarly. “I never thought I would find a woman who disliked Jane Austen.” Drake tilted his head.

           “And I never thought I’d find a man who defended her.” Charity smirked. Even though her plate was only half emptied, she pushed it away. “It seems I came here with ill-conceived ideas, and it is refreshing to find that my instincts were wrong.”

           Just when he was enjoying himself with some playful banter, it was ruined with more riddles. Ill-conceived? Her instincts were wrong? Just what kind of dates had she gone through in the past to become this jaded?

           “I have a few more questions and concerns to be addressed, but I think we can put this whole thing to bed tonight,” Charity said, clasping her hands.

           “We can? Wait! Bed?! Aren’t you moving a little too fast?” Drake asked, his voice cracking.

           “I would have thought you’d want this over with as quickly as possible,” Charity said, riffling through her purse.

           “Well, I’ll admit that I wasn’t the most thrilled about it, but I didn’t think the night was going that badly.” Drake found himself ranting as his flustered thoughts attempted to align back to the logical path.

           “I’d like to have the name, number and address of your place of employment. I’ll also need some details about your background for my records.”

           “Huh?”

           “Oh, and who Gosalyn’s pediatrician is. I’ll need access to her medical recent medical records. You understand, right?”

           “Wait a minute!” Drake shouted, standing up. “Now I’m really lost. I get that the point of this is to get to know each other, but I think this is going a little too far. You seem like a nice girl, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”

           Charity stood as well, her eyes fierce. “Mr. Mallard, I’m not sure if you’re taking the situation seriously enough. As I explained in my message that I received a call that was wholly disconcerting at the least. While I understand that you may feel like I am infringing on your privacy, but I would think you would be willing to do what it takes for your daughter.”

           “Disconcerting? Are you saying—What are you saying?” Drake wanted to pull out his feathers. He had had conversations with Quackerjack that made more sense than this. “What does any of this have to do with Gosalyn?”

           It was Charity’s turn to look taken aback. “Mr. Mallard, why do you think I’m here? I’m checking up on Gosalyn’s welfare.”

           At that moment, the doorbell rang.

           “I’ll get it,” Gosalyn shouted, racing from the kitchen to the front room.

           “Her welfare?” Drake repeated. “What does our date have to do with Gosalyn’s welfare?”

           “Date?” Charity asked, her upper lip twisting upward.

           “Uh-oh,” Gosalyn’s voice said from the other room. “Uh…Dad, there’s been a small mistake…about your date.”

           “Oh, dear,” Charity said, lowering her head as she caught on the quickest.

           Gosalyn entered the kitchen with a hangdog look, followed by a long-legged, female duck in a low-necked blouse and a pencil skirt. As she walked, her hooped earrings and feathery, blonde hair bounced as well as other parts of her anatomy. “Hey, I thought you said he wasn’t married. Or is this someone else from the agency? Kind of bold scheduling two dates in one night.”

           “Oh, dear,” Charity said again, hand over her beak. “I’m afraid there’s been a big misunderstanding. I assumed you knew who I was when you invited me in, but I was mistaken. Mr. Mallard, I’m from the Department of Children and Family.”

           Drake paled.

           “Oh, you’re the lady that kept calling,” Gosalyn said, looking disappointed. “What kind of scam are you running, coming to our house? How did you know where we lived?”

           Drake walked around the table and stood behind his daughter. “Gosalyn, she’s not running a scam. She’s a social worker,” he said.

           Gosalyn gasped, her eyes widening. At the orphanage, she hadn’t had much contact with social workers. In her grandfather’s will, he had clear instructions that Gosalyn wasn’t to be put in a foster home but rather taken care of in an orphanage until a family could adopt her. A few of the children in the orphanage had told her about social workers and a few horror stories about being passed around from one foster home to another. Not once, had she connected the title of “Department of Children and Family” to social workers.

           She had messed up big time.

           “It appears that my presence has been misconstrued and therefore, I’ll make a hasty exit,” Charity said, her head bowed contritely. She pulled out a business care from her purse. “Please call my office on Monday, and we can schedule a time to talk about your daughter. Again, I’m very sorry for the misunderstanding.”

           “Thank you,” Drake said absently and took the card, dazed, barely aware as the lovebird retreated out of his house. He was reviewing the previous conversation in his head, picking up the subtle hints that something was very wrong with his “date,” and not because she was strange.

           It wasn’t until later that he wished he had asked the social worker to stay and answer his questions, but it was too late.

           “What was that all about?” the female duck asked, pointing a thumb behind her.

           “I’m sorry. What is your name?” Drake asked, shaking off his bewilderment.

           “Cammie Diver.”

           “Cammie, look, you’re probably a sweet girl, but I’m afraid we’re having a little family crisis right now,” Drake said. “Can I call you a cab or something?”

           “I brought my own car,” Cammie said, looking irate.

           “Again, I’m sorry for the trouble,” Drake said, pushing the woman gently toward the door. “If you want, we can reschedule. You have my number.”

           As Cammie was shown the door, she muttered, “I don’t care what my mother says. I’m going to find my dates at bars from now on.”

           As soon as the door shut, Drake turned sharply to his daughter, hands on his hips. “Gosalyn!”

           “Oh, look at the time, Dad.” She yawned. “I think it’s time for me to god to bed.”

           “Wait a minute there, missy. I think I deserve an explanation. Especially why I didn’t get any messages from a social worker and why Binky’s ‘cousin’ came from an agency.”

           Gosalyn sighed. ��You might want to sit down. This is going to be a long story,” she told him.

           Launchpad walked in, carrying a plate heaped with food. “Hey, what’s going on? Did your date leave or something?” He took a bite and continued talking through the mouthful. “I don’t know about you, but I liked her. Are you going on a second date?”

[iatethepomegranate]

Just a fic about Caleb buying a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, and coping with that kind of change and newfound stability (and becoming Professor Widogast). Angst and fluff are at war in this fic.

Content warnings: Panic attacks, Caleb's backstory

Chapter Summary: Yasha, Essek and Caduceus hit the garden. Caleb's meeting with Professor Alphira takes an unexpected turn, leaving him floundering. But the Nein come for him when he needs them, and they help him find his feet. Then they go shopping.

Notes: Chapter title is from "Venus" by Sleeping At Last.

****

Chapter 3: I was a billion little pieces til you pulled me into focus

Yasha got her garden started the next morning, with Essek and Caduceus helping her. Caleb watched them for some time, enjoying the quiet start to the day, before he headed deeper into the centre of the city to meet Alphira.

Caleb had known this coffee shop when it was a smutty bookshop he used to frequent with Astrid and Wulf during their explorations of the city. Alphira was seated by the front window, and waved to him through the glass. Caleb checked his surroundings, not bothering to be subtle about it, and stepped inside. A lute player sat in the corner, playing soft music.

“I have a confession, Mr Widogast,” Alphira said as Caleb pulled out a chair to sit.

He froze, leaning on the back of it. “...ja?”

“Do you remember Professor Bettina Weber?”

“Professor of Transmutation. I remember her.” Caleb had gotten along with her perfectly fine when he was a student, but he had been set on Evocation at the time. And then Trent had gotten his hands on him and ruined any chance of having a good relationship with any teacher at the Academy. “Why do you ask?”

“I mentioned your old name to her,” said Alphira. “She asked to come along. Is that all right?”

Caleb raised an eyebrow, watching Alphira hide her fidgeting hands beneath the table. “You are not a good liar, Professor.”

Alphira sighed. “I apologise. I should have been upfront. We intended to speak with you together, but we were not sure how you would…” She waved her hands around, evidently unable to conjure the remainder of the sentence. “Archmage Beck knows we are meeting, if that helps.”

“This is not the best start to our friendship, Professor.” Caleb forcibly relaxed his shoulders and slid very carefully onto his chair. “Do what you will.”

Alphira pulled a coil of copper wire from the component pouch on her belt and whispered into it. “Bettina, you can come in. He’s not happy, but he hasn’t walked out.”

A few moments passed, and then an older human woman, greyer than Caleb remembered, stepped through the doorway, setting off the bell. She sat in the third seat at the table.

“Guten morgen, Professor,” Caleb said, not bothering to hide the steel in his tone. He did not need to cower before anyone in this city anymore, save perhaps for King Dwendal. He was done tolerating the convoluted bullshit of the Assembly. Today, at least.

“Guten morgen, Bren.” Bettina at least had the grace to look sheepish. “I apologise we were not upfront with you. Ah, I did not check which name you prefer. Bren or Caleb?”

“I don’t mind.” Caleb did mind. More than he usually did. He couldn’t tell whether Bettina’s slip had been intentional or not, and that irritated him.

“Caleb, then.”

Caleb felt a strange wash of relief, not unlike how he had felt when Yudala Fon had come to the same conclusion.

Alphira flagged down a server and each of them ordered a cup of black coffee. “My treat,” she said.

“Danke,” Caleb replied. They sat quietly at a moment, looking at each other, and Caleb’s irritation swelled. “Forgive my impatience, Professors. Why did you ask me here?”

“Soltryce Academy needs a new Professor of Transmutation,” said Alphira. “Bettina intends to retire in a few years.”

“I am not a qualified teacher,” Caleb said. “I have no experience.” Well that was not entirely true; he did have experience teaching individuals. And he had helped Veth with the first iteration of her adventurers’ summer camp. “Well, no experience that a teaching institution would consider of benefit.”

“Archmage Beck put your name forward,” said Bettina. “The other Archmages were quick to agree with her. The Martinet himself wants you on the staff.”

“The Martinet wants a lot of things,” Caleb said flatly. This was too good to be true. It had to be. He could not afford to get his hopes up about this, even as one of his oldest dreams was presented to him on a silver platter.

The coffees arrived. Caleb wrapped his hands around his mug, letting the warmth chase the morning chill from his fingers. Bettina slowly stirred sugar into her coffee, chuckling softly.

“I know he offered you Astrid’s job,” she said. “Not many people say no to him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.” She looked up from her coffee, smiling at him fondly in a way that sent Caleb into a state of utter confusion and mild panic. “Of the three of you, I would not have expected you to be the one to confound him like that. Well done.”

