#but perhaps they felt a kinship with the bird

[whatfallsforever]

Hey guys isn’t it so cool how our spelunker RedCanary is named that? And how canaries were brought into mines, and their deaths would signal to the miners that they needed to leave before they died? The Canary is the first to die. And maybe RedCanary is dead, and maybe they’re not, but either way, they’re a symbol of the beginning of the horrible things to come

[teecupangel]

Concept: Imagine if Altaïr had a habit of adopting birds of prey and stuff.

Ezio did the same thing except with cats (including a lion cub, if you know the reference to Da Vinci you'll get it)

Connor adopted canines constantly.

Desmond inherits all of these and takes in every single stray animal he finds. It doesn't matter if it's even safe to keep as a pet. He just adopts every single animal in sight.

In other words, through genetic manipulations, the Isus have created the ultimate savior of humanity:

A Disney Princess.

And it all started with Altaïr accidentally turning one of the towers in Masyaf as an aviary that only housed Birds of Prey.

No one knows how he did it.

They were pretty sure he started doing it after his father died and no one had the heart to tell a grieving child to stop adopting birds as a coping mechanism.

By the time Altaïr had been initiated, the aviary and its occupants have become just another staple in Masyaf.

Is it weird that they only listen to Altaïr?

Is it weird to hear Altaïr have a full blown conversation with them?

Very much so.

But it was Altaïr.

He was as weird as he was talented.

So people just left him be.

Time passed and Altaïr became a legend in the Brotherhood.

There were whispers that he could command any kind of birds of prey to do his bidding.

Perhaps he could.

Perhaps he could not.

No one found out the truth.

Ezio, on the other hand, was known as a hoarder of cats.

He gives food to even the dirtiest stray cats that could be found scurrying in the streets.

And they would follow him back to the Brotherhood’s hideout where some poor servant or recruit would have to bathe the cat, suffering the scratches and bites.

Only to be rewarded by the cat purring contently when it is presented to Ezio who holds it in his arms and calls it bella or bello.

And then… Ezio managed to get a hand on an illegally smuggled lion cub who grew up to be quite… large.

A very spoiled large cat who always loved it when Leonardo would come to visit because he would give the lion treats so it would let Leonardo study it.

Now, Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t plan to adopt any animals. It just so happened that he joined a wolf pack in taking down preys once and now he was considered a… ‘kindred spirit’. They would join Ratonhnhaké:ton whenever he was off hunting and wouldn’t take his kills.

When he left the village, he saved a dog being mistreated by Red Coats and the dog just followed him to the homestead.

While he was sleeping the barn, he saw another dog, all skin and bones, rummaging the containers where the old man keeps the horses’ food for any scraps it might eat and he felt sorry for it so he would throw it a bit of the meat he would prepare for him and the first dog that kept following him.

By the time, Achilles finally agreed to train him, the wolf pack that he had hunted with near his village came to the homestead and… just followed him around.

Achilles thinks it’s a gift.

That there have been Assassins that had a close kinship with animals like Altaïr with his birds and Ezio with his cats.

The wolf pack stayed in the homestead when Ratonhnhaké:ton went with Achilles to Boston. The dog that Ratonhnhaké:ton fed also stayed because they learned that he was already quite an old dog.

Achilles didn’t say anything but the grief in his eyes made it clear that the old dog’s owner had been one of the many dead Assassins that Achilles knew.

When Ratonhnhaké:ton returned from Boston…

Not only was he accompanied by the first dog he adopted, he apparently adopted 3 more dogs along the way.

Achilles has himself to blame for that one.

And so, time moves on and Desmond Miles is born.

The window to his nursery was always close because birds and squirrels would come inside an open window and surround his cradle.

His mother had been worried that those squirrels and even some of the birds might carry something that would make a baby sick.

When he grew older, his friends were the animals in the woods surrounding the Farm and the guard dogs that Farm used.

The other children thought he was weird because of his affinity to animals.

Many adults found it to be a bit disturbing but also a sign of the greatness that Desmond would achieve.

Why else would he have the same ‘skill’ as Altaïr and Ezio, after all?

Then Desmond showed… to be lacking in training.

He wasn’t bad.

He was even better than a lot of the other kids.

The problem was…

Everyone expects him to be more than that.

And Desmond couldn’t take it.

So he ran away.

And the animals ran away with him.

And Desmond finds an abandoned farm where he finally carves out a place of happiness for himself and his friends.

… Desmond has no idea where the bear came from but he became docile after Desmond scolded him for destroying the trash bin and eating spoiled food.

[stellanix]

queerness and space

i always felt like this planet's gravity is too much for me

partly in the literal sense - it's not nearly bouncy enough for me - but also in the sense that i feel a vast inescapable pull tethering me to a place where i don't belong

when i was a kid, i looked up at the daytime sky and felt like i was at the bottom of the ocean, crushed by the pressure and wanting so desperately to swim up to somewhere i could breathe

i've also always been interested in space - it wasn't long after i'd begun talking that i could recite the names of the planets in order. but lately i've been realizing that it goes beyond an interest, or even a passion. space is part of my identity, a part that's always been there. when nobody else was there for me, not my family, not friends, not teachers, when i didn't know who i was and felt like an empty shell repeating a daily routine, the stars and planets were there. space was the one thread that's stayed with me all my life and that has never ceased to bring me joy

consider also that space is a place where norms that we take for granted get twisted and turned upside down. there is no up or down in the weightlessness of orbit, the basics of motion need to be re-learned. one world might have no clouds, no sky, while another is all clouds and sky with no ground. planets can be hot enough to melt lead, or just a smidge above absolute zero, or be made of ice, or have lava seas or clouds of glass or lakes of natural gas. suns can be red or blue or angry and active or giant and boiling. there's no sound - unless you count inaudible electric plasma waves. gravity can be hardly anything, or it can crush you into a pancake

and that's just the "normal" stuff! there's also dying suns and neutron stars and black holes and quasars and the big bang and inflation and all these things so far removed from everything we know

space defies labels, or understanding, or any conception of normalcy. the universe is queer. that's perhaps why i've felt more kinship with it than with anything on this planet, where people are so concerned with things being "normal", and changing or destroying whatever they think isn't

that's not to say i don't care about earth. i love lakes and rivers and plants and birds and beaches and, yes, even clouds sometimes! i'm an environmental scientist, and tending to my own little parcels of earth in my work has been really rewarding. and, of course, earth is in space too. but sadly colonial and extractive forces have forced true freedom for beings both human and more than-human to a marginal existence

but none of that exists in space! i can imagine that i'm the small, fluffy, cute, whimsical, bouncy foxgirl i am in my heart, playing on distant moons and basking in the light of other suns. you might say "that's not real, that's impossible," but i am most myself when i yearn for the joys of the wider universe. that yearning helps me get through these days i spend stranded on earth, it brings me life. and i love earth, but space is where i belong, heart and soul

[bloobluebloo]

What are Links thoughts, particularly Twilight Princess Link's thoughts on animals? Does he ever hang out and tend to horses or birds together with Ganon?

As a Professional Link Spokesperson, I can attest to the fact that TP Link is deeply invested in animals. He was raised around animals, eventually becoming a wrangler. Clearly, rearing animals for both livestock and tending to the village, from carrying people and pulling their carts to transporting messages and providing companionship, earned them Link's respect and attention. His transformation into a wolf allows him a deeper insight into what it means to be an animal, allowing him to sense what it is like in their skin, and being able to communicate with them on a soulful level. I would say as far as Links go, TP Link is the one with the most honor and respect for animals, for the aid they provide for him, and for the kinship they provided him, both as a Hylian during his quest and during his transformation where it must have felt odd and terrifying being in such a new and unwieldly body. Now hanging out with Ganon...seems out of the question! That being said, in their final battle where he sees Ganon transform into a boar himself as he transforms into a wolf does build a strange sort of kinship and joy in the fight. Here is another man who understands, at a deep visceral level, what it means to rely on the instincts and connections he has learned to build as a wolf. Ganon even went through the effort of preserving the essence of his steed, one as loyal and sturdy as Epona, demonstrating his deep respect for his steed despite the murk his mind is seeped in. Perhaps in a different world where Ganon does not darkly monologue about light and shadow, and does not bathe the world in twilight, Link and Ganon could find themselves side by side, quietly acknowledging each other's presence while tending to their steeds,, perhaps slowly overtime sharing bits of information on the species of animals they interact with on the daily, and slowly but surely breaking into some strange form of infodump, revealing how in depth their knowledge of animals run. Alas, if only Ganondorf would co-operate 🏳️

[autistic-sidestep]

Soooooo 20, 15, 3, and 34 for Sura? 👀

under a cut again

3 - what is their villain name? why did they choose it? argos panoptes (all-seeing argos), after the Greek mythological figure. sura was taught about classical literature as part of their cuckoo training, including ovid's metamorphoses, and i think that would stick. it's also why sura named their puppet juno! i've co-opted this bit in the lupin route cos it fits so well.

        …You weren't made for the arts, sure, you were taught names and dates, but that was just to fit into the high-class surroundings you sometimes found yourself in. They never intended for you to appreciate it.         And yet, you remember standing in front of a sculpture back in…was it Boston? That feeling in your chest, the tightening, the shortness of breath…was that your first intense emotion? Something they had not programmed, but you felt like you had never felt anything before. Kinship perhaps, to that cold, white, marble face, yet containing more emotion than the people that surrounded you, sculpted skin as plastic as their hearts.         That statue felt more real and genuine than them. And that meant you could be as well. There was more to being human than being born from a womb; there was a direct line of communication between the long-dead sculptor and you. An understanding. A shared experience.

i hc that the statue was depicting juno, which, fun fact, there is a juno statue in brookline irl that's been there from at least the 1800s, the largest classical marble statue in north america.

1) peacocks are associated with juno/hera. looking at the statue was the first time they felt a connection to humanity. if sura has to be a bird, why not a peacock instead of a cuckoo? and the tail of a peacock having eyes to intimidate predators + their association with evil eyes/nazars, like an apotropaion (Something that wards off evil; an amulet or magic charm) - cos it works as a warning sign when it's cracked (and yknow how sidestep is associated with broken mirrors/glass/shards). there's a double edged superstition of whether they're good luck, or a bad omen, which i think is fitting. AND the additional pun cos… -paion is almost like paon, french for peacock. IT'S ABOUT THE EYES. 🤌

2) something about paranoia of being seen/stared at and the epithet Panoptes (all-seeing) inverting that; in the suit, it’s her looking back at the people who hurt them (there's a little bit of a justice motive slant to this that carried over from original/2019!sura), and this persona is meant to be seen.

3) peacocks are sometimes associated w/ phoenixes --> rebirth, etc. there's a good few lines in the fate motivation flavour text that echo this that i think fit well, esp the theatrical motifs that it tends to play into: 

      It's so liberating to realize that you have no choice. You are falling now, and you have no idea when you will hit the bottom. Or what will happen when you do. Will you rise again like a phoenix? Will you lie there, a broken remnant of yourself? You don't know, but you will arm yourself to the best of your capacity.

  Maybe it's wrong, but you have stopped caring about that. All you need right now is for this purgatory to end, and for your real self to finally emerge like a butterfly from its cocoon. No…not a butterfly.     A phoenix.  Your hands will end up bloody, but at this point that will almost feel like a relief.

The more time passes, the more you realize that you never had any choice in the matter. Every action leads to a reaction, and you are only acting out the script you have been handed. How else can you explain how everything falls in place around you? It's like walking in a dream where you know what will happen but are helpless to prevent it. You've opened that door a hundred times, the result is always the same. Death. Rebirth. Revenge. Anger. Love.

4) peacocks are showy! sura wanted to have the spotlight like ortega does, but it was never something he could do as Sidestep. Argos can! this manifests as VERY high infamy and arrogance. i think if sura ever openly realized they were subconsciously emulating/borrowing ortega's charisma it'd be furious with itself lol. the whole point was to prove they're not in ortega's shadow anymore. sura's very good at chameleoning in the sense he steals/picks up traits and cues and how to behave from other people; that's what cuckoos are trained to do anyway.