“I’m not here to fuck around,” Caleb responded, not wholly by design.

“Good. We need more people like you in the Academy.” She was working hard to disarm him, and Caleb was doing all he could to hold on tight to his distrust.

“We don’t want something like Trent Ikithon happening again,” Alphira said. “Archmage Beck is of the mind that you are well-placed to prevent that. Bettina and I are inclined to agree.”

That was a major reason why Caleb had chosen to remain in Rexxentrum, but it did rankle him that it was expected of him, after everything he had already been through. He did not like the bitterness that rose in him. Alphira and Bettina were offering him the power to keep children like him safe like he desperately wanted. And it was unfair to assume they would throw him to the sharks and leave him there.

Caleb took a deep breath and asked, “And where do you two fit in?”

“I have decades of teaching experience,” said Bettina. “My knowledge is at your disposal. I seem to recall you once told me you wanted to teach… when you were fifteen, I think. You were still new to the Academy at the time.” Before Trent got involved went unspoken.

“Did you know what Trent was doing?” Caleb asked. He had to know. He needed more information before Bettina’s persistent kindness wore down his defences and either made him meek or cruel. And if he sensed even the slightest inkling that she had known anything and didn’t lift a finger to help, he would walk out in a heartbeat. There were enough people associated with the Assembly who clearly had some idea and did nothing. He did not need to drink coffee with one of them.

“No,” Bettina replied. “I understand why you needed to ask, and I admit Ikithon always made me uncomfortable, but I genuinely had no idea he was abusing his students.” Her gaze bore into Caleb’s, mouth downturned and eyes sad. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have helped you.”

Caleb had to break eye contact, before he broke instead. He sipped his coffee, with shaky hands, and composed himself.

“We were at his trial,” said Alphira matter-of-factly. Caleb could not express how grateful he was that she kept emotion out of this. “Most of the professors attended. We were shocked, but not exactly surprised. He was always a creepy bastard.”

“We believe Alphira came close to being recruited,” said Bettina, quiet but far less intense than she had been a moment ago. “She’s a talented Evocation wizard. Trent had a few meetings with her parents, but she has a large, close-knit family spread across the Empire.”

“He realised you had too many connections,” Caleb said, and found his voice was steady. “He couldn’t isolate you. Too much time and effort, and he had many other… projects..”

“I believe you are correct,” said Alphira. “I came to the academy just after you had, uh, left. There were rumours about what happened to you, but nobody really knew for sure.”

“I take it the trial cleared that up for you.”

“Ja.” Alphira sighed. “Look. I am sorry I did not handle this meeting better. This is my fault. I wasn’t sure you would come if you knew one of your old teachers would be here. It was wrong of me to take that choice from you.”

Caleb hadn’t survived this long without learning how to get a read on people, and he felt confident he was reading her correctly. She seemed genuinely remorseful. “I will consider the offer.”

“Good,” said Bettina. “Of all my possible replacements, I am most confident you will do the right thing by the students.”

She was laying it on pretty thick, but it emboldened Caleb to speak a few things he had been toying with, in the event he did have an opportunity like this.

“If I were to accept the position, I have a few demands,” said Caleb. “I want the Academy to set up a proper system to report abuse. We also need the staff to be trained how not to abuse their fucking students, as that seems rather difficult for some of them. We need mental health support, and a better system for older or returning students to get an education. Most of all, every student who walks through those doors must be taught the ethics of magic and research, and understand their responsibilities to use their magical and social power responsibly. Most of the staff also need that lesson.”

“We want those things, too,” said Alphira. “We’ll pass them on to Archmage Beck and see what we can do. Unfortunately, we may have to push for some of those for an extended period of time.”

“We will work the ethics lessons into our transmutation classes,” said Bettina. “At this stage, I would suggest ethics remain integrated into pre-existing magic classes so students cannot avoid it. At least until we have established a culture of understanding around these things.”

“Can I count on your help?” Caleb asked. “Both of you?”

“We will help you,” said Alphira. “I would not drag you into this without offering assistance.”

“Danke,” Caleb replied, softer than he had intended. The fact she had thought it a foregone conclusion that he would have their help in this…

Trust was not easy for Caleb. And the trust he had extended had been broken many, many times. This was a lot.

Caleb finished his coffee and bid Bettina and Alphira farewell. And then he ducked behind the coffee shop, leaned against the wall, braced his hands on his knees, and tried very hard not to hyperventilate.

It was not going well. His hands shook as he fumbled for his copper wire, muscle memory kicking in to settle his fingers as he cast Sending. He decided the recipient at the last second. It had to be someone with some knowledge of the city, but most of his friends didn’t know the city that well. But there was one person who walked past here on her way to work.

“Beauregard. It’s Caleb.” He was out of breath, on the verge of hysterics one way or another. “Behind coffee shop. Come get me? Can’t breathe. Brain bullshit. I need you. Please.”

Beauregard’s voice filtered into his mind immediately. “Caleb? Ah, fuck. We’re coming. Hang in there. Don’t move. I’m bringing… lots of us. I don’t know. You’re okay.” She was panting now. “We’re running. Be there soon.”

Twenty-five words exactly. Nice. It distracted Caleb for about half a second, before he couldn’t breathe again.

Maybe if Caleb knew exactly what had sent him into a spiral, he could have handled it on his own. But he genuinely wasn’t sure, and his brain wasn’t working in any helpful way. It could have been any number of things, or maybe all of them at once. All he could do was bend over and try very hard to breathe. It was going poorly.

So on top of everything, he was frustrated, which did not help in the slightest.

Time was liquid. He was aware of its passing, and he could still count the seconds, minutes. He always counted things. It was one of the few things he could do when his brain felt like a handful of broken glass. And even if he lost count of everything else, he could still count time.

He knew it had been five minutes. He wasn’t sure if it felt longer or shorter than that, despite his knowledge of objective reality. His breaths were a little steadier, but not by much. He was still on his feet, but barely.

He felt dizzy.

“Hey, dude.” Beauregard’s face slid between the ground and Caleb’s gaze. “We’re here.”

Caleb’s arm felt like the bones had fallen out, but somehow he managed to grab her shoulder and squeeze. Beauregard put her hand over his, squeezing back. She gently pushed him upright until he rested his head against the brick behind him. He lifted his face to the sky, breathing deeply. It was already easier, knowing she was here.

“Caleb,” came Veth’s voice, hesitant. A small hand laced their fingers together. “What is it? What happened?”

Caleb’s voice game out even huskier than usual. “Not sure.”

“It just happened?”

Caleb nodded.

Veth squeezed his hand. “Can you walk? We’ll get you home.”

“Caduceus is making tea,” came Jester’s voice. “And we’ll give you lots of hugs if you want them.”

“Let’s hold off on that, all right?” said Fjord. “Let him breathe for a bit.”

Caleb dragged his eyes from the sky to take in who exactly had come. Beauregard, Veth, Jester, Fjord, Yasha. Everyone except Caduceus, who had remained behind to make tea, and Essek, who had to make a calculated risk every time he left the house. Caleb was glad he hadn’t come. He would have felt much worse if Essek had put himself in danger over this.

Yasha stepped forward, offering her arm. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

Caleb pushed off the wall, his legs far too wobbly, and leaned on Yasha. They walked home. Fjord took Caleb’s other side, with Jester bouncing ahead as an obvious distraction. Veth and Beauregard stayed closer, just in front of him. Caleb remembered the Nein surrounding him in Castle Ungebroch, trying to shield him from Trent. Remembering that did not help him calm down in the slightest.

He pressed his face against Yasha’s shoulder, trusting her to guide him, until he could compose himself. He loved them. A whole lot. And they showed him every day how much they loved him.

Fjord took his other hand. “You’re all right, Caleb. We got you.”

****

As soon as they were home, Jester made Caleb a blanket nest on the floor and shoved him in it. Then came Caduceus with chamomile tea. Essek emerged from the kitchen behind him, feet firmly on the floor, and sat on the couch behind Caleb, quietly brushing and braiding his hair.

The rest of the Nein sat on the floor around him. Veth wiggled into the blanket nest with him.

“That was one intense cup of coffee,” said Fjord. “How are you feeling?”

Caleb took a tentative sip of the tea; it wasn’t too hot. He took another sip. “Better.”

“What happened in there?’ asked Beau. “Do I have to murder Alphira?”

“Nein.” Caleb worked through half the tea quicker than Caduceus had probably intended for him. “She surprised me. I did not take it well.”

“Surprised you how?” asked Jester. “Was it a good surprise?”

Caleb shrugged. “Probably. She… misjudged. Invited my old Transmutation professor without telling me, until I was already there. Put me on the back foot. I should have handled it better. Thought I did, until after the meeting. Forgot how to breathe. My old professor was… she didn’t know what Trent was doing, and she seemed upset that she couldn’t help us. That was… a lot. I don’t know if that’s the reason I lost it… but I’m sure it didn’t help.” He closed his eyes and Essek gently tugged on the hair at his temples; he liked the feeling. “Beauregard, did you know Soltryce Academy wanted to hire me?”

“WHAT!?” shrieked Jester; Caleb flinched involuntarily. “Sorry, Caleb.”

“Astrid told me she Archmages were really fucking keen on you, yeah,” said Beauregard. “Did they send Alphira to do it?”

“And my old Transmutation professor, ja.”

“Do you like your old professor?”

“She never did anything horrible to me.”

“That’s really not an answer.”

Caleb shrugged. “I didn’t have time to establish a relationship. I wanted to be an Evocation wizard, and then Trent ruined my life.”

“We can still go kill him if you want,” Yasha said, with complete sincerity.

Beauregard swore under her breath. “I’m sorry, Caleb. I should’ve told you.”

“This is not your fault.”

“No, but maybe you would’ve… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

Caleb sighed. Opened his eyes. Stared hard at her until she looked at him. “Beauregard. Shit like this happens sometimes, even when everything is fine. We all know who is responsible. Please be angry at the right people. I trust you. You know how much that means.”

Essek’s fingernails grazed the back of his neck as he pulled Caleb’s hair into a ponytail, and Caleb had to stifle a moan. Even if it wasn’t a sexual moan (this time), the Nein would have too much fun with it. Or maybe he should have let it happen, just to make Beauregard laugh at him. Too late now.

“Oh, Caleb!” said Jester. “Is that your orgasm face?”

“No,” Essek said, with far more certainty than he had likely intended. If he had intended to speak at all.

Beauregard clapped both hands on her mouth to stifle a bark of laughter.

Jester grinned, and Caleb knew she was doing this very much on purpose to lighten the mood. “Oh, I bet you know what his orgasm face looks like, Essek!”

Caleb could almost hear Essek’s eye-roll. Essek calmly tucked Caleb’s two side braids into the ponytail, running his fingers through the ponytail itself to loosen any remaining tangles.

“I appreciate your keen interest in this area, Jester,” Essek said primly. “I am afraid I am not the type to--oh, what is the phrase in common?--kiss and tell.” He paused, but there was something the way he held his breath that indicated he was not nearly finished. “If you wish to find out for yourself, I would recommend you ask him nicely. If Fjord does not mind, of course. Or perhaps you could invite him along. I believe Caleb has experience in that area.”

Caleb knew his face was redder than his hair, because every part of his flashed burning hot. He had never actually told Essek he had a crush on Jester, or that he thought Fjord was hot, and Caleb was pretty fucking certain Essek would not have gone there if he had known. Caleb may have offhandedly mentioned his experience with threesomes, though.

Luckily, the Nein were distracted by Essek making possibly the crassest joke he had made in his life, instead of Caleb blushing so hard his skin was about to start sizzling.

“Holy fuck, dude,” Beauregard breathed.

“Who are you and what have you done with our Essek?” said Veth, waving a crossbow bolt in the air. “Tell us quick: what is your favourite food?”

“Well, I can assure you it is not soup.”

“I knew it! Essek’s an imposter!”

“Caleb, what did you do to him?” said Beauregard. “I know you’ve got some serious game, but what the shit.”

Jester, in the meantime, had collapsed on the floor, cackling uncontrollably at the whole thing. Fjord’s face was in his hands, and the tips of his ears were red. Yasha was snickering quietly. Caduceus calmly poured Caleb more tea.

“What can I say?” Caleb said, pretending he wasn’t burning up from embarrassment. “I’m a wizard magnet.”

Beauregard groaned loudly. “We know, Caleb. We know you’ve fucked more than anyone in this group except me. I hate this. I hate that I know this about you.”

“That is very sad, Beauregard. I was a teenager the last time I was in a serious relationship.”

“Yeah, awkward pubescent Caleb had more game than most of this fully-grown group put together. You’re not helping.”

Jester recovered enough from her laughter to sit up, still snickering. “I bet you were really handsome, Caleb.”

“Of course he was!” Veth screeched. “He’s always handsome.”

“I was a good talker,” said Caleb. “That helped.” He had never shared how he, Astrid and Wulf had come together romantically, and it would definitely kill the mood to tell them it was because they were locked in a freezing cold tower and had to huddle together for warmth. He kept that to himself.

“You’re still a good talker when you want to be,” said Beauregard. “It’s annoying.”

“It’s very impressive,” Yasha added.

“You’re very charming, Cay,” said Veth. “Fjord could learn a thing or two.”

“Fjord does just fine on his own,” Caleb said, because she was starting to exaggerate again. Her faith in him was eternally lovely, but he didn’t like it when it ran the risk of putting others in the Nein down.

Essek kept running his fingers through Caleb’s ponytail and adjusting the braids. There was no practical purpose to it. They both just liked it.

The room settled after the chaos of Essek displaying once again his unique sense of humour: fucking with the Nein. Beauregard crashed the hardest, already looking miserable again.

Caleb threw a cushion at her. “Stop it. I called you for a reason. I am not upset with you.”

Beauregard pressed her hands over the entirety of her face and screamed into them. Caleb threw another cushion. And then he telekinetically pulled them back and threw them at her repeatedly with magic. Childish? Yes. Effective? Also yes.

It was satisfying to watch Beauregard get annoyed and use her monk shit to snatch flying cushions from the air.

“Okay, fine! I don’t feel bad for you anymore!” And she launched herself at him, smacking him repeatedly with the cushions until he curled into a ball and begged for mercy.

****

Caleb was a little tired from his episode earlier, but not so tired that he would dare miss out on furniture shopping when Jester and Caduceus were so excited about it. He trusted them to balance each other out and come up with a good aesthetic after the outfits they had procured for the party in Nicodranas… where they ended up kidnapping a disguised Essek and forcing him to confess his sins. And Beauregard was high on True Sight. What a fucking night that had been.

Beauregard and Fjord headed out to the Cobalt Soul Archive to retrieve Kingsley from Nicodanas; he’d never been to the Rexxentrum markets before. It gave Caleb a few extra minutes to recover, though in truth he was as okay as he was going to be.

Now that he could think clearly again, he was able to dissect what had happened. The shock of seeing Professor Weber after so long, and with little warning, had rattled him from the beginning. And, of course, any talk of Trent ran the risk of triggering him, but then Bettina had expressed more remorse for not helping him than anyone else in the Assembly ever had the grace to do. Ludinus was notoriously full of shit, and Caleb had come to expect that from anyone even tangentially involved with the Assembly (except perhaps Pumat).

Caleb was not used to anyone in that place treating him with simple, unfiltered human compassion. Even Astrid and Wulf were a little detached from the pain they had suffered together, and what they had been through separately. He knew that detachment was a matter of survival for them, and he did not resent them for it.

Bettina’s raw grief for his suffering had affected him far more deeply than he could ever have anticipated.

Essek sat on the couch with Caleb’s head in his lap, playing with the baby hairs that had already escaped his ponytail, while the Nein prepared to head out. “You look tired,” he said softly.

“This morning was a lot. I’ll be all right.”

“Fine, but I am coming with you.”

“Essek.” Caleb had taken this tone with him many times in Aeor. It meant Essek, what the fuck? It had taken a lot for Caleb to say his name like that, given his own notorious lack of impulse control around magic items. Caleb had never gotten his hands on that fucking emerald. He was still bitter about it. But he was finding a new use for the tone, because Essek was normally a cautious person, except when he felt the people he loved needed him. Caleb especially.

“I am safer in a group than I would be here alone.” Essek smiled ruefully. “Besides, I have chosen a disguise already. You should not let my brilliance go to waste.”

“You make a solid argument.”

“I know.” Essek smirked. “You are, however, welcome to tell me how brilliant I am.”

Veth was on the floor nearby, slowly copying a few of Caleb’s first level spells into her own spellbook. “Is this how wizards flirt?”

“The part we do in front of other people, ja,” said Caleb.

Jester, lying on her stomach on the other side of the room, with her sketchbook, piped up. “What about the secret flirting that you don’t let us see?”

“We mostly discuss complex existential matters,” Essek replied.

“And dissect each other’s breakdowns,” Caleb muttered, not entirely meaning to voice it but not trying particularly hard to restrain himself. Well, it was out in the world now. May as well keep digging. “We have a lot of material.”

Yasha popped her head out of the kitchen. “That sounds very intense.”

“Yeah,” said Veth, “I just tell Yeza he has a nice ass and we get down to business.”

“Each to their own,” Essek said mildly, casting prestidigitation on Caleb’s hair to smooth it down after his fussing.

The door flew open, and Caleb sat bolt upright before Kingsley strutted inside in a way that was a little too close to Mollymauk for Caleb to handle in his current state. But he was used to it by now. It didn’t overtake him like it may have months ago.

“I can’t believe you almost went shopping without me,” Kingsley said, his tail swishing to slap Beauregard in the face. She batted it away from her.

“Ugh, we should’ve left you in the smutty book shop where we found you.”

“Find anything good?” asked Jester, taking the words right out of Caleb’s mouth.

Kingsley shrugged. “How the fuck would I know?”

“I would bring you to the one in Rexxentrum and show you,” said Caleb, “but they sadly turned it into a coffee shop.”

“Come on, Caleb,” said Jester. “This city is huge. There has to be another one. Ooh, you could ask Astrid next time you see her!”

Kingsley snickered at that.

“What’s so funny?”

“Astrid. Really.”

“Hey, Caleb’s really into smut,” said Jester. “He had to learn it from somewhere.”

“I am leaving this conversation,” said Caleb, heading for the door. “Are you coming?”

“Maybe if you find me some good smut, Magic Man.” Kingsley’s tail whipped around Caleb’s wrist, just for a second. Every inhabitant of that body had flirted with Caleb at some point. It was familiar, in a way Caleb found more comforting than most of Kingsley’s Molly-like mannerisms.

“Okay, who the fuck taught Kingsley about sex,” Beauregard grumbled as the rest of the Nein filed out of the house.

“He asked,” Fjord replied, his voice shooting up an octave as it did when he panicked.

Veth snorted. “Listen, King. When two people love each other very much…”

“Sometimes more than two,” Caleb added.

“Or sometimes when you love yourself very much,” said Veth.

Kingsley didn’t pay much heed to Veth’s final addition, dancing up to Caleb’s side and giving him an eyebrow. “Oh, that sounds like a story. Any advice?”

“Don’t trauma-bond and end up in a codependent relationship,” Caleb replied. “The sex is not worth it.”

“I mean, Astrid and Wulf are pret-ty hot,” said Jester.

“Ja, like putting your hand in an open flame.”

Beauregard slid up to Caleb’s other side. “Sometimes you worry me, man.”

“I am officially asking Caleb for relationship advice in the future,” said Kingsley. “I don’t know much, but I know I’d rather ask a man who knows what not to do.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say to that, so he circled back to the original topic. “I will ask Wulf about the smut shop next time I see him.” Wulf was just as awkward as Caleb most of the time. He only seemed smooth because he was built like a brick shithouse and had a deep voice. It would be less complicated than trying to ask Astrid. He wasn’t even sure Wulf read smut anymore. Or if Caleb wanted to know something like that about an ex he absolutely should not touch again.

Maybe they could just go to Zadash instead. Avoid the conversation entirely. Next time, maybe.