15 - what is their greatest flaw? cynicism and pushing people away. also being prone to fatalism lol. i think the mob team helps slowly dethaw them tho

20 - how do they feel about death? complicated! they had the suicidal tag from heartbreak (which morphed into outsider - which. if you've already read my writeups abt the outsider scar being Very reminiscent of autistic trauma), so it fluctuates between they should be dead, or actually she might actually be dead and just an echo of whatever sura that wore sidestep suit was.

who am i? am i real? are questions sura asks themselves pretty often. argos is their way of trying to feel real. maybe by destroying enough sidestep used to stand for, he'll finally replace him, and everything will finally feel real again. including itself. or if that doesn't work, at least the self-destruction is by their own hands. sura did choose to destroy the exhibit but the explosions were also aimed for max damage lol (see the 'phoenix' line).

i'm making the blaze window exit and subsequent RK save canon for them, even though that's specific to the prepare_them/anarchist track, cos yeah, even with plans, there's a certain relief to having things out of his hands and just surrendering to fate. at least it means the farm can't get them.

killing other people…. surprisingly hasn't done that (yet?). even during the gala debut where they were being pretty reckless, there weren't any fatalities, but that was probably dumb luck. sura's a bit more careful about civilians now (saving the occasional bystander as long as it isn't too inconveniencing) that consequences are starting to feel more tangible what with reconnecting with the rangers (*cough* chen. i'm also just. too much of a weenie to do an earnest high villainy kill route lol). so far there hasn't been any plans where killing has been advantageous over just landing people in the hospital so. we'll see. if anything, it'll be agentkill only.

34 - are they nostalgic for their sidestep days or eager to move on?

answered here!

[donuts4evry1]

hi so i caved and ended up writing a shitty oneshot with my favourite imagined character dynamic in Hatoful Boyfriend: Kenzaburou Urushihara and Albert Alain Aklan.

im bad at writing, stubbornly against proofreading, and i haven't played hatoful boyfriend in a hot minute. sorry for any mistakes i made.

Word Count: 636 words

The winter season marked a busy time in Torimi Cafe, with birdies flocking the cafe to escape the cold with a piping hot cup of coffee or a freshly baked slice of cake.

Kenzaburou often found himself exhausted these days, barely keeping up with the constant flow of customers. Sure he had hired help, but the store could still be quite overwhelming. His mind wandered back to the summertime, when an energetic human girl worked the temporary position at the cafe. The days were full of calm bliss and, near the end , turbulent romance. Azami and Rabu were still regulars, though he unfortunately couldn't devote enough time to the couple as he would've liked (at least he was able to attend their wedding back in the fall).

It was one particularly late night, near Christmas-time, that one of his odder customers came in- a stiff, quiet crow by the name of Albert Aklan. His hired help had taken the day off to spend time with family, and the cafe was practically empty. Despite the cafe being comfortably heated, a chilly air always seemed to surround Albert, long after the door closed and the winter wind dissipated. Still, Kenzaburou never felt unnerved by the crow. Perhaps it was just a consequence of living as long as he had- nothing could really surprise him anymore. Or, perhaps, he felt a sort of kinship with the bird. Unlike many of his regulars, Albert didn't have a tendency to chat. He simply sat in a lonely corner of the cafe, quietly sipping his coffee and blankly staring to nowhere.

At this point, no words needed to be exchanged between the two birds. Kenzaburou had long memorized his preferred order: one cup of medium roast coffee, black, made hot enough to cause somewhat serious burns if one wasn't careful (this was found out by complete accident, but Kenzaburou had quietly observed Albert subtly enjoy his coffee more when it was extremely hot). The barred parakeet had the drink out within a matter of seconds, though when Albert held out some money to pay, Kenzaburou shook his head.

"It's on the house. Think of it as a thanks for your extended patronage."

Perplexed, Albert took his coffee. "… Thank you." He said simply, storing the money back into his pocket.

After that, the cafe stood in silence for a long while. Albert, predictably, sipped his coffee while staring out into the gently falling snow, while Kenzaburou continued packing up the cafe for closing time. It was messier than he would've liked, but the surprise afternoon rush left him ill-equipped to clean up properly in-between orders.

"You missed a spot, here." Albert had suddenly materialized at the front counter, producing a tissue and cleaning liquid from who knows where. Kenzaburou was much too exhausted to be startled, instead nodding his head slightly at the crow. "I suppose you're right. It's been a rather long day, I'm making mistakes I wouldn't usually make… Odd that you found it all the way from your corner, though."

"It was unseemly to look at." He wiped the stain off of the counter, with an unusual speed and gracefulness that Kenzaburou hadn't quite seen before.

"You know, Albert, if you'd like a job here, I have an opening next spring…" He half-joked, after Albert had put away his cleaning supplies. Where did he get those, anyway…?

"I'm fine. But thank you." The crow declined, respectfully. He placed his cup on the counter, and without saying anything more, left the cafe.

As he finished up cleaning up the cafe for the rest of the night, Kenzaburou couldn't help but wonder what his mysterious crow customer was hiding behind his cool, quiet demeanor. It was unlikely that he would ever know, but perhaps that was a part of Albert's charm.

[bisexualvampires]

Bee Brave, Castiel

For @blue-eyed-cutiepatootie‘s celebration day 5. Prompt “bloom.”

2.5K

Read below or on ao3.

Castiel appeared among the wildflowers without warning.

He sat cross-legged, his tan coat tucked closely to his body lest it disturb the hardworking bees.

“Good morning,” he smiled softly at a bumblebee resting atop a Black-eyed Susan. “How are you doing, little one?” Castiel reached out a finger toward the bee, giving it a chance to study his scent and let their little friends know the angel meant no harm.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your work,” Cas said, retracting his hand and resting it on his lap. “I very much admire what you do. It’s noble work. You should be proud.”

The angel tilted his head to the sky, allowing the morning sunlight to warm his face. It seemed as good an opportunity as any to stretch his wings, so that’s precisely what he did. Vast and ethereal, his wings spread almost twenty feet in either direction, his feathers ruffling in the cool breeze.

Bees, he’d come to learn, were one of the few angel-friendly species on Earth. They had no fear of his true form, and quickly came to trust his vessel. Bees were gentle beings; fond of peace and busyness. And the occasional compliment. Unlike humans, they were rarely critical, and were happy to listen to the woes of a wayward angel.

They made easy company for lonely hearts.

They were also quite adorable.

There was an irony to the righteousness of angels and their heavenly path, who heard the prayers of the scared and needy and ignored them as easily as swatting away a buzzing insect. It was the bees that listened carefully while carrying out their mission, holy in a sense more humble than the divine. The bees shared in their communication; working toward a higher purpose to make the world a better place for all living creations. Castiel envied them.

They followed their queen, a tiny god among their ranks. There was little chaos to their order.

“I’ve come to seek your council,” the angel said sheepishly. Careful to avoid the flowers, he lay on his back, resting his hands above his heart. Like a ghost among the wildflowers, his wings bore no mark upon the ground. Unseen by the eyes of humans, unfelt by the Earth. So long as they didn’t disturb the flowers, the bees would take no spite against their presence.

Castiel sighed. The sky above was a calming blue today, decorated by soft wisps of cloud. High above the meadow, a trail of white followed an airplane. Cas could see the passengers in the rounded windows looking down on the world below. It was a miracle and a curse what these humans managed to do in the last couple of centuries. Though he knew well that the limited sight of humans meant they couldn’t see him in return, Cas felt a kinship with them if only for a moment.

For millennia, it was only the angels and the birds who’d seen the world in such a scale. He wondered what the humans made of the view; if they felt their true significance when faced with the enormity of the world they hailed from.

Humans, Castiel had noticed, were prone to ignorance of their worth. Some bore the sin of pride, believing their purpose lies in power over many. Others wilt in the face of challenge, forgetting their strength; blind to the cosmic importance of each of their existence. Some prayed for guidance or escape, believing themselves lost to the paths they must tread. And others, still, were humbled by the responsibility of the world on their shoulders. Ignorant to the reality that, perhaps, they were the most important players in the grand game of life.

But there was only one human who knew exactly why he was put on Earth. And instead of finding comfort in the knowledge, as billions of people over time believed they would, he rebelled against the grand plan.

That human had once been in Castiel’s charge. God had played them like puppets on a string; overlooking, in his ignorance, that the bond they shared was more profound than any destiny.

Castiel had rebelled as surely as the human in his charge had. He’d fallen further than almost any other angel ever had. Two loyal sons, raised as soldiers by absent fathers.

God had abandoned the angel. And Castiel suspected his father had no idea how frayed the strings of his fate had become.

Turning to the flowers, Castiel spoke again to the bees.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The bees buzzed, carrying out their duty.

Castiel frowned at their answer. “I’m aware you have your queen. You misunderstood.”

The bees moved along from bud to blooming bud, unperturbed by the angel’s opposition.

Castiel smiled at their persistence, their patience. “You love your work. The outcome of your labour. I commend you for it,” he said wistfully. “I suppose there was a time I once thought we were alike, you and I. That I served Heaven, as you do your queen. I thought my path was righteous. That my actions were justified because my intentions were rooted in loyalty,” Castiel turned his head, a frown on his face as he squinted up at the clouds once more. “I was wrong.”

A bumblebee hovered above the angel’s face, coming to rest on the tip of his nose.

The angel smiled; the lines around his eyes and forehead deepening.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Cas said when the bee buzzed happily, flying off to a flower at the angel’s side. “You do love the flowers. They are beautiful, that’s true,” he conceded, reaching out to run his fingers along the petals of a daisy. It reminded him of an old French tradition – a game adolescents would play. For every petal they plucked from a daisy they’d alternate the phrases “he loves me” and “he loves me not”. Whichever phrase remained for the final petal waiting to be plucked was the answer to their question.

Castiel admired them their delusions.

The answer to his problem didn’t lie in the picking of flowers or the language of the bees.

It lay in a question neither he nor the man he’d fallen in love with had ever dared to ask.

Cas pondered how he could translate to his gentle friends. They understood beauty, but Dean was beautiful in a way that flowers and order and honey could never be. Dean was anything but delicate, yet there was a gentleness to him that so few seemed to appreciate. His soul was made up of colours that would put every flower to shame, and yet his hands had committed sins even demons would shy from.

Flowers did not begrudge their purpose or deny their loveliness. They strove for beauty and life.

They were resilient. Though Dean, too, was stronger than he gave himself credit for.

Castiel was silent for some time, listening to the gossip of the bees until he found a solution.

“I think, perhaps, ‘love’ is too small a word for how I feel,” he said, smiling as the bees buzzed their encouragement. “For a long time, I didn’t understand what it was that I felt.”

The angel thought back to the months he’d spent battling through the depths of hell to find that brilliant soul in the dark. He thought of his orders; of the doubt that crept into his wavelength for the first time in his long life. He wondered why this man – this seemingly insignificant human – who loathed himself so completely, cared so deeply for the rest of humanity.

Castiel had believed he deserved the punishments he’d been dealt when he’d admitted to sympathising with Dean Winchester. He'd felt guilt for his doubt in the beginning, and soon he'd felt remorse for the absence of that waning guilt. His doubt turned to anger turned to righteousness, and once again Castiel had found himself at the mercy of his failures. But through it all, the doubt and the fall, something new had bloomed inside the angel.

His kinship with Dean — their shared experience with their broken paths and angry fathers — had shifted over time. It was no longer enough to protect Dean, to set him on the path of righteousness. He cared for Dean, feared for him. And though he’d once believed his revolution of faith from god to mere man was a sign of failure, he’d begun to feel things more keenly, more humanly, than ever before.

He wanted Dean: his curious touch and gentle words. He heard Dean’s prayers, his unconscious longing and desperate restraint. Sometimes it was so loud, it was hard to tell where Dean’s ended and the angel’s began.

Castiel knew that Dean wanted him in the physical sense; that they shared dreams and delusions of the romantic sort for one another. But Dean’s heart was cloaked in shame, and Castiel could only wonder alone if that shame was rooted in self-loathing… or if Cas was the source of the shame.