He kept walking towards the market.

[ikesenhell]

Je Te Souviens

Elysium, Part Five. You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine in my Masterlist. NOTES: WELL WELL WELL IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. Yes, I’m still working on this. Yes, it’s been a minute. Yes, I’m helaciously busy. Yes, I hopefully will get the rest of this out in a relatively short amount of time. I’m back-ish babyeee

---

The idea of meeting a priest as a bandit’s contact was, put mildly, somewhat odd. Did it border on heresy? Jean wasn’t quite sure. It didn't feel right. If the clergy’s first responsibility was to God, what was a priest doing tangled in this web?

Still--August gave a very clear direction. If they wanted answers, they met the priest. 

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. 

Napoleon’s eyes stayed fixed at some unknowable point in the distance, but the corner of his mouth ticked slightly upwards. “No?”

“No.” Jean squeezed the pommel of his sword. It was still there. Overhead, the sky bled purple and gold, grey swirling clouds far off yet. Their boots clicked in tandem on the cobblestone streets. Why were the streets so ghostly still? It was like Penrith only flourished in its twisted corners. People shrank along the walls, pulled up hoods and skittered into waiting doors.   

“We’re a bit obvious, don’t you think?” Isaac narrowed his blush-pink eyes at them, scurrying to keep up. “You two, all kitted out, me alongside you, and headed to the central plaza--”

Jean silently agreed. Between Napoleon’s typical dramatic flair (a black velvet capelet with a black and gold uniform coat? Really?) and his own distinct features, they attracted attention. It would be easy for the Guild to track them. But their fearless leader just smiled as he always did, fine lines of fatigue hovering around his eyes (did he ever sleep enough outside of his own bed?), and elbowed Jean in the ribs. “We’re going to church.”

Jean rubbed his side. “What?”

“Church. It’s been a moment since we’ve all been, and you certainly needed to drop in for a quick prayer…”

He contemplated the lie (which was a plausible scenario, but still a lie, and still a sin). It worked for cover. And as much as he didn't want to be here, sticking out like a sore thumb in the nigh-deserted streets, it brought them that much closer to whatever answers August promised. 

Speaking of August! Unbidden, those bright eyes flashed in his mind’s eye. An arch of severe brow, the twist of lip, the toss of copper curls, the curve of a rolling shoulder--Jean swallowed. Why did the scent of the street rise up and not their lavender soap? God help him. What did those eyes hold that dragged him in? Why did he follow so willingly? Some said that eyes were the window to the soul. That couldn’t be true. There was no cathedral stained glass that compared to August.

What was wrong with him? 

Isaac flapped a hand in front of his face, and Jean started. 

“Earth to Jean.” The advisor scowled. “Why are we stopping? Is it Them?”

Oh. Jean collected himself enough to realize the Them in question was not, in fact, August. “No. No, They’re not bothering me any more than usual. I was… in thought.”

“Well, come on. We’re close.”

The central plaza was crowded. Civilians headed home, tired from work, arms laden with goods, children in tow. Napoleon visibly softened as a couple of tiny girls skipped by, skirts in hand and giggling (and what could he even say? Did he show his friend a kind word? Was it even the time for that, time to acknowledge what Napoleon had given up in exchange for--)

On a nearby bench, flipping a coin, sat a priest. He was a wizened old man with bushy brows and stooped shoulders. The trio exchanged glances. It felt almost too perfect. But--never the man to shy away from trouble--Napoleon swept his capelet behind him and settled in beside the elderly priest. 

“Evening.” 

The man glanced at them and smiled. "Good evening, my children. What brings you here?" 

Napoleon visibly paused. What did they say? August hadn't given them any clear directions. None of them were good at subtlety. Doing his best, Jean cleared his throat. 

"A… friend recommended we meet you. And I could use some prayer, Father, if you would allow me."

The man fixed the three of them with a wry, gap-tooth smile, dusting his knees and rising. "I'd heard some worshippers might visit late today. Very well. Follow me."

---

It was a strangely humble building. That was all good and well, but next to the Guild’s extravagance… well, Jean knew where priorities were. It wasn’t that he expected the city to set religion front and center--God knew Napoleon didn't feel that necessary for Elysium--it was more the unsettling realization that the Guild saw it more important to purchase silk chair covers and gilded spoons than front a single gold coin to anyone else. 

Maybe that was what August wanted them to see. Maybe they’d envisioned how the creaking wood floors would sound under well maintained leather boots. Maybe they’d known that, against Napoleon’s cape, the rough-hewn benches and tattered hymnals told a different tale. This was Penrith. Twilight glow filtered through faraway paper slits serving as windows. Instead of the raucous colors and vivid golds from Elysium’s church, a humble, lovingly-carved wooden altar reached skyward. 

God help him. Jean hesitated on the threshold, deja vu circling like storm clouds. Wasn’t his childhood church just like this one? Marae in the height of autumn, all the colors of fire that later tried to eat him alive, laughter in the beams and a dozen dirt-poor families who still found a thousand reasons to smile. He’d taken communion in a place like this. He’d tried (horribly, terribly) to flirt with Annaliese from the farm over behind a hymnal in a place like this. 

He’d almost died in a place like this. 

Napoleon’s hand wrapped around his. 

“Friend,” he said, his green eyes understanding. “You’re missing the conversation.”

Sometimes breathing proved difficult. Now was one of those times. Jean gulped in the timber-rich air, forcing his lungs to remember that they weren’t full of smoke, that he couldn’t (but could still, always could) taste ash on his tongue and a sinner’s agony in his stomach. “My apologies.”

“That’s alright. Our new friend was just showing us around the chapel. Do you need to step outside?”

“No, no. I’ll be fine.”

Oh, Napoleon. His mouth quirked in that disarming smile, the weight of his confidence bolstering Jean’s resolve. Thank God for Napoleon. 

Fortunately, they hadn’t missed much. The priest gave Isaac a cursory tour in their absence--the pulpit, the prized books, the church office--and then excused himself with a wink and a nudge to find some tome or another he’d ‘misplaced’. The invitation wasn’t lost on them. As soon as the doors to the priest’s chambers shut, Isaac swung open the church office. There wasn’t much. He spied a safe, a large desk, a number of record books, some miscellaneous odds and ends...

“Let’s go.”

Jean wavered in the door. “I don’t know if--”

“--this’ll go faster if you help me look--”

“--Isaac, I can’t read--”

“--I’ve been teaching you! You can at least manage some things--!”

Napoleon choked back a laugh and shunted himself into the tiny space. “At least stand in the doorway. We’ll look.”

Only the sound of flipping pages rustled in the eaves. Jean was a practiced hand at forced calm by now. It felt unlikely--so, so unlikely--that anything could appear in the ledgers of a neglected church. What secrets could the Guild and Penrith hide here? 

“Nothing,” Napoleon murmured. “Isaac?”

“Mmm. I’m checking another book.”

Another book creaked open. 

But then again, all sorts of places held secrets, didn't they? Marceche hadn’t descended on Marae for no reason. They hadn’t tracked him down through sheer dumb luck. You just had to know where to look. Usually, though, that was through people. 

Oh.

Jean spun on his heel. “Is there a guest book? A parishioner’s book?”

Both Napoleon and Isaac stared. Impatiently, Jean pushed into the office. “Sometimes local churches keep records on who attends.”

“What do you think that’ll show?” Isaac demanded. 

He didn't know. It was just the nagging sensation in the back of his mind, the faintest inkling that it was with people, not words, that their business lay. Jean pawed his way over the books until he pieced together enough letters on one to make a guess. “This one. Check this one.”

Napoleon flipped it open. Sure enough, neat columns marched down the page. Jean couldn’t read upside down to save his life, but he knew names when he saw them. 

“I’m still not following.” Isaac ran the thick pages between his fingers, turning each one. 

Look closer look closer look closer

The voices clawed around him. For once, Jean didn't fight them. He was part of that hivemind by nature; now, no doubt, They only reflected his own thoughts back at him. “August wasn’t looking to loot our caravan. If not money, or goods, what were they looking for? What would someone hide in a caravan?”

Silence. Isaac bent his face to the pages once more, rolling his fingers along the names until--at last--he stopped. “Some of them are marked with stars.”

“People.” Napoleon straightened. “Someone is taking people from Penrith.”

[redbeanboi]

Scacchi

Rating: M (nothing particularly crazy, but it’s still related to BBP)

Characters: OC’s: Giuseppe Giovanna, Vittorio Pesca, plus a few extras. Mentioned: Don Giorno Giovanna/Reader, Fugo, Narancia, Mista.

Summary: Giuseppe learns how to play the game.

Alternatively: Pesca doesn’t approve of sheltering who he considers to be the “heir” to Giorno’s empire and takes matters into his own hands.

Word count: 1.8k 

A/N: One of several Giuseppe-related OCtober writings that I’ll be sharing in the next few weeks. This takes place about 15-16 years after BBP, so Giuseppe is a teenager and it would basically be taking place around his “part” (as some of you have come to call it :-D ). For context: Giorno and the Signora have discovered that against their wishes, their son has managed to secretly join Passione (more on that in another snippet, and know that Giuseppe’s “uncle’s” aren’t any more pleased). Unfortunately they all have to deal with some other mess happening in the city, and the only relative around to spend time with Giuseppe is Pesca, who I have yet to fully introduce in BBP. I hope you’ll enjoy this interaction between them! 

some translation notes;

trisoru (’tesoro’ in Siciliano), Matri/Patri and Matre/Patre (mother and father, in Siciliano and Napulitano, respectively), Se (yes, Siciliano), La Famigghia (the family, Siciliano), prozio (great-uncle in Italiano: referring to Don Arnaldo from BBP).

One of the soldati entered the room, Giuseppe in tow. “I hope your trip was pleasant, Signore Pesca. Things are a bit… disorderly here at the moment,” he added, casting a wary, sideways glance at his charge.

Giuseppe’s greeting was less effusive. Passione’s princeling was in a sullen mood, furious that he had been ordered to stay home while his father and trusted men sought out the current threat. “You need to stay home, where it’s safe, trisoru,” you had insisted. “These are unsettling times.”