“I think I know now,” the angel said to the bumblebee. “Loving Dean feels like purpose, and it hurts as badly as failure. Dean is a wonderful and complicated person. But looking at him, seeing what he does for his family, for the world? Falling for him is easy.”

A bee settled on the angel’s outstretched hand, its beady eyes staring at him in solidarity.

“It is painful,” the angel agreed, swallowing down the lump that formed in his throat. “It’s the risks and consequences that are hard, not the love itself. I would rather feel the pain of loving him, than ever lose the freedom I gained in my fall. In a way, our disobedience and rebellion is its own kind of salvation. I think… I know, that I am proud to love him in this way. Even if nothing comes of it,” Castiel smiled sadly. “Even then, I am proud of who I’ve become because we met. He changed me.”

The bee crawled along the angel’s arm, wings fluttering persistently.

“What do I want?” Castiel translated. He’d wondered about the answer to that every day – what his happiness could look like. He’d suspected the answer for quite a while. “I want to make him happy. I want to hold his hand and kiss the scars on his knuckles. When he stares at my lips, with that awful mixture of shame and desire, I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me,” Castiel touched his lips with the tips of his fingers, his eyes growing glassy as he imagined a scenario in which he could feel such a joy.

“Dean… he’s infuriating. He’s stubborn and he’s difficult and sometimes I find myself wanting to punish him in ways that would reward us both. I don’t quite understand it, these instincts. It has nothing to do with absolution. I want so badly to break down this wall between us, to show him he’s not the man he thinks he is. That he’s so much more. That I – that he is loved more dearly than he believes is possible,” Cas sighed, dropping his hand to his chest once more. “I want Dean in every way I can have him. But I won't sacrifice myself to take what little he could give. Does that make sense, my dear friends?"

A swarm of bees landed on the angel’s belly then, startling Cas’ attention from his reverie.

You must listen, they seemed to say. Not to your doubt or his shame. If you know his heart as you know your own, listen to what it wants.

Castiel rolled his eyes, certain they still didn’t understand. He grew quiet then, allowing the day to pass heedless of his dilemma. The world was so much bigger than his sadness, though the pain in his heart would tell him otherwise. He listened to the bees; to their sage advice and their crude gossip. He watched the clouds form shapes in the sky, reminding him of the true forms of his brothers and sisters. He was content here, in the blooming flowers, in the company of small friends and open skies.

But all the while he waited for prayers that never came.

It was nearing the hour of sunset when, one by one, the bees began to leave. Castiel waved them off, awed by their routines and excitement to begin anew each day.

A single bumblebee remained, hovering close by the angel’s ear.

Be brave, it seemed to say. “Have faith in your love. You have purpose, too, Castiel. You will find it sooner than you might think.”

Castiel returned to the bunker that night with a heart not quite so heavy as before. He smiled at the man he loved, who told him he was missed on the hunt that day.

The angel listened to the truth of Dean’s heart; to the unspoken words masked beneath sharp speeches in moments of fear. Through bouts of unbearable longing on long drives on silent nights. He loved Dean through petty fights and lonely miles split between them. And he found his purpose among the humans, saving lives and healing wounds. He discovered love of a brand new kind at the birth of the Nephilim he raised as a son.

When Castiel gave his life to save the man who taught him love, he left this world a father, a friend, and a catalyst for the final battle for free will.

It was many months later, at the dawning of spring, that Castiel returned to the bees among the wildflowers.

“He loves me,” he told them, with a toothy smile upon his face.

He’d been brave.

The angel had found his purpose, as they’d said he would. He was a father now, his wings restored to their former strength and full supply of grace tucked within his vessel.

When Castiel had died protecting Dean, god had wiped the board clean in his anger. There'd been no planes in the sky nor animals in the woods. There'd been no bees to tend to the flowers or hives of honey. But the man Castiel loved, had saved them all because of the sacrifice the angel had made.

It had taken time before Dean and Jack and Sam and Claire and all the people the angel called family had found a way to save him in return. Castiel had been happy, truly happy, to speak his truth to Dean. But there was no joy to parallel the love he felt in return upon his rescue.

Castiel crouched low toward the ground, holding out a glowing hand to the wildflowers recovering from the winter. With his new-found grace he gave them new life, much to the delight of the bees.

“Thank you, my friends,” the angel said, before stretching his wings to return home to the embrace of the man who’d loved him dearly all this time.

Their battle was over, their journey to peace was only just beginning. And what a beginning it was, to hear “I love you” each night as the stars shone in the sky, and every morning with arms wrapped around his waist.

They were soldiers once. Now, the fallen angel and his righteous man would spend the rest of their days enjoying the fruits no longer forbidden, growing freely for all to eat.

Free will was a hell of a win. But they'd fought all of it, every battle, for love.

[sockendrache]

Egg

Inspired by my own dissatisfaction that Kyle didn’t get a Monstie and @magicallynormal ‘s idea of Kyle’s Monstie being a Tobi-Kadachi, I wrote this little ff in like 2 hours because I had nothing better to do

I wanted the Rider to stay gender-neutral but it just sounds like Kyle never bothered to ask them for their name-

___________________

“This is a terrible idea.”

“You should’ve thought about it before we left Kuan, then.”

Without sparing Kyle another glance, the Rider entered the Monster’s nesting-area without any hesitation showing on their face; Ratha close behind them. From within the depths of the cave, the Hunter could hear distant roars and predatory clicks; instinctively, he straightens his back, hand hovering over his bow.

The Rider, kneeling besides the huge nest, doesn’t seem bothered by the sounds at all; way too busy examining the brightly colored eggs.

Off to the sides, Kyle spots various piles of worn-down bones, all sporting teeth-marks and scratches, some entirely broken open. Along with a few stray chunks of flesh, almost blending into the ground of the den. They don’t look very fresh; probably a few days old already. His instincts tell Kyle to quickly gather up a few samples of whatever he can get his hands on, maybe let his scoutflies out to take in the scents; then leave the den as quickly and quietly as possible. Not taking anything valuable with him, not disturbing the Monster’s home in any way.

Though... the weight of the kinship-stone, strapped to his left hand, reminds him of the reason for this “expedition”.

He’s not here to take samples for the ever-curious Research Center, nor to track down a Monster. He’s not here to deliver chunks of flesh or eggs.... however, maybe he should just imagine he’s here for a delivery-quest. Maybe that would help calm his poor nerves, still absolutely shot to hell.

Kyle, who was born and raised a Hunter, who knows nothing else; he’s here to get his first Monstie.

It’s absolutely unheard of. A Hunter, whose sole purpose is to hunt these beasts down –maybe capturing them after tiring them out in battle, if the quest calls for it- is about to form a bond with one of these creatures, who he spent years of his life learning the weaknesses of, training to take down beasts several times his size.

Kyle takes a strained breath, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. Over their shoulder, the Rider shoots him a look; their eyes warm, their glance almost comforting.

“Come closer.”, they calmly say, gesturing with their hand towards the nest.

Feeling drastically out of his element, Kyle follows the command; takes a few brave steps towards the nest and promptly freezes up again.

He knows the process of this; hell, he’s already lost track of how often he stood guard while his new Rider-friend sifted through a Monster’s nest. He knew how to hold Wyvern-eggs, how damn heavy these things were and how stupid you looked while carrying one. He knew how these things were goddamn predator-magnets, and how easily they broke.

That, perhaps, was one of the things that frightened Kyle the most about this whole situation.

How often had he accidentally broken an egg while out on a transporting-quest? How often had he washed the yolk and slimy egg-whites off his armor in a nearby stream, before tracking his way back to the nest to pick up a new egg? And how often had he not wasted a single thought on it...?

It’s just eggs, he used to think. Eggs that he’ll bring to the canteen after returning to the base, eggs that he’ll probably eat sooner or later before leaving the base again, set out on yet another quest.

And yet, here he was. Standing at a Monster’s nest, containing eggs that he, before he met the Riders, used to scoop up without thinking about it twice. His muscles feel stiff beneath his armor, his throat scratchy and dry; what if he broke this egg too?

“Kyle?”, the Rider’s calm voice rips him out of his violently spinning thoughts. “You okay?”

Was he okay? Good question; if only Kyle knew the answer.

“I... I don’t think I can do this.”, he mutters, hating how small his voice is sounding. Cold fingers brush over his kinship-stone; a gift from the Rider. Apparently, it once belonged to them- before this Wyverian girl gave them their grandfather’s kinship-stone.  “I mean- if I should do this. I’m- I’m a Hunter, we don’t just.... ride Monsters.”

They, like so often, only shake their head the slightest bit. And calmly, they reach for Kyle’s hand.

“Then why does Ratha love you so much?”

Almost as if on command, a big, scaly head bumps into his back; Ratha’s idea of a hug. After having spent a little time on Hakolo-island, it was almost frightening to see how.... human Monsters -or Monsties, as Kyle learned they were called- could be. He’s seen Ratha pick up on emotions, display human-like behavior; and not just on him. The Rider loved to point out the Monster’s behaviors whenever they took on a quest together, and as someone who’s spent his whole life learning about Monsters, it felt so entirely.... different, watching their behavior in packs, or see something as innocently as an Azuros teaching its cubs how to fish.  

It felt almost unreal.

As a Hunter, most, if not all of his hunting-quests were targeting Monsters wrecking havoc; and when he’s out collecting ingredients or samples, he rarely ever got the chance of seeing Monsters in their natural habitat. And admittedly... seeing these beasts; even the ones that were known for their hostile behavior, completely unbothered by his presence... it shook something deep inside Kyle’s core.

Gently, cold fingers intertwine with his; pulling him down to kneel next to the Rider. Kyle peers over the edge of the massive nest; its inside carefully laid out with tufts of fur and moss. It’s like a giant bird-nest, the Monster clearly having put a lot of work into the making of it. Upon closer inspection of the fur, Kyle has a vague idea of whose nest he’s sitting at right now; though, following the Rider around, he quickly learned that there’s often a few “imposter”-eggs in a nest, smuggled in by Monsters not bothering to care for their young one hatched.

The silence feels tense; so, Kyle attempts to ease it a little.

“Why didn’t Navirou come along? Wouldn’t he be of help, sniffing out a good egg?”

Quietly, the Rider shook their head, giving Kyle an almost apologetic smile. They weren’t a big fan of words; he quickly caught up on that. However, this look didn’t need any words; after all, Kyle did tag along to a few egg-hunts before, watching from the sidelines as Navirou ushered them out of the den, barely giving the Rider enough time to get a good grip on the newly acquired egg. It’s not like Kyle had anything against the Felyne personally; but he had to admit that he was glad he wouldn’t have to rush through this process, only to prevent Navirou from having a Monster-induced heart-attack.

After all, he had a feeling that time would be an important factor in picking out his first Monstie.

With a huff, the Rider pushes themselves up, gently pulling Kyle with them as they step into the nest. Twigs crunch under his weight as he kneels down, getting onto the same level as the eggs.

The Rider placed their hand on Kyle’s shoulder; he’d lie if he tried to tell anyone that it wasn’t comforting. “Just pick the egg you have a connection to. Good smell or not, doesn’t matter. Don’t tell Navi I said that, though.”

The instructions are clear, yet awfully vague; and Kyle can’t help but note how it’s one of the longest sentences he’s ever heard from them. “Take your time, but.... not too much. Before an angry Mama Monster sees us.”

“....sounds reasonable.”

As he looks over each of the large eggs, most of them brown in color with yellow-ish ovals on the shell, he notices the odd one out. Between the egg of an herbivore, if he recalled correctly, laid a pale blue egg, the shell littered with dark blue, almost black zigzags.

Apparently, his gaze lingered a little too long on the lone Wyern-egg, as evident by the look the Rider gave him.

“That one?”, they asked, gingerly reaching out to guide Kyle’s hand towards the egg. Despite the cold air having slowly numbed his fingers, the egg’s surprisingly smooth texture is one of the first things that he notices. At first glance, it’s just like any other Wyvern-egg he’s transported before; and yet, in the back of Kyle’s mind, there was something.... else to this egg.