None of this satisfied Giuseppe, Pesca noted. Perfect on many accounts, but still a child for all that, still inexperienced in the ways of this world. “Giuseppe,” he called. His nephew looked over sure enough. “Seeing that we’re stuck here together, perhaps you’ll be a dear nephew and entertain me to a thrilling game of scacchi? For old time’s sake.”

Giuseppe fixed him with a wary stare. “Chess? My homework sounds much more interesting.”

“Not interesting to you? I suppose it’s only natural when you’ve never beat me. Do continue with your studies.” Pesca raised his book, smirking in safety behind the pages. 

His comments pricked Giuseppe’s pride, just as he expected. “Very well then, Uncle. Fetch the board and pieces—this time I mean to actually beat you.”

They set the chessboard on a wooden table in the center of the room, a handsome piece of furniture that was undoubtedly carved and toiled over by some craftsman in the city. Pesca knew his cousin-in-law liked to patron the local artisans. Giuseppe had already moved his first piece on the board—’Grob’s Attack,’ Pesca thought with amusement. Most would consider it a mark of daring youth, a move that was as bold as it was foolish. Willing to risk it all for the quick kill. Giuseppe’s bodyguard Affogato sat in a chair beside his charge, watching as they played.

Pesca responded in kind, setting his Queen’s pawn two spaces forward. Later, when all the pieces had cleared the way and Giuseppe reached for the Queen’s Bishop, Pesca hummed and shook his head. His nephew paused and quirked a brow at him. “This is an interesting opening, dear nephew, but I wouldn’t do it in the future.” He offered Giuseppe his most disarming smile. “You’re just as bold as your Matri and Patri.”

“So I’ve been told,” Giuseppe returned warily. “...My mother says that you let her drive your car when she was twelve.”

“She’s a very good driver. She’s good at plenty of things, actually. A clever woman. Do you heed her advice?”

The boy pushed a tuft of dark blue hair away from his eyes. Pesca noticed that the dye had yet to fully wash out. “Of course I do. She’s my mother.”

“And yet we find you here, already a fully initiated member of your Patri’s gang.” Pesca blinked at the board before moving his knight. “If I remember correctly, your beloved parents had every intention of shutting you out from either organization. Were they heartbroken when they found out?”

Giuseppe flushed. “I’ve told you already, it was the right thing to do. I can help them.”

“Se,” Pesca returned in his rough Siciliano. “And in doing the right thing, you’ve also uncovered a new plot to dispose of them. It’ll make for an interesting family story in the future, and I’m sure your children will love to hear of how you managed to save us all… assuming your Matri and Patri ever let you set foot outside of this house any time soon.”

“They will. They have to.”

“Must they?” Pesca asked with a tsk and a scandalous tone. “I would be careful with that. Don’s and Signora’s do not like receiving orders, least of all from children. Your Matri is a Signora, a principessa of one of the oldest criminal organizations in this world; she knows a great deal more about these sorts of things than you do. Your Patri, on the other hand? Why, he’s the Boss of all Bosses, made himself a conqueror at the age of fifteen. They love you dearly and clearly gave the world to you, but I don’t think you’ll find them very willing.”

“They will be willing,” Giuseppe insisted, clearly shocked by this information. It was clear to Pesca that Giuseppe had never considered the possibility that his parents might lock him away for his safety and refuse him. “You don’t know them as I do.” Giuseppe took his knight and leapt over the pawns, letting the piece land on the board with a harsh thud.

Pesca shrugged at that. “Perhaps I’m still a stranger to the sacred love between parent and child, but I know what they are like. I know your Matri most of all. I know that she stole cars and sold them, that she impressed Don Vittorio Andolini with her thievery. She’s known danger from a young age, knows what it is like to run, to be hunted, to never be safe. I know that she is fierce. How else would Cosa Nostra bend so easily to her? The ‘Ndrangheta are half hers, considering her family ties to Don Arnaldo. She grieved for her father and schemed to protect you and your ridiculous Patri years ago—all when she was matched with a troublesome opponent. She’s not officially initiated in any gang, yet your Patri relies on her to no end. How do you suppose a woman like this will react when you come to her with a pleading child’s eyes and say, ‘Buongiorno Mamma, I have grown up now and would like to be recognized as a member of La Famigghia.’”

Giuseppe gave him a cold and hard stare. He looks so much like his father. “I am not going to plead to my Matre like a child. I am a young adult, with reasonable requests. I actually accomplished a decent amount of work before you discovered me and alerted them.”

“To be frank? You have too many requests, and as well as you did your job you can easily be replaced,” Pesca corrected. Good, that’s made him angry. It almost reminded Pesca of the times he teased you for having similar ambitions. This boy looks like Giorno but he acts more like his mother. “Don Giorno has plenty of soldati, and last I checked none of them add this much stress on those slender shoulders of his.”

“Think whatever you like, Zietto Vito,” said Giuseppe. “I can still prove myself to them. Signore Fugo said that if I wait, they will see that I’m not a child anymore and can listen like a respectful adult.”

“And you believe that? Goodness. Trust no one, dear boy. Not your strange padrino who wears that ridiculous suit, nor your false uncles or cousins or brothers. Above all, don’t hold to every word your parents say to you—they’re liars like the rest of us. And perhaps this wariness will dampen your gatherings or keep you awake for much longer than you’d like to be at night, but I’m sure it’s better than the never ending sleep that awaits us all.” He sighed and moved his Queen. “I am only your uncle though, only your mother’s lawyer. What could I possibly know that your padrino doesn’t? Still I’ll insist. If you really aren’t a child, you should know that one must make their own way in the world. I wouldn’t do as Signore Fugo says.” 

“... What would you do then?” his nephew asked, leaning forward with interest.

“If I were in your position, I would simply sneak away from this city. Go south. These threats come from the Sacra Corona Unita in Puglia, and neither of your father’s forces from Campagna have enough men to deal with an organization from the east. I’d go to Sicilia first, rally the other factions of Cosa Nostra, and meet with your prozio in Calabria. You can start making moves once you’ve got the forces—”

“I have none.”

“You have a famous name and enough resources to tempt the men associated with Cosa Nostra... And even if you don’t, you’re a smart boy, you’ll figure out some way to procure funding.” Pesca flew a Bishop two spaces over. “You’ll need plenty of them, if you want enough men to overwhelm and absorb this new organization.”

“I still would need Patre’s help,” Giuseppe said. “I can’t make any actual moves without his approval. He’s—”

“You don’t need to make any moves, not right away. All you need to do is gather enough support for your Patri. He’ll join you at once.”

Giuseppe frowned. “You said Patri doesn’t intend to let me work with him. I’m still a child to him. He doesn’t entirely respect me the way he does any of his trusted men...”

Pesca shook his head. “A poor choice of words on my part. Ask Don Giorno, your father, for permission, and he’ll treat you like a child. Do you want to act on your father’s whims for the rest of your life? Now… if you left and bolstered his cause down south, in Sicilia? The men of Cosa Nostra only follow the strong, and that is what you’ll be if you can soothe out the wrinkles that stayed after your first birthday. That would prove you are your own man. Bold, reckless, a perfect followup to the infamous Don Giorno. Another conqueror.

“Your Patri has suffered many losses in his youth. You might have noticed he’s grown an attachment to your Matri. If he finds that you’ve taken up his cause and put yourself in a vulnerable position, ordering around the men of Cosa Nostra—no doubt directing attention to yourself—and gone on the offensive, he’ll come and join you. When he meets with you, he will find a fierce and bold youth waiting for him. Not his son, but an equal. How can he help but name you his Underboss and heir then?” Smiling, Pesca took his Queen and ate Giuseppe’s King. “I hope you’ll still harbor some affection for me. And know that you impressed me by managing to last this long, even with an underdeveloped Bishop and godawful castling.”

Giuseppe stared at the board in disbelief. “My Queen–”

“You put her in a tight spot several moves ago. Do you not remember? My Knight took her.”

“What you said earlier... about my first move—”

“Ah! Remember what I said? Trust no one. Though I definitely recommend using a different opening next time. If you’re going to listen to anything I say, at least remember never to start with “g4” ever again.”

Giuseppe jerked back, gaping at the table and then at his uncle. Not ten seconds had passed before he frowned and shoved the board away, hard enough that a white knight and pawn flew across the room. One of the butlers grumbled as he shuffled around the carpet to return them.

“Giving up so soon?” Pesca asked, taking the pieces and setting them up once again.

He half expected the boy to saunter off, especially with the way he’d lectured and poked at him, but to Pesca’s surprise, Giuseppe leaned forward and shook his head.

“No.”

“I won’t be going easy on you,” he warned, “but I promise you’ll have much to learn if you decide to continue.”

Giuseppe nodded. “Teach me then.”

A/N: 

Ah ! That’s teenaged Giuseppe for you. Very different from his parents, I think, but I love him all the same. He has much to learn. This is generally untouched from when I first wrote it, so I hope you enjoyed it in all its rough, out-of-context, first-draft-ish glory!

Honestly surprised myself with how much I ended up writing, but I was mostly just following these two; the way they bounce off each other made it easy to let the words go onto the page.

If you wanted to see what the board looked like towards the end of the game, here’s a bit of a visual:

Lots of ways that this could go wrong for Giuseppe’s pieces... I stand by Pesca’s advice though. If you start on white, avoid opening with the infamous “g4.”

[hideawayintheimaginationworld]

I am Machine Character Headcanons-

Lefty Alec Roberts Helpy

Alec Roberts (Protagonist of Lonely Freddy)

15 years old, soul is completely confined to a Lonely Freddy (he can't break free without the use of magic).

Over some time, he has gotten use to the body and is able to move easier, in the beginning, he really struggled to walk but now he can do things quicker.

Mouth moves when he talks but his voice is projected from the speaker, it sounds like it's coming though a radio when he talks (it nearly scared him to death when he heard it for the first time as he thought he might never be able to talk again).

Personality changed since Lonely Freddy, he is more anxious, depressed and afraid. But he slowly opens up to Lefty and Helpy.

Alec admittedly feels abandoned by his family, he reasons they should have known him well enough to be able to tell the differences between him and an imposter, and because they can't tell the difference he feels alone.

Alec is not in a good mental place, he keeps questioning why he did certain things and sometimes reasons he “deserved what happened to him”, other times he gets angry at himself, then promptly breaks down crying because he remembers he lost everything and he can only blame himself.

Alec was initially afraid of the robots, he reasoned they could kill him so he never risked getting near them until he was discovered by accident (he fell asleep by accident, he thought he couldn't sleep anymore).

Alec already had trouble sleeping (insomnia+nightmares) which carried over when he was body swapped, Lefty is helping him manage with that so he can sleep the whole night without having a nightmare.

Alec doesn’t like talking about the “bin” or the other Lonely Freddy's, it makes him scared and depressed (low key would present some behaviours of person suffering from PTSD), it gives him creepy nightmares from time to time (imagine the Toy Story 2 nightmare scene, they are kind of similar).

Alec doesn’t like the dark or cramped spaces because they remind him of the bin, he also doesn’t like being a place where he can’t escape.

There are moments where his old personality seeps though and when he gets angry at Lefty or Helpy, he immediately feels bad despite them not really caring if he gets angry at them.

Alec has dysgraphia (he has messy handwriting and takes an extremely long time to write clearly, he was never diagnosed), Alec just thinks he has really bad handwriting until Lefty observes him writing one day and asks him “Do you have dysgraphia?” and Alec immediately asks what the hell that is with Lefty explaining he has clear symptoms of it.

Alec has a sort of hard time asking for emotional support, especially from the animatronics of all people, but it comes to the point where Alec regularly tells Lefty what's on his mind, because he's never really had emotional support, so he wasn’t open to the idea of talking until Lefty assured him he did want to help him and he would listen, and that's all Alec wants, somebody to listen to him.

Alec slowly finds he's becoming a better person around Lefty and Helpy, with Lefty assuring him that everything he did is able to be fixed as long as he wants to fix it (which he does want to). Lefty essentially wants Alec to not loose his hope.

Lefty

He is programmed to embody a caring meteor role for kids, unlike the other animatronics, Lefty can provide insightful advice (with a strange twist sometimes).

Lefty's personality is honest (can be brutal at times), loyal, kind, caring, attentive but he can also get angry if provoked enough.

Lefty believes in second chances for people who deserve it (that's why he wants to help Alec).

Lefty can perform magic, his specialities include “Good Luck” spells, Soul reformation (restoring a soul temporarily to their correct/previous form), feeling the presences of a Soul/Evil entity and generating a shield to protect himself or another person he cares for.

Lefty is the most intelligent out of everyone (he's also slightly more advanced), when he was created, he was created with the intention for him to constantly learn from experience and that ultimately shaped his personality whereas the other robots were already given personalities.

Lefty can pick up on things, examples: he can sense Alec's soul as a human, he can read certain behaviours that are linked to mental illnesses, he can sense if a child is afraid of their parents (which to him, means abuse or neglect is happening, which Lefty doesn’t stand for).

Lefty has a knowledge of fixing robots but doesn’t call on it unless necessary. Yes Lefty can feel a sensation like pain or discomfort when his exoskeleton is effected by something (i.e. broken part, disconnected joint).

Lefty also builds little things that he uses frequently, he built a pocket watch that contains his own version of an illusion disk which can give him a human form if he has it on his person, he also used magic and mechanics to build a pair of visor goggles that block hypnosis (he made a pair for himself, Helpy and Alec).

Lefty is super alert, if he's in a party room and hears a kid screaming from the front of the pizzeria, he will get there quicker than you can say “Fazbear”.

Lefty's go to drink is usually coffee but he has like twenty different teas on a shelf in the communal area (his favourite teas being chamomile, rooibos, lavender, black tea and peppermint, he also doesn’t mind occasionally having a chai latte).

Lefty has a routine of patrolling the back rooms during the day.

His usual schedule is as followed:

—Wake at about 12:00 pm afternoon.

—Ready to start working by 1:00 pm after a coffee.

—First patrol of the day before he starts entertaining.

—Lunchtime before showtime at 3:00 pm.

—Second patrol at about 4:00 pm.

—Third patrol at 7:00 pm.

—Final patrol at 9:30 pm (just before closing time)

—10:00 pm, time to eat something.

—Either going to his room or standing near Prize Corner (He is physically there but he isn’t mentally present, he is deep in thought but can be brought back easily into reality).

—12:00 am (Midnight) usually does a few rehearsals.

—1:30 am Bedtime.

Or if he needs to be awake at opening time:

—9:00 am wake up.

—Ready for opening time at 11:00 am.

—First patrol at 1:30 pm after he has lunch.

—Second patrol at 3:30 pm after showtime.

—Third patrol at 7:00 pm.

—Last patrol at closing time.

—Eat something at 10:00 pm.

—Bedtime at 11:00 pm.

Lefty is both the oldest and biggest robot, he was technically completed last but was started first and they calculate his age based on the mental age he displays, which is 30s to 40s.

Lefty is a skilled fighter, he is programmed to automatically disarm a person if they have a weapon with the intent to hurt, Lefty has done this a total of 10 times over the years.

In regards to the last point, Lefty does cause injures often if he disarms someone, he doesn’t think about it and his programming just automatically says: “DISARM AND ARREST”. He often breaks the person's fingers, wrist or elbow if they don’t surrender easily. Anything to protect the children.

Needless to say: Lefty is protective of children and with Alec, he's extremely protective and doesn’t want to put him in danger, he knows that it's dangerous for him because he's small enough to go missing easily and with his soul in the wrong body, it's more likely some monster will take the chance to kill him and steal his soul. Lefty prefers if Alec is either: in his vision or with Helpy, Freddy, Security, Chica or Foxy because he can confirm they won’t take their eyes away from him for a moment.

Lefty is an empath and mirrors intense emotions as if he is the one experiencing them.

Relating to emotion, if Lefty sees Alec crying, he immediately goes to comfort him, it isn’t a particular response just for Alec as Lefty tries to comfort any crying kid but Lefty has been informed by Alec he really didn’t get a lot of attention (that's what sparks his hatred of Alec's parents), which is why whenever Alec obviously needs somebody to listen, Lefty will drop whatever he is doing and listens because he wants Alec to realise he does matter.

Lefty doesn’t sing a lot but his singing voice is quite soothing.

Lefty usually plays classical and jazz instruments like the piano, trumpet, drums, saxophone, cello, trombone among other random instruments he can play well.

Lefty has a flame thrower and he's not afraid to use it.

Lefty is the one who can see in the dark the best.

Relevant to Lonely Freddy: Lefty was hypnotised by one prior to the events of the story but he managed to snap himself out of it by stabbing himself in the eye, permanently blinding himself in one eye, he also saw one had hypnotised a girl but he interferes in the encounter and saves her from being body swapped, at that point, he is unaware they can body swap and only learns once he meets Alec and connects the dots.

He can talk to Marionette, who has a psychic connection with him.

Lefty is the robot who acts the most like his creator Henry Emily with him tinkering to keep himself from going bored, reading a lot and usually being independent (there are a lot of things Lefty does that directly compare to Henry).

Helpy

Obvious: Helpy's colour palette is loosely based on Funtime Freddy, but he isn’t as boisterous.

Helpy basically has the height of a young child, he is slightly taller than a Lonely Freddy.

Helpy usually likes to look on the bright side of things.

Helpy isn’t out and about in the pizzeria frequently during the day because he was kicked across the dining room by a teenager and he crashed directly into Freddy who was performing on stage, both of them were injured and disoriented, Helpy only vaguely remembers how badly Lefty lost his temper at the teenager (Lefty was threatening and screaming).

Helpy is friendly overall, he's also smarter than he looks.

Helpy aids Mike at night if he requires.

Helpy sometimes keeps the robots on alert by practicing certain situations where a child is in danger (he pretends he's a child) and the animatronics must response correctly (i.e. if a kidnapping is occurring, they must intercept the child and apprehend the suspect, then wait for police).

Revelant for Alec: Alec sees similarities between Helpy and Hazel, Helpy is unaware some of his behaviours remind Alec of his sister.

When Helpy gets scared, his usual reaction is to find Lefty and stay near him.

Helpy loves sweet items but if he consumes too much sugar, he gets extremely moody and tired (imagine Lefty trying to get him to sleep but Helpy is acting really cranky that Lefty is trying to force him to sleep, Lefty either uses magic to make him sleep or just leaves him be).

Helpy can also get angry when he's tired.

Essentially Lefty and Helpy's friendship dynamic balances between “brothers” and a “father/son” relationship, Helpy describes Lefty as his best friend.

Like Alec, Helpy can get into small spaces.

Helpy does a little happy dance when he's really excited, like the one in pizzeria simulator here:

Hazel Roberts

Alec's younger sister, ten years old (Hazel's birthday is in April somewhere whereas Alec's birthday is confirmed as being on August 18th).

She's in two minds about “Alec” (Lonely Freddy-Imposter), while she's glad he gets along with her, the way that it happens... feels extremely unnatural to her, she’s sort of suspicious but not enough to just have an occasional thought of why does he do certain things now, if she had more concrete evidence.... she'd know he is an imposter and the real Alec's been missing for a while.

Over the years, she'd tried to observe Alec's interests and hopes she can use the information to get him to like her (The Yarg Foxy toy is relevant to this).

She has gone into Alec's room while he's not around, but she doesn’t disturb anything, worried her brother would immediately know she's been in there.

Hazel's a gerenous girl, and her wish is to have her brother as a friend and have her parents love him.

Hazel sometimes wears her hair in pigtails.

Hazel has had nightmares that make zero sense to her, but to someone like Lefty and Alec, the nightmares are clear warnings that an imposter has infiltrated her life.

[loving-jack-kelly]

Like Real People Do

The path was hidden. Barely visible. It was rarely used. Almost never, in fact, leaving the path faint.

The entrance was marked by a stone, perfectly round and covered in moss that was just slightly too bright green to be entirely natural.

It was always talked about in hushed whispers. Whispered warnings told to friends who wandered too far off the road.