As if he could feel the Monster calling out to him from within its protective shell, only waiting for a Rider to bestow it their blessings and allow it to awaken into this world.

“I- ….is this normal?”

His fingers now shivering, he places his entire hand on the egg, frightened yet amazed how small his hand is compared to the massive egg. The Rider gives him a look that Kyle can’t quite place.

“I feel like-... this little guy wants to come out...?”

Before he knows it, Kyle is protectively clutching the egg to his chest; holding onto it just a little tighter than onto the ones during his transport-quests. The Rider and Ratha lead the way out of the Monster’s den, practically shielding him from the hungry eyes of the predators waiting in their path.

On the flight back to Kuan, Kyle could swear that his kinship-stone was pulsating with life.

__________________________________

“....is this really necessary?”

Back in the village, their first stop was the stables. And under the watchful eye of the Felyne running the stables, Rider and Hunter were preparing to hatch the little Monstie.

The egg –a pulsing fanged Wyvern, as Kyle now knew- was placed in a little nest, and Kyle could think it was staring at him from beneath the shell.

The Rider doesn’t bother answering, instead handing him a stick, with which they –to Kyle’s horror- performed something apparently referred to as “Dance of the tribe”, a ritual meant to pray for a healthy Monstie to hatch from an egg. Though, Kyle wasn’t entirely sure if they were just fucking with him, or if it was a legit ritual back on Hakolo-island.

Though, he doubted he’d have time to fly back to Mahana-village and ask the chief for confirmation before his Monstie hatched, and... something told him that he didn’t want to miss this.

And so, with the utmost raise of his eyebrow Kyle could possibly muster, he gingerly reached for the stick.

_________________________________________

By the time he was done, his face bright red and radiating more warmth than the oven inside his house, the egg hadn’t budged. Other than the soft cackle of the fire and Kyle’s tense breathing, the stables were silent, everyone’s eyes fixed on the egg... before suddenly, it shuddered with life.

Kyle, utterly overwhelmed with the situation, could only stare helplessly as the egg started to crack, pieces of the shell starting to fall off and revealing tiny spots of blue fur. Though, the Rider is quick to help; promptly instructing him to hold his kinship-stone towards the egg.

“To help it hatch,” they explained, their eyes practically glazed over with excitement. But hell, in comparison to Kyle, that was nothing. There might have even been tears in his eyes, he didn’t know- not even if they were from excitement or fear.

His kinship-stone starts to glisten in a bright blue light; he’d probably be scared if he hadn’t seen this during his battles with the Rider. The shell continues to crack open, tiny pieces falling off, until the egg shattered with a burst of life, a shrieking roar piercing the tense atmosphere of the stables.

As Kyle is face to face with the little Monstie, his throat starts to tighten.

“A Tobi-Kadachi! What a fine little Meownster,” the Felyne purrs as the Monster looks up at Kyle with –surprisingly- innocent-looking eyes.

Instinctively, something in Kyle wants to reach for his bow- thank the sapphire-star he took it off after entering the village. A tingling heat starts to spread throughout his body; the first hints of adrenaline starting to pump into his blood stream. He’s reminded of the piercing roars of the adults he’s encountered during his hunts, of their bursts of electricity when they glide through the trees and pounce onto their prey.

A bead of sweat collects on his brow; and as always, the Rider seems to notice. Calmly, they appear at his side, taking his clammy hand into theirs and holding it out- that way, Kyle can clearly see how his fingers shake.

The tiny Monster curiously looks at his hand; and just like that, his eyes squeeze shut and Kyle finds himself praying that the little creature is more interested in sniffing him than chewing his fingers off- at least until he feels something soft press up into his palm.

Upon forcing his eyelids open, he sees this newborn Monster rub its unbelievably tiny head against his palm, the smallest chirps coming out of its throat, and the Rider- they carefully let go of his hand, grabbing a hold of the other one and guiding it towards the Monster-…. No, guiding it towards his Monstie and-

The Tobi-Kadachi, this freshly hatched creature; it outright jumps into his arms- a poor attempt at gliding, it seems, and just like that, Kyle’s instinct to reach for his bow is replaced by the instinct to catch the Monster and-

By the gleeful little churr it makes once its settled in Kyle’s arms, he promptly finds himself nuzzling his face into soft fur. Still utterly overwhelmed by the idea of this tiny creature being his Monstie, but as he looks into the Wyvern’s big eyes, so full of innocence and wonder, he suddenly feels very much like he- no, they can do this.

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 48: While the Cats Away

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood/gore, violence, guns/weapons, minor character death, body horror

Summary: Mother Miranda leaves the village, in her absence Heisenberg searches for answers and other dogs come to sniff about.

Feedback appreciated, 18+.

Mother Miranda left the village the next month. With her absence came both a cloud of despair over the village and the first snows of winter. Without their dark protector, the Lycans started to move in closer every night.

What started out as missing livestock slowly became villagers, the howls on the wind as people disappeared.

Miranda had told the Lords to not concern themselves with the villagers, that they had overstayed their usefulness. The thought made the hot iron ball of anger in Heisenberg’s chest burn hotter. No one, no matter their level of devotion, meant anything to the bird bitch. Outside of her dead kid. It was only a matter of time when the Lords met a similar fate.

He didn’t want to share that, and after making sure she was truly gone, he slipped down into the caves beneath the stone church.

He had to know more. Discover the true face of this fabled other child.

He could pass by the infected creatures easily enough, the others feeling some strange sense of kinship from the infection pulsing through their combined veins. The megamycete was the last thing that stood between him and the lab.

It pulsed overhead, an organic glow from within its twisted flesh filled the cavern.

Heisenberg paused, looking up at the fetal mass. It was the heart of all the mold, the origin.

It seemed to lean forward, ever so slightly, to peer down at him. He swallowed heavily, moving quickly past it. He heard the groaning sound of the thick roots shifting as he disappeared up the stone steps.

For all of Miranda’s shortcomings, a virtue of hers was her ability to keep detailed records of everything. The only things he was proud of picking up from his dear mother, was her interest with science and his skill with documentation.

It was easy to find what he was looking for, Miranda hid nothing within the walls of the lab. Her ego not allowing her to worry of treachery, perhaps? He didn’t care.

He found a detailed account from an outbreak of a strain of mold in Louisiana, North America. He took out the photos and accounts of Mother Miranda working with a company to make a bio weapon, the information irrelevant to him.

The part of the file he was truly interested in was the part about a man: Ethan Winters. There were photos, accounts, even details about the man’s wife and child. A child?

Bingo.

Heisenberg’s lips curled as he looked over the picture of the little blonde baby. That’s the one Mother Miranda was after.

He didn’t have time to read it thoroughly here. There was a sound from a back cell, a shifting of something living moving closer to peer through the bars. Not wanting to be caught, Heisenberg scooped up the file and a separate one detailing the lords, including photos of each.

He escaped back into the shadows of the caves.

~

He stashed the files away down in his forge room before finding his way back up to the apartment. Both Kolt and Juniper were asleep, and the air was calm.

He sighed, decompressing for a moment, crossing the room to the bedside.

Heisenberg stripped away most of his layers, then snaked his way under the covers. Juniper felt like a burning furnace to his chilled flesh. He pulled her closer, causing her to wake up with a start.

“You’re freezing!” She exclaimed, a giggle in her voice as she tried to wiggle away.

Heisenberg growled, pulling her against him harder. Their bellies pressed together, the padding of fat on his own cold as ice from the outside. Juniper yelped.

Heisenberg chuckled, “Not so fun being the furnace, hm? Warm me up, love.”

Admitting defeat, Juniper wrapped her arms around him. They snuggled together for a bit, until Heisenberg was much more normal temperature again.

“Where have you been off to?” She asked, brushing hair away from his face.

“Hm.” He grumbled, dozing off.

“You’d never get this cold in the factory, where have you been?” She rubbed the tip of her nose against his own.

Heisenberg sighed, “I went to go find some answers.”

“And did you?”

“Mhm…”

“Who is the other baby?” Juniper’s eyes lite up with interest.

“Kid’s named Rosemary Winters, according to the file she’s just a bit younger then Kolt. Parents were some sorry sods that got caught up in some of Miranda’s schemes over in America.” Heisenberg explained.

“Miranda works all the way in America?” Juniper questioned, astonished.

“Not directly.” Heisenberg shook his head, “I doubt she’s ever set foot over there. She gave a sample of the mold to a company for experimentation…in exchange for them to regrow her dead kid.”

“…oh.” Juniper nodded, but then asked, “So if the baby is so far away now, why is she trying to find the family.”

“That’s the thing…they moved here to Romania.” Heisenberg frowned, “Practically gift wrapped their kid for her.”

Juniper’s eyes flicked downwards, heavy with concern.

“Hey, love.” Heisenberg dipped closer to ghost their lips together, “Talk to me.”

“It’s just…” she swallowed thickly, “I feel so bad for those parents…”

“If we can pull this whole revolution thing off no one will have to be under that bitch’s knife ever again.” His tone was determined, “Not that kid, not Kolt…no one..”

Juniper gave a little nod.

The next few days went on without much complaints. Heisenberg couldn’t bring himself to fully enjoy his mother’s absence with the cloud of worry that hung lowly over the village.

Juniper on the other hand seemed more at ease, even getting Kolt to eat more food. The little one had a new love of mashed squash, greens were still a hassle however.

Heisenberg decided it was safe enough to take the boy out for a bit, to see the snow.

The boy looked like a scruffy little wolf pup in the white snow. He reached down and took a handful of the cold mush, screwing up his face as it nipped his hand. Juniper laughed, throwing a handful at Heisenberg.

They played a bit together, until the young boy shivered and yawned. The Duke offered a warm place for the little one, giving the parents some alone time for a walk.

Heisenberg and Juniper walked through the bare trees, snow crunching underfoot. She followed him for a while, soon not recognizing the area.

He walked to the edge of the forest, farther then he’d ever been. The road stretched ahead, covered by snow but he knew it was there. A hidden pathway leading to freedom.

He looked over it for a long time. The invisible tethers that usually tugged painfully at his cadou were no longer there. Nothing was keeping him in the village at this moment. He breathed out slowly; the temptation to run, to feel his feet hammer against the frozen earth as he went as fast as he could, ate away at his guts.

It would be so easy, no fight, no revolution. He could just slip away. Hell, if Miranda’s little ceremony worked she probably would never care enough to go hunting for him.

The draw was so tantalizing on his tongue, a sweet nectar he craved for decades. He was so overcome with the idea that the biting cold no longer reached his flesh, or the crunch of Juniper’s boots no longer found his ears as she shifted her balance from foot to foot.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, muscles in his calves itching to step forward. Go just a little bit more, test the boundaries again. Just go, just go…just go.

But he couldn’t.

Heisenberg let out a world weary sigh. No matter how deeply every fiber of his being wanted to just run away, he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing Miranda was still alive, that at any moment she would crop up like a sickness in his life once more. Freedom wasn’t worth it if he was constantly looking over his shoulder. No…he had to finish this, or die trying.

He felt a warm hand gently take the sleeve of his coat. He looked down with pale eyes to see Juniper, his love, meeting his gaze. From the heaviness of him she knew what he had been mulling over, and she cuddled into his side.

He pulled her closer, feet frozen in the snow.

“We can’t.” He whispered, voice almost breaking.

She looked up at him, smiling a weak smile with her fangs showing, “I know…”

He nodded, both too deep in this mess to just run away.

~

The sun just started to dip in the sky when they collected their still sleeping bundle.

As they started across the stone bridge, Heisenberg stopped them. Juniper looked up curiosity to see the gates had been forced open while they were away. Heisenberg lifted his hammer, sharp eyes scanning the outside of the factory. He saw the more obvious security devices he’d put around the entrance to be sparking and sputtering where they had recently been decommissioned.

He stiffened, seeing the door to the factory open as well.

“Go back to the Duke.” Heisenberg ordered, not turning.

Juniper clutched Kolt tighter to her chest, not moving for a moment.

“I said go!” He snarled.

She gave a tiny nod, Kolt bubbling up a mewl at his father’s tone. Heisenberg heard her boots against the stone as she ran the opposite way.

Rolling his shoulders he strode forward, ready to find whatever was stupid enough to break into his factory.

Whoever it was, waited for him to leave. As he neared the door he saw many footprints in the snow: boots to be exact, not cheap village shoes.

They were also quick and precise, many of his motion detections shot out around the entrance.

As he carefully pushed the metal door fully open he was greeted with silence. The elevator was no longer in its previous position however.

Not wanting to give away his presence, he used some scrap to glide down into the underbelly. The intruders were six strong, moving along the hallways like a single mass. Heisenberg watched them for a moment from the wall, holding himself near the ceiling with his powers.

They were all dressed the same, with lights on the end of guns. It seemed like they were searching for something…they wouldn’t find it.

Dropping down in the generator room, he powered down the machine. The factory was suddenly sent into darkness.

Heisenberg pressed the big red button mounted near the door, instantly alarms started blaring and the heavy doors were sealed on every level. With his powers he also awakened a mass of Soldats, flicking them to life with the instructions to search and destroy. Within moments of the command he heard gunshots, the hollow sounds thundering off the metal walls.

Heisenberg went back into the twisting maze, to watch the carnage unfold. He could hear the group of men start to run, the head yelling out commands.

One of the group got separated, running down an adjacent hallway. Heisenberg watched from above as the man came face to face with a soldat. The hulking creature bellowed out a metallic cry, surging forward. More shots rang out, followed by the heavy sound of the soldat falling dead. Heisenberg stepped down to the next level, boots thudding heavily on the metal grating.

The other faltered, stepping back as he looked at Heisenberg. He wore a full black uniform, face covered in a mask. The red sparks of the damaged soldat core alighted Heisenberg’s shades as he strode forward.

The other made a sound and in one fluid motion lifted his gun, squeezing the trigger.

The first bullet managed to pierce his chest before he threw up his magnetic shielding. Heisenberg sneered down at the weeping hole, the pain doing little more than pissing him off.

The next few gunshots sounded muffled to his ears, the bullets stopping in their tracks when they got caught up in the field.

The masked man paused almost fearfully, gun barrel falling. It was that moment that Heisenberg lifted a gloved hand, squeezing.

The other stiffened, his bandolier tightening around his chest like a vice. He cried out, clawing at the strap to no avail. There was a sick wet crunching as it tightened further, the man’s rib cage caving in. His cries became a bubbling gurgle before he went limp, only held up by Heisenberg’s powers.

He let him fall to the floor, instead shifting his focus to the ache in his chest. He gritted his teeth as the bullet pulled free of his flesh with a wet ‘pop’. It tinked against the metal floor, overshadowed by gunshots further off in the factory.

Heisenberg stormed towards the sound, all loose metal following him in a twirling mass.

It didn’t take long to find the next one, the group had broken apart. The smell of blood and fear was strong in the air, hanging heavily with the richness of death.

He didn’t give the man any chances, taking him by surprise. They had a bit of a scuffle, Heisenberg bashing the man’s gun into his mask, causing it to slip off. The man was young, with wide-eyed and blood dripping from his broken nose. Not letting go of any of his anger, he surged forward, dangling the other over the edge of the railing.

Heisenberg pulled the man close, baring his teeth, “I got someone extra special for you to meet.”

Seeing the terror flicker across the man’s face made a feral smile spread across Heisenberg’s face. Dangling the man over the edge more, he stomped the metal grating. A thunderous revving rumbled to life below. The man tried to struggle harder in Heisenberg’s grip.

“Wanna get down there that bad?” He sneered, “Well, go ahead.”He let the man drop, falling down to the next level.

The air was knocked from the man’s lungs, he shakily tried to stand, feeling himself over. The revving got louder, coupled with heavy stomping footsteps.

Heisenberg watched from above as the man tried, and failed, to gun down the hulking creature as it barreled down the hallway. The screams got distorted with the wet crunching as Sturm made contact, never stopping.

The Soldats made quick work of the others, trapped in the locked hallways like cornered rats. The sound of the death cries like music to Heisenberg’s ears as he made his way to his surveillance room.

~

All the soldiers were dead, smeared around the metal hallways. Heisenberg collected their intact belongings, looking at the uniform in his hands. His thumb rubbed over the word stitched into the chest:

B.S.A.A.

He chewed the cigar between his teeth, these were organized, all wearing the same clothes and bringing heavier weaponry than Heisenberg was used to. This was bad.

Everything was starting to fall together, all the bullshit that was drawing to a head all these years was finally catching up with Miranda. And here he was, caught up in her fallout. Whatever companies she’d exposed herself too were now sneaking in to sniff around the moment she made herself scarce. The Soldats had taken them by surprise, next time he might not be so lucky.

Heisenberg stormed up to a clear wall, throwing everything off the small desk before it. Huffing out a plume of smoke he started to put up all the information he gathered, all the pictures and connections his mind could formulate.

He took a step back, looking over the wall, it was a spider web of speculation. He opened a marker with a squeak, leaning forward once more to write the words: “BSAA COME!!”

Heisenberg chewed his cheek, he had to tell the others…

~

That is how he found himself standing in castle Dimitrescu gardens, trying desperately to convince his sister what happened was different.

The gardens were covered in snow, the bare branches of ancient rose bushes creaking with every breeze. Heisenberg ground his teeth, looking up at the giant woman before him. She stood proudly, her white dress blending in with the marble stone and snow. She didn’t shiver, the cold not a problem to her for many decades.

“Listen, these weren’t just just some stupid villagers.” Heisenberg pressed, “These were organized: uniforms, and assault rifles!”

Lady Dimitrescu snorted.

“Listen you big Bitch.” Heisenberg bared his teeth, “There’s something coming.”

“Why should I concern myself with your childish fears?”

Heisenberg let a heavy breath through his nose, trying to quell his anger. “Alcina…” he began.

Lady Dimitrescu’s scowl faltered, her yellow eyes searching Heisenberg’s face. How long had it been since she’d heard her real name escape her little brother’s lips? Years? Decades? It shook her core.

“Mother is gone, we can’t contact her, and there’s an organization sneaking around. I just wanted you to know. I wanted…” he looked down at his boots, feeling stupid and small.

“I’ll warn my staff…and my daughters. We’ll keep an eye out.” Alcina nodded, tone unthreatening, “T-thank you.”

Heisenberg gave a tight nod before turning on his heels to leave.

Lady Dimitrescu watched him disappear into the snow, an odd feeling gnawing at her chest.

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part VII

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

The name Triss had given him was a town near Brokilon Forest—perhaps a little too close for comfort, in fact. They arrived early, the sun’s rays just pushing over the rooftops of the sleepy little village. Jaskier was yawning behind him, his steps dragging. His ankle had finally healed up enough that he was able to walk without needing to take breaks on Roach every few hours, and seeing him healthy alleviated a weight that Geralt hadn’t known he’d been carrying.

Once in the village, Geralt headed off immediately to look around for a tailor or dressmaker, letting Jaskier take care of finding them accommodations for later that night and, hopefully, breakfast. It didn’t take long for Geralt to confirm what he’d already expected, looking around the tiny cluster of homes: there was no clothmaker in town. Frustrated, Geralt made his way to the one story inn and tavern that sat at the main crossroad in the center of town. Jaskier was already there, sitting at the bar with several plates of food and conversing with the barkeep. When he stepped into the room Jaskier raised his hand in greeting, as if Geralt wasn’t instantly aware of his presence in any space.

In the time it had taken Geralt to investigate the pitiful number of shops in the village, Jaskier had apparently already made friends with the innkeep, a burly man called Sulej with arms like a blacksmith. “There’s a fellow, elvish, lives out southwest of the village,” he said, leaning heavily on the bar while they ate the food Jaskier had purchased. “Closer to the, ah, forest. He comes around once every few months to trade, and two or three times from summer to winter he passes through on his way to the city to sell his cloth. Beautiful stuff, fine as woven silver. Bought me a piece years ago for a girl I fancied, could only afford a square.”

Geralt hummed to himself. It sounded right; if there was a field of moonflax nearby it was likely guarded well by the free elves left in the area. It would have perhaps been allowed to persist undisturbed so close to the Brokilon. “Anyone from the village ever visit?”

Sulej shook his head. “Not that I know of. We tend to give ‘em a wide berth. Doesn’t talk much when he comes into town, seems a bit of a loner.”

Geralt nodded. “Thanks for the information.”

They left the town with their gear stored in their room at the inn, aside from Geralt’s swords and Jaskier’s lute. The path to the weaver’s hut was well worn, though it grew less so as they walked closer to the forest. Storm clouds were gathering over the horizon to the west, and casting long shadows across the fields as they traveled. It was densely humid, the air heavy with the promise of a spring rain. Jaskier had left his fine doublets behind as he so often did on days like this, and his undershirt was quickly plastered to his back with sweat, exposing the flat planes of his shoulders and back. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned down the center of his chest, Jaskier looked far removed from the whimsical performer or the refined professor. Like this he was exposed, all masks pulled away, just Jaskier wiping sweat from his brow and grinning as he pointed out a feature of the landscape or a butterfly landing on a flower. Only Geralt got to see this.

They made their way southwest, a breeze picking up that smelled like ozone and petrichor. Finally, just as Geralt was beginning to worry there was no way they’d find it before the rain arrived, he spotted it; a little hut, just on the edge of a copse of trees. It was a tiny thing, no more than two rooms at best, with a large fenced in yard with a shed attached. In the yard bundles of what looked like long silver grass—flax, Geralt realized—were spread out, likely to dry in the sun, though there was little enough of that to be found now.

Geralt slowed, but Jaskier seemed to have no hesitation. While Geralt lingered, he jogged up to the small home and knocked loudly on the door, and then stood back with his hands on his hips. Geralt sighed and approached as well. No time to look around for clues to see what kind of person Triss had sent them to then. Jaskier was going to walk them right into a trap someday.

After several moments with no answer, Jaskier knocked again, this time a bit more firmly. Still there was no answer, and he turned a frown towards Geralt. “No one home?”

Geralt paused instead of responding, listening intently. The wind rustled through the trees nearby, birds and creatures rustling in the underbrush. The wind whistled over the roof of the hut, the thatched roof protesting the oncoming storm. Jaskier’s heart beat steadily beside him, slightly elevated from the walk, breath rushing in and out of his lungs. He smelled like salt and grass, and just barely of lavender soap.

Focus.

Beyond the hut and its little yard, someone was humming.

Geralt turned without speaking, moving around the border of the fence and following the faint melody. He could tell when Jaskier heard it by the faint catch in his breath; perhaps he recognized the song. It was sweet, a little sorrowful, and despite the lack of true vocalization the notes rang true.

When they finally came alongside the back of the house, they found the source of the humming to be a man, sitting cross-legged against the wooden boards. At first glance he looked young, but when he looked up to greet them Geralt could see the faint translucency to his skin and the delicate spider web of lines around his eyes. Elves, even with their now diluted blood, aged differently from humans, but they did age. The elf they faced now was very old indeed, if his pale, sightless eyes were anything to go off of. To his side there sat a large wicker basket, filled with what looked like loose clumps of string. In his hands he held another bundle of string, and was threading it swiftly through a wooden brick with nails sticking up from it, leaving tangled clumps behind each time.

The humming faded as they approached, and the motion of the elf’s hands stilled. “I’m not available for trade until midsummer,” he said, and his voice carried none of the cracking that age would have brought to a mortal.

“Hail and well met, my good sir,” Jaskier replied, sweeping into a light bow despite the fact that the elf clearly couldn’t see the motion. “I’m afraid we require your services a bit more immediately, if you are indeed the one we’ve sought.”

A slender brow rose above the unfocused eyes. “What could be so pressing that you would require of a poor old weaver? My services are not unique, young man.”

Jaskier seemed taken aback by the address—after all, the entire reason they were on their quest was because he was indeed well past a young man. Geralt felt a moment of kinship with the elf; mortals sometimes all seemed so young, even when at the height of old age. “I was sent by a sorceress, Triss Merigold. She told me you would be able to help,” he interjected.