If you wander, the whispers said, the path will appear. And once you take the path, you can’t step off of it until you’ve given it what it wants.

What it wants, nobody knows. Names, some said. Lives, souls, wishes, hopes, dreams, money, goods, anything you have. It wants.

But some whispers didn’t stop there. Some whispers kept going, some whispers dropped even quieter, hard to hear over crackling fires, hidden in the dancing shadows cast by candles. Some whispers went past the warnings and delivered the promises.

The promise that the path, if sought, not stumbled upon, could give up what you needed in return for what it wanted.

The path was dangerous if you wandered onto it by mistake. Keep your eyes on the road, watch for the round, mossy stone and the faint trail, and avoid them.

Perhaps, the promises said, the path was even more dangerous when sought. Perhaps there’s nothing more dangerous than seeking your wishes and being willing to give yourself up for them. But perhaps, for some things, it would be worth it. Perhaps, for some wishes, having no name would be worth it. Perhaps, for some dreams, fewer years would be worth it. Perhaps, to some, the most dangerous few, perhaps vengeance would be worth never leaving the path at all.

David had heard all of it before. It was cookfire gossip, stories of old relatives told to young children to scare them into staying on the well-traveled road and staying off the hunting paths. That was all. About a half-hour outside their little village there was a decent-sized rock that marked an old deer trail, and that was what kids pointed to to tell the stories. They dared each other to step onto the faintly-there trail, and nobody ever went through with it.

Because maybe they all claimed they didn’t believe the stories, but was it worth it, really? To risk it? To risk everything to test a story?

There was another stone. Further along the road, and smaller. Almost hidden in the undergrowth, but almost perfectly round, and covered in moss so green it almost seemed to glow. And just beyond it was a path so faint it was almost invisible, little more than a simple break in the trees. Too natural to be a hunting path, and almost too narrow to have been made by an animal.

That was the stone and the path David was staring at.

Was it worth it? Was it worth the risk of this being the real path? Was it worth giving up a piece of himself?

Yes.

It wasn’t as hard of a choice as it should have been.

David stepped onto the path.

It didn’t feel any different than the rest of the forest. It felt like what it looked like, a barely used rough path through the trees. He followed it, feeling the underbrush catch at his pants, the dead leaves and dry twigs crunch under his boots.

He was hyperaware of everything around him. He wasn’t even sure what he was expecting, but he kept waiting for the path to shift. To change. To become whatever it was that could grant his wish.

It didn’t.

The path ended against a boulder. It wasn’t a clearing, just a big boulder with the trees and brush growing up right against it.

David sat down with his back against the boulder. The path he’d followed hadn’t disappeared. It was still there, he could follow it back to where he came from.

Maybe this was the wrong path. Maybe there was another somewhere, hidden even better.

Or maybe he’d been stupid to believe the stories, even for a second. Even out of desperation. Maybe he’d just wasted his afternoon following a path to nowhere.

“Been a while since anybody’s been down here.” A voice came from somewhere above and behind him, startling him out of his moping. “You here on purpose?”

David stood up and turned around.

A man who looked like he was several years older than him was sitting on top of the boulder. David didn’t know him, had never seen him before, and hadn’t heard him approach or climb up the boulder. He was just…there.

“Must be, if you sat down. When people end up here on accident, they’re freaking out by now. Cursing the name of someone or other, whoever told ‘em to follow the path.”

He was grinning at David, a bright, disarming smile. Something about him just seemed…strange. Maybe it was his eyes, the same bright, bright green of the moss on the round stone. They didn’t seem to match the rest of him. He had dark hair, dark skin, his clothes were muted natural colors, and his eyes were so bright they seemed to glow.

“Nice to have somebody come visit who isn’t kicking and screaming. Guess that probably means you want something, though, huh? Nobody’s ever here just to visit. I wasn’t, the first time. Just got lost in the woods, picked the wrong place to wander.”

He was sitting cross-legged on top of the boulder, and as he spoke, he rested his elbow on his knee and his face on his hand, still grinning.

“Cat got your tongue? I don’t bite. Unless you try to trick me, then I do. It’s in the contract. Clause eight. If trickery is attempted, bite them. Hard. Draw blood. I’m paraphrasing, of course, no need to look so scared. I just have to trick back. You won’t try to trick me, will you? You gotta say something, here, I won’t be able to help if you don’t tell me what you want.”

“You’re…”

“I’m a wish-granter, a man of the path, a soul stealer. A life taker. I’ve been called many things. I guess you could call me Jack.”

“Jack.”

“That’s what everyone called me, once. A long time ago. Nobody has asked in a long time.”

“This is the wish-path, then.”

“That’s one name it’s been given.”

“What do you call it?”

“Home.” Jack’s smile widened, and David pinpointed another slightly unnerving feature. His teeth were ever so slightly pointed, just a bit sharper than a human’s. “And what do you want with it? Nobody comes here on purpose without a wish in mind.”

There was a glint of something in his eyes, David decided. He was speaking charmingly enough and seemed friendly enough, but he was dangerous. Maybe he’d been kidding less than he’d seemed when he’d said he would bite back.

But he was right. David had come here for a reason, and he did have a wish, and he was going to make it.

“I wish that my father was healed.”

“Oh?”

“He got hurt. Two weeks ago. He can’t work, and without him working our family doesn’t have enough. My little brother and I have to work, instead.”

“And you don’t want to work?”

“I don’t mind, but Les is only ten. He shouldn’t have to be working yet. He should be in school. Playing with his friends.”

“You know, making a wish is a dangerous thing. Answers come with a price.”

“I know.”

Jack’s bright green eyes seemed to look right through David like he could see his every thought and his true intentions and was analyzing them closely to see if he was worthy of the wish.

“And you’re willing to pay the price?”

“If I can.”

“I never charge an impossible fare. That’s also in the contract, clause two.” Jack smiled again. It was unsettling, how close he was to human with just the details slightly off. Human but a bit to the left.

“What would the price be?”

“Your wish is simply to heal your father?”

“Yes.”

“Your name.” Jack’s eyes flashed a deeper green, and David wasn’t sure if it was the light or if they’d actually changed colors.

“My…name?”

“I can heal your father if you give me your name.”

David knew those stories well. It seemed like such a simple request. Give Jack his name, just say the word, and his father would be healed. Only that’s not what Jack was asking, not in the way any normal person asked for David to give his name. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t “what is your name?”

It was a price. If Jack told David to give him his name and David responded, then his name wasn’t his anymore. It was Jack’s.

Was it worth it?

David thought about why he was here. About the expression on Les’s face when he had to go to work instead of to school, about how Les was too tired to play with his friends. Was it worth giving up his name for his little brother?

Yes. It didn’t take long to decide. Of course it was worth it. His family was worth anything.

“Okay.”

“In exchange for healing your father, give me your name.”

“David.”

In a flash of a moment, he could feel the difference. It wasn’t his identity that was gone. He knew who he was, where he came from, who his family was. Why he was here. He could remember that a moment ago, he’d had a name, and that it was David. But he could feel that it wasn’t his name anymore. He didn’t have a name. He was himself, but there was no name to attach to that.

Jack’s eyes glowed. This time he knew it wasn’t a trick of the light, light came from Jack’s eyes.

“That’s a nice name. Strong.” Jack looked down at him from his seat on top of the boulder. “Your father is healed.”

“Thank you.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully and slid down to the ground. Almost floated, really, very gently and gracefully. Jack was shorter than him by a few inches, and once he was close his energy was almost palpable, like the feeling before a lightning strike. Jack paused, looking into his eyes, and too late, he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say thank you. After a long moment, Jack smiled, a much softer smile than the one he’d displayed before.

“You’re honest. You have a good heart. Take a gift from me. I give you a name, not as strong as the one you gave me, but a good one anyway. Davey. And I give you a promise, that nobody will ask to take it away.”

As soon as he said it, the void left by giving up his name was filled, and he knew that he was Davey.

A gift from Jack. Not a filled wish, not a trade, but a gift. Maybe that was even more dangerous, maybe it left a debt unfilled, but that was a powerful gift. A name that nobody would take away.

Jack reached out and touched the tip of his finger to Davey’s nose, and another space was filled, this time one he hadn’t even known existed until it was gone. His name was secure, now, immovable. The second part of Jack’s gift.

“Use it well.” Jack’s eyes flashed again, and when Davey blinked, he was back on the road, staring at the stone that marked the wish-path.

Wish-magic was a dangerous thing. Davey knew that. He’d known that before he sought the wish-path and he’d known that while he was making his wish and he knew that as he made his way home, a new name in his being and a gifted protection burning at the tip of his nose.

He could feel it, where Jack had touched him. The imprint of Jack’s finger, right at the tip of his nose, where the magic flowed around him and protected his name.

Wish-magic was dangerous, and gifts from wish-granters were dangerous, but when Davey got home and the village all knew him as Davey even if there was a little bit of confusion like they knew it had changed, and his father was out of bed, still weak but no longer in pain, it didn’t matter how dangerous the magic was.

He was home. He had a name, and a promise that he would always keep it. His family was safe and cared for. That was what mattered.

In the months and eventually years that followed, Davey was almost able to forget Jack, the man with the bright green eyes who’d granted his wish and given him a gift.

Twice, the tip of his nose burned like it had right after Jack had touched it. Once, when an old woman in the center of the village, passing through selling her wares, asked his name. He gave it, without thinking, and when his nose burned, he noticed her face fall.

And again, walking on the road and passing by a stranger going the opposite way. As soon as Davey looked at him, his nose was burning, and he knew better than to take a second look.

On those occasions, Davey was forced to remember his trip to the wish-path because it was clear the gifted promise was still in effect. When he passed the stone that marked the path, covered in its otherworldly green moss, he remembered. And sometimes, when he wanted something so bad it hurt, he remembered.

But most of the time, he didn’t think about it. The things he wanted were things he could get himself or go without, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d get off so easy on a second venture to the wish-path.

So while he occasionally thought of the wish-path and of Jack the wish granter, he didn’t really seriously consider going back.

Until, that is, he was told that he was to be married.