The elf paused, an odd, almost wistful look overtaking his face. “Ah. Merigold. And what did she tell you I would be able to help you with?”

Geralt hesitated. This elf, whoever he was, might know the nature of the ritual he was trying to perform. What if he said something? What if he assumed he and Jaskier were… together, and wanted to be married so that Jaskier could remain by Geralt’s side? His chest ached with desire, even as his stomach churned with nerves. If Jaskier knew what the ritual was for, he would never allow it, not after Geralt had spent all this time lying about it. He would be furious, and Geralt might lose him now even before death took him more permanently.

Gods, this was a stupid fucking idea.

Finally he took a deep breath and said, “We are seeking moonflax. Ribbons of it. Triss said that you could make such things.”

At this the old elf smiled, and the lines around his eyes deepened enough to make him truly look his age. “Ah. I am indeed the last of the moonspinners, at least that I am aware of. I can provide you with what you seek, in exchange for something in return.”

Geralt steeled himself, but Jaskier spoke first. “What would you have of us?” he asked, tone wary. Geralt felt a surge of pride; there was a time when Jaskier might have spoken before his better mind caught up with him, and more than once his quick tongue had landed himself and Geralt in trouble. He spoke now with the skill of a negotiator and a scholar, slow to trust an under negotiated deal.

The old elf tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully. “Help me with my work for the day. I am old, and the motions tire me. Do this, and you will have your payment.”

Geralt blinked. “That’s it?”

The elf smiled again, his sightless eyes finding Geralt’s face with unsettling accuracy. “It is not of our people to deny a worthy cause. Many have forgotten, but I have not.”

Jaskier made a questioning noise beside him, but Geralt spoke over him. “Thank you,” he said quickly. “What can we call you?”

“I am Silvandrel. Once I would have been called a guardian, but I’m afraid both I and my charge are too old for all that now. Follow me; I will show you how it’s done.”

Setting aside the flax and comb, Silvandrel stood, picking up a long staff that had been resting against the side of the house. Geralt and Jaskier set their own tools of the trade down alongside the elf’s, Jaskier’s lute case resting beside Geralt’s sheathed swords. Once relieved of their belongings, Silvandrel waved for them to follow after him, and they started off away from the house. Behind the hut, a grassy hill swooped down to meet the small group of trees beyond, an offshoot of the Brokilion that lacked its foreboding energy. Silvandrel walked with confidence despite his blindness, the staff in his hand picking out the way in front of him with the ease of long, long practice. Quickly they were led into the shade of the trees, along a well worn path marked by moss covered stones. After a few feet the trees thinned back and they emerged on the other side of the small wood, stepping into a sea of silver.

Jaskier let out a small gasp of wonder at his side, and Geralt couldn’t help but silently agree with the sentiment. A small field spread out before them, the gentle breeze from the oncoming storm sending ripples along the tops of the stalks. The flax that Geralt had seen in the past had been gold, like the color of ripe wheat, with delicate blue flowers in the early spring. These instead were a pale grey-white all the way down to the roots, and the seed pods at the top were almost blue, a dark, rich silver color. In the dull afternoon, the field seemed to shine almost with its own light.

Silvandrel made an amused sound as he halted beside them. “Best get to work. Pulling the harvest is no easy work, and we’ve much to do before the rain comes.”

He quickly walked them through the process of harvesting the plants, and set them to their task. The elf hadn’t lied; it was difficult work, though Geralt suspected much more so to Jaskier than himself. The plants had to be torn up from the root, to gather as much usable material as possible, but without tearing into the stalks. Silvandrel was not lax in his own work, and wrapped the bushels that the two men brought over in thick twine to hold them together for drying.

Geralt would have expected Jaskier to complain about the physical labor, but instead the bard was quiet, focused intently on the plot before him. Gardening had never been a favored pastime of his, Geralt knew, though he was competent enough with herbs to help collect those that Geralt needed for his potions. Still, over the next few hours Jaskier seemed to throw himself into the work, carefully pulling stalk after stalk of the flax from the ground and passing it into Silvandrel’s waiting arms. If they’d been sweating before on the walk over, now they were both of them soaked, and first Geralt and then Jaskier quickly abandoned their shirts in favor of letting the breeze touch their skin. It was nothing either of them hadn’t seen before, but there was something mesmerizing about watching the slow flush of exertion work its way down Jaskier’s chest, watching the strength of his back and shoulders as he worked the roots free of a particularly stubborn plant. Geralt found himself moving slower than he might, distracted by the flash of golden skin amongst the pale leaves. At one point, Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye, and he could have sworn he watched the bard’s gaze drift down over his own bare chest before falling back to his work.

Probably just his imagination.

The field was still relatively small, and it took them only a few hours to clear out the patch that Silvandrel pointed them towards. The rest of the group he judged to be not yet ready for harvest, and he had only so much room for drying. They followed him back to the hut, wiping their faces with their shirts and loading up with the bundles of freshly pulled stalks. Silvandrel ordered them to place the bundles against the back of the house, and then they spent the next half an hour bringing that which had been laid out in the yard inside the little shed, where it would be safe from the rain.

They were standing in the yard when the storm finally broke. Geralt heard Jaskier release a little gasp at the first drops hit, and then the skies opened and the rain was falling in sheets around them. Geralt was standing by the little shed, partially shielded from the rain, and he turned to say something—to suggest that they make their way inside, maybe, but the words were lost when his eyes fell on Jaskier, standing in the middle of the little yard.

His face was turned up towards the sky, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. Heavy drops of water followed the long line of his neck, tiny rivers forming in the hills and valleys of his body. But it was his face that Geralt found himself entranced by, facing the heavens without a care, eyes closed in bliss. His mouth was spread in a smile, and after a moment his eyes opened and he turned to look at Geralt, and if anything his grin widened. Geralt felt his breath catch in his throat as their eyes met, suddenly overwhelmed by the look of joy and affection being directed his way. He found himself smiling back, and without thinking he took a step forward, instantly feeling the rain drenching his hair.

He couldn’t have said exactly what he was planning to do next, but he was stupidly grateful when Silvandrel’s voice called out across the yard from the little house. He and Jaskier turned towards where he was leaning out from the open back door. “Well, you may as well come inside,” the elf said, gesturing for them to come in. “We won’t be getting any more done out here today.”

Thankful for the cool rain against his overheated skin, Geralt followed Jaskier back towards the little cottage. They pulled their shirts, which they had left under the cover of the hut’s thatched roof, back over their damp skin, and Geralt felt a pang of loss as Jaskier tucked his back into his pants. Once dressed again, they stepped inside the warm interior of Silvandrel’s hut.

It was a cozy little place. The back room that they entered from the yard was something of a cross between a kitchen and a workshop, it seemed. A small floor loom was set up against one wall, the table beside it ladened with hanks of woven yarn and a simple inkle loom. A small round hearth sat in the center of the room, a simple hook hanging from the ceiling above it. The interior was already hazy with smoke from the little fire, banked though it was, and Jaskier’s hair was already curling as it dried. Through the open doorway on the far side of the room, Geralt could just make out a tiny bedchamber.

Silvandrel brushed his hands against his tunic, nodding to himself. “You may stay here for the evening and share a meal with me, and bed down here for the night if you so choose. The walk back to the village is long, and unpleasant in such conditions. I’m afraid I do not have much to offer you by way of comfort, but it is at least dry.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Jaskier said warmly. “And we would gladly share your fire.”

Geralt felt a slight nudge to his ribs as Jaskier elbowed him, and turned to meet his imploring look with a glare. Jaskier only raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed. A drop of water fell from a lock of his dark hair to land on his cheek, and Geralt was too distracted overcoming the urge to wipe it away to come up with a good response. Instead he turned back to Silvandrel and grunted, “Much appreciated.”

Jaskier sighed lightly beside him, but Silvandrel only looked mildly amused. “If you plan to stay, you can help me prepare our supper. Let’s see if you can put your skills with a blade to use against these onions.”

Jaskier laughed merrily at that, and Geralt was effectively bullied into chopping onions and cabbage for the next half an hour. Jaskier was set to making trenchers, and Geralt found himself distracted once again by the smooth movements of his hands and shoulders as he worked on the dough. Get a grip, he thought to himself sternly, focusing back on the knife in his hand as he carefully peeled turnips.

Between the three of them they quickly had a hearty stew boiling away, and the smell of baking bread filled the little cottage. The food, when it was finished, was filling and savory, flavored with herbs from the elf’s little garden. Once they had finished eating, Jaskier pulled his lute from its case and began tuning it. He’d brought it in to protect it from the weather when they’d returned to the hut a few hours earlier, but the humidity often wreaked havoc on the instrument in the spring. Though Geralt had long suspected that the elven craftsmanship made it more resistant to damage than most of its kind, it still required careful maintenance. Where once Geralt had found the noise grating, it now lulled him into a sense of quiet calm.

Silvandrel sat himself on one of the stools that surrounded the worktable and nodded to the hanks of yarn. “You have been patient, and most helpful in fulfilling your side of our bargain. Once we eat, I will fulfill my debt. I will need two hanks of yarn, one selected by each, and a strand of hair from both parties to be bound.”

“I’m sorry, did you say our hair?” Jaskier asked, a sour note ringing out in his distraction.

The edge of Silvandrel’s mouth quirked up slightly at the sound, his pale eyes turning vaguely in Jaskier’s direction. “The moonflax is merely the agent of the joining. You must be present in the weave for the magic to take hold.”

Jaskier looked over at Geralt with a questioning expression. He shrugged.

With a shake of his head, Jaskier set his lute aside and stood up to select a hank of yarn from the table. Geralt leaned over on his own stool and grabbed one as well. They were soft, softer than typical linen, and a brilliant silvery white. They placed the yarn in Silvandrel’s waiting palms, and he set them aside, carefully keeping them in the same relative positions. His hands returned to their waiting position, and Geralt and Jaskier both sheepishly pulled out a hair to offer him, Geralt smirking at Jaskier’s wince of discomfort. One long silver strand fell into the wrinkled hand of the elf, a dark one falling into the other. With a nod, he placed them each on top of their respective yarn.

“It will be finished by nightfall,” he said, and turned to begin setting up the small loom that sat on the table, moved aside earlier to make space for the cooking. Jaskier gave Geralt another look, eyebrows raised, to which he could only shake his head. With one last glance at their host, Jaskier turned back to his lute.

And so the evening hours passed, the elven master working his craft while Jaskier’s soft music filled the hut, the drone of the rain serving as a backdrop. Geralt alternated between watching Silvandrel’s deft fingers moving over the loom, sure even without the use of his sight, and watching Jaskier, as always. His brown hair was gold in the light of the fire, atypically ruffled after their stint in the rain. The hut was warm and comfortable, and Jaskier’s gentle strumming was so familiar and safe that Geralt found himself almost drifting off, slipping easily into meditation. He startled when a hand came to nudge his arm some indeterminable time later, lifting his head to find Jaskier inches away, looking at him fondly.

“He’s done,” Jaskier said by way of explanation, almost a whisper. Geralt blinked and looked over, and was startled to see that while he’d been in meditation, the skeins of yarn had been transformed. Silvandrel stood, three long ribbons draped over his hands.

“You dyed them?” Geralt found himself asking, confused. The yarn that he’d seen the elf bind to the loom had been pale white, but only one of the ribbons remained so. The others were swatches of bright color, one a bright sky blue and the other a rich gold.

Silvandrel shook his head, wrapping the ribbons into a tight roll. “You did, in fact. The colored bands are those touched by your essence. I cannot see them myself, of course, but I could sense the magic take hold. They will serve you well.” He held them out in one hand, gold and white and blue creating a spiralled circle in his palm.

Jaskier reached out and picked them up, something like awe on his face. His other hand came up to gently trace the curl of the ribbons in the roll, following the line of the colors. “What is the white one for?” he asked, not looking up, “if it’s neither of us?”

“To bind you,” Silvandrel replied, “in strands of moonlight, so the stars may hear your oath.”

Jaskier’s head jerked up, his mouth falling open slightly as his brow furrowed. He said nothing, but Geralt could tell that something about what Silvandrel had said had confused him. Maybe it sounded too romantic, Geralt thought with a shock of panic, harsh after the softness of the last few hours. Being bound before the stars wasn’t exactly a platonic sentiment. He rushed to speak before the bard could ask further questions.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to take the ribbons from Jaskier in his moment of distraction. He shoved them in his pocket without a second glance. “I appreciate your help in this, though you had no obligation. We won’t ask any more of you.”

Silvandrel only nodded, a slight tilt of the head. “As I said, it is our way. You may feel free to rest here tonight, though I have nothing better to offer you than the floor near my fire. The storm should be cleared by the morning. I will bid you goodnight; the weaving leaves me fatigued, these days.” Within moments he was gone, passing through the doorway into the bedroom beyond, swallowed by the darkness. The fire was the only source of light within the hut, but a lack of light would hardly be a bother to the old man, Geralt thought.

Jaskier set his lute aside and flopped from his stool to the ground by the fire, stretching out nearly at Geralt’s feet. “Well, we’ve slept in worse places, hmm? Though I have to say, I hope this ritual of yours helps with how sore my back gets whenever we sleep on the ground like this.” There was something off about his tone, just this side of over cheerful, and he wasn’t looking at Geralt as he spoke. Anxiety bloomed in Geralt’s stomach like blood spilling on cloth.

“We can stay at the inn tomorrow,” was all he said, standing to make his way to the other side of the fire. There wasn’t enough room for them to sleep beside each other without being in danger of rolling into the hearth. He laid himself down on the cool dirt of the hut’s floor, watching the dim light of the fire play across the thatched roof.

“You are being nicer,” Jaskier said, but he didn’t sound teasing, or suspicious. Geralt didn’t know what that tone meant at all.

“Shut up,” he grunted, turning on his side to face away from the fire and the bard on the other side of it. “Go to sleep; we leave as soon as the rain lets up.”

Jaskier was quiet for long enough that Geralt thought he might have fallen asleep, and then he said, “Goodnight, Geralt.” It was so soft that even with his enhanced hearing, he wasn’t entirely sure Jaskier had said anything at all.

~

@whereismymonsterlover asked to be tagged in future updates! hope you all enjoyed <3

[sp00kymulderr]

Nexus

Fandom:  Prospect

Characters: Cee, Ezra

Words: 1184

Warnings: Angst, some hints of dealing with trauma

A/N: Ok this is something very different for me! I’ve never written Cee before because I’m not sure how to write younger characters but I’ve been thinking a lot about how things might’ve been directly after the events of Prospect, so here’s my little take on that. Please let me know what you think!

Cee doesn’t expect Ezra to stay.

She has been let down by adults her whole life; the mother she couldn’t even mourn having never known her. Teachers who ignored her interests and barely seemed to care. And a father who even if on some level he did love her at some point, she believes would’ve traded her with the Sater for aurelac if he had been there instead.

So, despite what they have been through she can’t let herself expect too much of the man. 

To begin with things are the same, they are comfortable, and while he recovers in bed Cee begins to read to him her writing as she had promised she would. Yet after their short time in the sick bay he seems quickly to withdraw from the growing friendship and unsurprised she prepares to be alone – truly alone this time. Alone with her fear and her guilt, remembering the moments of terror on the Green and wondering why she barely misses her father.

After they are as healed as they will likely ever be, Cee and Ezra sit side by side in a canteen on the Pug and there is silence. She wants to talk to him. To ask for his help because despite, or perhaps because of it all she trusts him. Trusts he could understand her and help make sense of it. But he is not the same spirited man who helped her get off that toxic moon, whose curious thoughts never ceased to flow. Now the man is pallid and tired, stretched thin and perhaps selfishly she thinks it is time for him to let her down too.

The same evening, then, she begins to pack the few possessions that remain while Ezra takes a walk to look out at the stars as he does sometimes. It’s easier this way, Cee thinks. Easier to leave him to it with his half of the credits so they can wallow in their shared but so distinctly separate traumas in different parts of the universe. She isn’t scared of surviving on her own, it felt for quite some time that she was doing just that even before. Without shared affinity the familial relationship between her and her father felt barely there. Not like Ezra, because when she had finally let him in and given her trust she felt kinship. But not understanding fully, Cee thinks that was left on the Green.

When he returns they say their goodnights and she nudges the pack under her cot, settling in to be bombarded with those same guilty, confused thoughts as most nights. For a while it’s quiet as they both fight to succumb to their tiredness but eventually she hears Ezra snore and even if their time is over she is glad that he manages these few hours of sleep, he needs it more than anything. She huffs a low laugh at the gentle purr-like snore of the man she had at first thought menacing, before pulling out her book and flicking on the dim reading light to continue the ideas she had been jotting down daily, continuing the story of The Streamer Girl so she does not have to think of her own.

It’s still early when she decides it’s time. Quickly tying back her hair and shouldering the pack. Purposefully burdening herself with the prospect of nothing but her own company for the next while because, as she reminds herself, it’s easier. Easier than weighing down someone else who would rather she not be there. Cee can’t see past that because she feels like it’s all she has known for these last several years. Looking to his dark corner of the room she smiles gentle and silently wishes the best to the strange man she had grown so fond of before she leaves to scan the boards for a departure to her destination of choice. 

The girl is sitting on a bench waiting for the transport and reluctantly chewing down a bits bar - she’d had enough of them in her life already – when the familiar gait and distinct blonde patch catch her eye as Ezra approaches her. He looks better rested but still drawn and some emotion catches in her throat at the sight. She realises she’s even more attached to him than she first thought. He sits besides her and says nothing for a moment and even though the station is buzzing it feels too quiet.

“Getting ready to take flight, little bird?” Ezra asks eventually, if anything sounding amused at the situation.

Cee nods, mousy unwashed strand of hair shaking loose and falling against her face. She brushes it back behind her ear and turns to look at him finally.

“I’m sorry, Ezra,” she admits to him “I didn’t know how to tell you, I didn’t want to make you feel guilty too”

“What do you mean?”

She hesitates when he asks for explanation. Surely he knows.

“I appreciate you looking out for me and everything you’ve done but… it- it feels like you need space and I don’t want to burden you when you’re…” She trails off and motions to his missing right arm, and to the unseen wounds within, “healing”

“Oh birdie,” he sighs in response, kindly smiling down at the young girl “Cee. There’s no burden in having your friendship, and I’m grateful for your company even when it doesn’t seem that way. If anything, I should offer my apologies for my doleful demeanour lately. But without your kind company and conversation I wouldn’t have survived it, and for that and...everything else you’ve helped me with I feel a bond between us that I’d rather not break”

It’s here that Ezra offers Cee, for the first time ever, a hug. Arm slowly coming to rest on her shoulder, barely touching in case she wants to shake him off but instead she feels herself become overwhelmed by it, sobs barely audibly and lets him pull her in to such a warm, and caring embrace that tells her she is not alone.

Finally she realises, there is someone who cares for her.

“It seems we both still have healing to do” he mutters, squeezing her shoulder lightly, “I hope you know you can always talk with me. If you remember, I’m fairly fond of it”

“Thank you” she whispers, wiping the stray tear from her cheek before moving to sit back. Ezra watches as she looks to the gate where the transport will be, seemingly trying to decide something.

“Where is it you’re planning to go?” the man queries curiously

“Camria” is all she says but it’s wistful and full of thought

“Camria” he repeats, before setting down the pack at his feet that she hadn’t noticed before, “And would you like some company, little bird?”

“Ok” Cee nods, needing barely a moment to contemplate the offer, grin forming at the gesture. 

He didn’t even know where she would go, could’ve been back to the moon for all he knows, but he was willing to follow rather than lose her.

For the first time in a long time, Cee’s expectations are exceeded.

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@pedropascallion​ @justanotherblonde23​

[stcrmborne-a]

The tabaxi loved the opportunities, the atmosphere, and the looks of the women in bustling cities, but being raised in the jungle meant that he couldn't ever shake the charm the woods had for him.

But he liked being in nature for much different reasons. He hardly opened up to anyone in the city, but out in the wild, any animal who seemed friendly enough would see the tabaxi at his most outgoing. The feline wore a basic leather short-sleeved tunic and shorts, black boots, and black hood, armed with a shortbow and quiver on his back and one dagger on each hip. Throughout the city, he always possessed a scowl that warded off any opposition, or worse, people asking him any stupid questions.

Out in the forest, however, one could see his expression become more tranquil the longer he stayed inside. When a squirrel got somewhat close to him, he crouched down and tried speaking to it in Tabaxi like he used to growing up. His tribe always said that the native Tabaxi tongue had a special link to the natural world. He wasn't sure if he believed his old tribe at this point, but it couldn't have hurt to try.

     For many people, the word ‘druid’ often conjured up an association with forests, animals, plant life, and being one with nature. While Rhaya’s druidic aspects intersected with some of those on occasion, her brand of affinity lay mostly in kinship with the elements. More specifically, the weather, the wind, and the ocean.      Even so, on occasion she still felt the primal compulsion to set out into the forest where her attunement with her surroundings wasn’t being clogged by the cold uniformity of buildings, streets, and civilization.      There was never any solid purpose to her ventures into the woods other than to walk and perhaps meditate. This time was no different, though today she had chosen not to wear her cloak. No one ever wandered out this far and besides, the snagging underbrush and the general warm itchiness of the fabric added additional complications she wasn’t willing to deal with this time around.      The aasimar woman had been perched on the gnarled remnants of a stump when she heard it: A voice. Scrambling to her feet, she made to take a cautious step towards the noise when she paused and glanced down. While the canopy of trees overhead provided adequate cover from the heat, it wasn’t quite enough to keep the celestial script that trailed from her left arm down her body from shining in the dappled rays of sunlight that filtered through.      It was safe to say she panicked. With a quick incantation her entire form shifted and shrank, the clothing on her person instead melding to her as a thick layer of feathers sprouted in their place. The transition was almost graceful, and a moment later a bird the size of a large macaw soared forth on blue and gold wings towards the noise. It didn’t take long to navigate towards what she recognized as a cat-like individual, the wildshaped druid choosing with a loud whoosh of feathers to land on a branch high above him.

[con-fection]

ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | 6/13

word count: 3.4k 

It's strangely easy to get used to James Moriarty. Adapting to his needs is a necessity, and yet, you find that you barely have to change at all.

You slip into his routine fairly quickly. Despite your initial panic, and the feeling that the whole place was a prison, you're able to push that behind you. It's easy to become the person he demands of you, solely because that person is yourself.

There's no way for you to discern what this whole plan is leading up to, but for now, you've managed to gather a few pieces of the puzzle. They don't quite form a whole, unbroken image yet, but you can understand what they're going to comprise.

There is something that Moriarty has that he's very, very proud of. He's going to unveil it to the world, and you've been assured that every single major criminal is going to scramble to get their hands on it. This thing, whatever it may be, has a great deal of power, apparently.

Initially, you'd been inclined to believe that it was some sort of weapon of mass destruction. Moriarty had told you that it had the potential to be one, and you believed him. He was a great many things, and not many of them good, but you didn't think he was a liar. Not to you, anyway.

However, the more he talked about it, the more you began to suspect that this prized weapon over the masses was actually a farce. It was absolutely the kind of thing he would delight in, tricking everybody into competing for his attention. He never explicitly said it, but you did have an inkling that his 'weapon' was more of a party trick that would lead to destruction but not actually cause any on its own.

The second aspect that you were sure of was that something was going to happen to some kids. The thought of it alone churned your stomach, and his words about innocence remained emblazoned on the back of your eyelids, haunting you whenever you close your eyes. Thankfully, you had persuaded Moriarty not to kill them, but rather just to hurt them. Which would probably be very traumatising, and it did make you wince just thinking about it, but at least the kids would be sent to therapy rather than the morgue.

And somehow, despite all of this - the kidnapping, the being forced into his plans - there was a part of you that remained thankful to him.

Moriarty was a monster, there was no denying that. He liked to hurt others for his entertainment, and he ran a criminal enterprise, consulting with the worst offenders on the planet.