He knew that his parents wanted what was best for him and what was best for their family, but he also knew that he would never be happy married to the woman they’d chosen. Mostly because, well, she was a woman. And he didn’t want to marry a woman.

He knew they didn’t understand why it upset him so much when they told him, and he didn’t know where he was going when he left, but somehow he wasn’t surprised when he found himself standing in front of the moss-covered stone.

When he started walking down the path, his nose burned. The closer he thought he was to the end, the stronger the feeling got. It wasn’t painful, but it was very present.

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a repeat visitor before.”

Jack’s voice hadn’t changed at all in the three years since Davey’s last visit. When Davey looked up and saw him, again perched on top of the boulder at the end of the path, his face hadn’t changed either. The same bright green eyes framed by dark, dramatic curls. The same muted clothes. He hadn’t changed at all.

By looks, Davey had caught up to his age.

“How are you, Davey?”

That question surprised him. He couldn’t think of any way it could be twisted around. He wasn’t be asked for anything, just a simple question.

“I suppose that’s a silly question, actually. Why would you be here if you were good? Your gift is serving you well, though. I can feel it working now, and I’m not even trying to trick you. I must have made it more powerful than I meant to.”

Jack’s eyes sparkled, and Davey was sure it was with humor.

He had a feeling Jack didn’t do much on accident.

“Do you have another wish?”

“I wish that I didn’t have to marry her.”

Jack tilted his head, and for a second time Davey felt like he was reading every detail of Davey’s mind, thoughts and motivations and desires.

“Strange,” he said after a long moment. “That’s a selfish wish, and yet you still aren’t selfish.”

“What?”

“People have made that wish before. It’s almost out of nothing more than selfishness. Because she’s too ugly, or he isn’t rich enough, not out of consideration for anything. You don’t want to marry her because it will make you unhappy, but also because you know it wouldn’t be fair to her. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy? Is it selfish to want that?”

“It’s selfish to want your own happiness even if it means the unhappiness of others. I don’t think it’s selfish to want something for your own happiness when what you want will also make somebody else happy.”

Jack slid down to the ground, again with the otherworldly grace Davey had seen the last time he was here.

“Selfishness is addressed in the contract. Clause four. If a wish is made for selfish gain, it may only be granted at the highest cost. Even though I don’t think your wish is selfish, it’s a powerful wish. Much more powerful than simple healing. I can grant it, though.”

“What’s the cost?”

“Give me your time.” Jack extended his hand, his eyes glowing like they had when he’d healed Davey’s father.

Davey hesitated, but he took Jack’s hand. It was warm, and Davey could feel energy coursing through the connection, like the burning at the tip of his nose but more comfortable and powerful. After what only felt like a few seconds, Jack let go.

Davey felt dizzy. Something had happened, he could tell, but he wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

“A powerful wish. A powerful price. I hope it was worth it.”

“What did I give you?”

“A year of your time.” Jack tilted his head, studying Davey’s reaction. “She’s married. Happy. There’ll be a kid in a few months.”

“You mean it’s been a year since I came here?”

“I told you. A high price for a powerful wish.”

“What will my family think?”

Jack shrugged.

“They know you’re safe. They probably know you found a path, people are smart about these things. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”

“I…I have to go.”

“Of course.” Jack’s eyes flashed again, and he gave Davey a small smile. “Hey!” He called when Davey started to walk back down the path.

“What?”

“You don’t have to have a wish to visit. Come back any time.”

“You…you want me to just come to visit?”

“Gets pretty lonely here. People don’t come very often. It’d be nice to have a friend.”

Davey’s family was glad to see him. His parents had tears in their eyes when they hugged him, and Sarah and Les did too. The people in their little village looked at him differently. He’d been gone for a year, of course they did.

He didn’t tell his parents, or his siblings, or anyone that his missing year had been a wish. Of course he didn’t, that would require explaining too many things. He told them he’d gotten lost. Took a wrong path while not paying attention, and when he’d found his way back, it had been a year. Just like that. A year passed in the blink of an eye.

And that was what happened. Technically. Just with a little extra intention behind it.

For a while, things were wonderful. Even though it hadn’t felt long for him at all, and he hadn’t aged that year he’d given to Jack, for his family it had been a long time that he’d been away from home. They were happy to have him around, happy that he was safe and home and with them again.

Every once in awhile, Davey found himself wandering down Jack’s path, spending an afternoon just talking to him.

There weren’t many people his age in the village. And he knew, obviously, that Jack wasn’t his age either. Jack was something old and powerful, not even human. But he had a face that seemed to be Davey’s age, and when he wasn’t talking in riddles or saying things just outside of Davey’s realm of understanding, he sounded like he was Davey’s age, too. In fact, he was easy to talk to.

Friendship with somebody like Jack was probably even more dangerous than wish-magic, but he was easy to be friends with. Easy to talk to. Even if the tip of Davey’s nose burned whenever he was there, it was easy to feel comfortable at the end of the path at the moss-covered boulder.

Jack asked questions about life. He’d been human once, Davey learned, a long time ago, before he signed the contract he kept referencing. He wanted to know how much had changed since then. The answer seemed to be not much.

Davey sometimes was brave enough to ask questions back. He learned that Jack was bound to his path, that he could walk from the top of the boulder to the smaller stone that marked the entrance, and no further. He learned that there were limits to Jack’s power, but not many. Jack could raise a person from the dead. He couldn’t force somebody to fall in love. He couldn’t change a person’s nature, make a bad person good or a good person bad.

It took a lot of visits before Davey asked why Jack had signed the contract.

It was clear that he was lonely. He missed being a human, having friends. He wanted to grow up.

“I found this path on accident and made a very, very powerful wish,” Jack said simply. “Signing the contract was the price I paid.”

“What was your wish?” Davey asked.

Jack’s eyes, which changed shades with his mood, darkened to the deepest green Davey had ever seen in them.

“Justice. Something the world rarely offers, which makes it a very costly wish.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Yes.” Jack didn’t hesitate. “Justice served more than me. It was a bigger cause than my life was worth. And one day somebody will come along and sign their name under mine, and I’ll be able to walk away.”

“That’s how it works? A trade?”

“Of sorts.”

For a while, that was wonderful. Davey was happy at home, and happy to continue his friendship with Jack. Happy to continue his relationship with Jack.

If wish-magic was dangerous and being friends with a wish-granter was dangerous, surely falling in love with one was deadly. But could Davey help it? When Jack was interesting and kind and always willing to listen, and always had something to say. Maybe for the same reason he’d been drawn to Jack as a friend, that there weren’t many boys his own age in the village, Davey couldn’t help it.

When his parents began to urge him to find a wife again, that only intensified it, because the way he felt when he was around Jack, leaned back against the boulder in a conversation he was actively enjoying…that kind of feeling never came from anybody else, least of all the girls his parents were pushing him towards.

It was that realization that took him down Jack’s path again, with a wish in his heart.

Whenever Davey came, Jack asked.

“Do you have a wish?”

Normally, Davey told him no.

“I do.”

“Really?”

“I wish that everyone would understand.”

Just like Davey hadn’t had to explain who he hadn’t wanted to marry, he knew he didn’t have to explain what he meant. Jack understood.

“That’s a selfish wish.”

“I know.”

“Clause four. I have to charge a high price.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked into Davey’s eyes, reading him.

“Give me your breath,” he finally said.

His breath.

That was a high price.

Before he could change his mind, he nodded.

Jack’s eyes flashed.

And then he kissed Davey.

It took his breath away.

When Jack pulled back, he was laughing.

“There’s more than one way to steal a person’s breath.”

“That seems like a cheat.”

“Isn’t that my job? To trick? I tricked you. I tricked the contract.”

Davey was also laughing when Jack kissed him again.

The summer sun streamed through the trees, the boulder was solid behind his back, and Jack stole his breath until the light was gold and he had to leave.

And when he got home, everyone understood.

It was a strange thing, long after Davey’s third wish had come true and everyone understood and nobody was trying to push him into a relationship. Long after he’d started to find excuses to spend sun-drunk afternoons with Jack, somehow easily falling into a relationship that should have felt impossible.

A man walked down the road into the village.

He looked familiar, Davey thought. Dark curls framing a dark face, worn in clothes that almost faded into the forest behind him. Eyes so dark brown they were almost black. He was pretty. He walked with a slight limp like there was a stone in his shoe.

Davey didn’t recognize him at first, not until he was much closer.

“Jack?”

“Hello.”

Davey’s nose wasn’t burning the way it always did when he visited Jack’s path. Jack’s eyes weren’t green, they didn’t shift when he smiled. But it was Jack. Unmistakably Jack.

“You left the path?”

“Somebody made a wish,” Jack said, sitting down next to Davey on the step to his house. “A selfish, powerful wish.”

“Oh?”

“There is nothing more selfish or more powerful than wishing to live forever. To leave behind everyone and everything, to cause your loved ones pain, and to disrupt the way of the world.”

“Somebody signed the contract.”

“And now he’ll live forever, and I can live my life.” Jack smiled again, and Davey decided that his brown eyes suited him much better than the green.

“I have one more wish, then.”

“I don’t know if I can grant it.”

“You can.”

“Oh?”

“I wish that you would stay. Here. With me.”

“That might be the most expensive wish from you yet.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Give me your life.” Jack opened his hand, palm up, and extended it to Davey. Resting on his palm was a ring, made out of something as green as Jack’s eyes had been. As green as the moss on the stone that marked the wish-path.

“Okay.” Davey took the ring and slid it on his finger. It fit perfectly. Of course it did, Jack seemed to know everything he wanted to.

Out of all of the prices he’d paid for his wishes, this was perhaps the easiest to pay. Hadn’t he already started to make the decision anyway?

Jack’s smile widened, and he twined their fingers together, staring at the bright green ring against Davey’s skin.

Davey realized that this was the first time he’d seen Jack smile without anything else behind it. Nothing but happiness.

And that meant that Davey’s wish wasn’t selfish. Jack had decided that before, that a wish wasn’t selfish as long as it was to make more than one person happy.

Maybe this was the most worthwhile wish yet, even if magic hadn’t been needed to accomplish it.