But, he had saved you. By now, Sherlock Holmes would have found you in your hotel room and you would be awaiting trial.

This wasn't freedom, but it was more than you'd ever had.

"Cinderella," You hear Moriarty's lilting irish voice call out, down the hallway from your bedroom. It's still early, you think, and unless you'd overslept, then he was coming to fetch you rather early.

You'd already been awake, though you were lounging around rather than actually doing anything, already dressed in some of the fine clothes from the wardrobe, just waiting for breakfast or a summons from the consulting criminal, which were usually delivered by one of his henchmen.

The door swings open - it doesn't even make a click, and you're left to speculate whether it had even been locked at all.

Moriarty saunters in, grinning. It's a habit of his, to dress impeccably - for today, he's donned a navy blue suit, probably Westwood, which you've discovered he's rather fond of. "Today, we're having an exercise in trust."

You look at him confusedly, not quite understanding. "Like... team bonding?"

"Oh, precisely. Since we're a team, and all."

"We're only a team because -"

Moriarty cuts you off jovially. "Because I kidnapped you and you joined me against your will. Yada yada yada. Yes, let's move passed that. 'S hardly relevant. C'mon, Cinderella. We have places to be."

"We're leaving the house?" You immediately perk up, jumping up and stalking towards him, simultaneously excited and predatory. You're willing to pounce on and devour any opportunity for freedom.

"Yes, yes we are. To get to know each other better."

---

Standing before your house, reduced to rubble, was not your idea of 'team bonding'. Even then, calling yourselves a team was probably an exaggeration. He had all of the power, and you just had to tag along for the ride.

You hadn't really ever anticipated seeing it again in person.

The entire place was blackened and crumbling. It's an overly nice day, the kind where the sky is blue and it's warm, but there's a gentle cool breeze that keeps you grounded. The entire street looks lovely, thriving in the warm weather, but this house, your home, was now a blight on the street, a dark contrast to how happy the rest of the world seemed. Verona's car had been removed, probably even destroyed by now, and there had been some minor clean up done in the garden, with lots of the loose, fallen tiles from the roof having been gathered up.

There's obnoxiously yellow crime scene tape everywhere, cordoning off the house and some of the surrounding areas.

It was just the shell of what it had once been.

It was different, seeing it in person. On the TV, it hadn't even seemed real - it was just another thing for you to celebrate. The last time you were here, it was burning. This ashen, blackened, warped skeleton of your childhood home is a potent reminder of how far you've come, of what you've sacrificed for a freedom you're struggling to obtain.

Moriarty nudges you. There's some of his men on the street, standing tall and stoic - ever silent and ever watching, their presence is likely to prevent you from attempting an escape. He's since put on some sunglasses and keeps pivoting his head slightly to look between you and the charred remains of your childhood home.

"Well...?" He asks, questioningly.

"I really, really don't see how this is meant to build trust." You say, rather numbly. It had felt a lot better when the place was still ablaze. Now that the Archer family were dead and their presence removed from the house, it almost feels like a shame that it had to burn at all.

Almost. But not quite.

It's still a monument to your power, to your ability to maim and destroy. You don't feel half as distant when you remember their suffering, the way that the girls had bled out like pigs when you slit their throats and nearly hacked their heads off.

"Mmh, maybe not yet. I just wanted to see what you had done." Moriarty admits with a shrug. "Look at all you've accomplished, and think how much we could do together."

"I don't want to burn the whole world." You tell him, for the first time looking away from the ashes of the house and up at him. "I want to rule it."

Moriarty grins wildly. "That's the spirit, Cinderella. I can give you the world, you know. All the freedom you want. You just have to stand at my side."

"Isn't that what I'm doing right now?"

"Well yes, it is."

The birds are still singing, chirping happily to one another and diving in the air, flapping their wings. It's rather comforting to know that it hasn't changed - that the parts you like have remained intact, even as you'd rained hellfire down upon this place. There wasn't such birdsong in London, and you had missed it.

"Why me?" You have to ask - you've asked so many times and you can never be satisfied with the answer.

"Sherlock was interested in you. At first, you were in my way. And now?" He raises an eyebrow at you. "Now you're the way forward, Cinderella."

It feels like you've come to some sort of pivotal moment. Here, under the sun and staring at the house you had burnt down, Moriarty doesn't feel so much like a captor. Rather, you're beginning to feel that comradery, that stirring of companionship. The two of you weren't exactly alike, no. But you didn't have to be.

"I'm not sorry I did it." You say, staring at the rubble that you had reduced your childhood home to.

"No, I know." He shrugs. "It'd be awfully boring if you were. Remorse is a bit ordinary, don't you think?"

You don't bother answering his questions. Rather, you close your eyes, and let yourself listen to the soft chirps, hoots and calls from the songbirds darting through the trees. When you're not looking at how damaged the house is, it's easy for you to imagine the hazy days of your youth - watching the birds with your mother, running around the garden whilst your father chased you.

"I'd missed the music, though." You admit. "London doesn't have such pretty songbirds. I always enjoyed waking up to them."

Silently, Jim absorbs the information. He's content to look between you, basking gloriously in the sun, bathed in light, and the destruction you had inflicted on those who sought to subdue you. Both were beautiful sights.

You didn't want to be a mirror image of James Moriarty, and you never would. That wasn't what he wanted, either.

Despite the armed guards behind you, you do, for the first time, feel free.

This isn't a scrap of impure, tainted freedom like back at the hotel. This is the real thing - this is feeling weightless, untethered.

There had been a great many variations of Cinderella written. You had admired them all. Perhaps in this version, Cinderella wasn't the only twisted one. Maybe she burns the house down, but she finds kinship in the prince anyway. Perhaps Prince Charming throws his ball to find victims, rather than wives.

That would be a happily ever after that you could enjoy. There could be no need for lies when you were capable of understanding each other completely. Depravity was a universal craving, and one you knew well, whether it was driven by desperation or not.

---

Today is a very important day, or so you have been told.

This is the day when these fragments of plots come to fruition. Moriarty's men mill about the mansion faster than usual, talking to each other in hushed, rapid voices when they would normally be silent. It very much sets you on edge.

When you enter Moriarty's study that morning, he's sat at his desk and he's not dressed the way he normally is. There's no striking blue Westwood suit or something similar. He's dressed casually - he's even wearing a hat.

You can't quite mask your confusion.

"Launch day, Cinderella." He clicks his tongue at you chidingly, like he's disappointed, or as if you even had the opportunity to forget.

"Yeah, I know." You bite out, annoyed that he would presume it could slip your mind. "Just... what are you wearing?"

You much prefer his pretentious luxury suits to this - a boring, beige blazer and a black cap. It just doesn't look like him. It doesn't look like Moriarty. It looks like a random civilian man that would probably ask you for directions around London. It peturbs you that he doesn't look quite like himself.

Then, you're subsequently even more distressed by your own distress.

You've rather established that you've come to view Moriarty as more of a partner or mentor figure than as a captor. Here is the most free you've ever felt, and you owe your freedom to him. Naively, you hadn't planned post-murder, and by now, you would have been caught.

Moriarty has become almost familiar, and you don't like seeing that familiarity vanish.

"I'm a tourist!" He proclaims, gesturing to his outfit. "Aw, don't you like it?"

"Well, no." You say, rather flatly. "It doesn't look like you."

Moriarty creeps up from behind his desk, stalking over to tower over you and look down at you, his dark eyes staring at you intensely. "It's not forever, Cinderella. Just for one night."

"And you're presenting the thing to the world like this?" You ask dubiously, once more running your eyes over him and trying not to wince. It just doesn't sit right seeing him dressed as something he's not - seeing him downplay himself and disguise as a regular person.

"I'll be wearing a crown when they catch me, don't you worry."

Involuntarily, your eyes widen and you're suddenly grasping at his shirt and looking up into his eyes beseechingly, desperate for answers. "You're going to get caught?" You sound aghast, disbelieving and you feel like you've been wronged - like this is a betrayal.

Moriarty scoffs, but he doesn't pry you from his body. Rather, he simply lets you cling to him. "Not for long. Today, I'm going to get caught stealing the crown jewels."

Your jaw drops open and you fist your hands into his shirt even tighter, pulling so hard you're practically chest-to-chest with each other - with Moriarty staring down at you and you gazing up at him. "The crown jewels."

"Then Pentonville Prison, and the Bank of England, too." He says, grinning.

Really, Moriarty's power and influence shouldn't shock you. He's got loads of people here on strings, following his orders and doing his bidding. They scurry about the mansion in a frenzy, completely obedient to him.

"And you're... going to get caught?"

Moriarty brings one of his hands up to stroke just the top of your head, playing with your hair comfortingly. "Not for long. I'll be out of there before you know it. In the meantime, you'll have jobs to do. Is that okay, Cinderella? You'll play along, won't you?" He croons softly.

"I will." You don't feel half as reluctant as you should.

"Good." Moriarty says, proudly. "That's what matters. You're more than welcome to visit me in jail, though I doubt I'll be there for very long."

There's a knock at the door, and that's when you realise just how close you and he are. Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, he's stroking your hair - and he's so devastatingly close, and there's a pang in your stomach but it's not pain, it's pure feeling.

The loud knocking persists, and reluctantly, you step away, dropping your hands from his body and missing the feel of his hand tangled in your hair.

"Come in, then." Moriarty calls out, looking darkly at the nameless employee of his that enters the study.

"Sir, it's time to go."

Moriarty casts you one last look, his dark eyes roaming over your body, seemingly trying to memorise you - like this moment is something he doesn't want to forget.

You've slotted into his life so well - you're a somewhat unwilling and ungrateful accomplice, but he still very much appreciates you despite that. He finds that, knowing he will be absent for potentially days at a time, he wants to emblazon the very image of you onto the back of his eyelids, so that you're always waiting for him in the darkness.

"Well, Cinderella. Until we meet again." He says, softly.

In the next instant, he's walking out, swiftly followed by his men, and you're left alone in his study, with more questions than answers.

---

There were a great, great many rooms in this mansion. Your time was often divided between your bedroom and Moriarty's study. But today, you were lounging around on some expensive white couch, watching TV intently.

You would constantly be changing news channels, waiting for the story to break. You had seen bits and pieces of dreary, repetitive soap operas, listened to fragments of sports shows, and even made your way through half a nature documentary before anything happened.

You would bite at your lip nervously, fiddle with your hands and pull on your hair. You were nervous, frighteningly so. Naturally, there were a few expected concerns flitting around your mind, like what happens to you if Moriarty actually does go to prison, or what would happen if something goes wrong, or what if he turns you in.

But, there are a few that you hadn't anticipated. There's a twisting, nauseating feeling in your stomach. It's like there's some terrible beast writhing around in your gut, eviscerating any organs it comes into contact with and leaving you a whimpering, anxious mess.

You are worried for him.  

And you're not just worried about what may happen to you - you're actually concerned for him. As much as Moriarty may be a murderer and a criminal, you're those things too, and he's the only person that you have to depend on.

There is nobody else in your life. Nobody but him.

Your parents are long since dead and buried, and the three members of your step-family slain by your own hands. You had come to London alone, friendless and without a plan. He had been the one to secure your freedom, to give you this.

And then, the news channels all practically explode.

" - there has been a break in at the Bank of England. Reportedly, the vault has opened, though how much, or if anything has been stolen remains unknown to us at this time."  

Hastily, you turn the channel over, constantly darting between news sources, hoping for any new information. All of their voices are blaring, and blurring together, but they're not saying what you want them to.

"We can officially report that prisoners at the Pentonville Prison have been - "

And most importantly,

"Following a series of break-ins that include places such as the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison, it has been reported that the Tower of London has been breached, and the Crown Jewels were removed. A suspect has been taken into custody."

"...all broken into by the same man! James Moriarty."

There it is. The news lady finishes her spiel, and the screen flashes up a video. You can't tell whether it's live or not, but it's Moriarty, and he's being arrested, thrown into the back of a police vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Oh my god," You breathe, and you have to remind yourself that this is all part of the plan. Moriarty always intended for this to happen.

It does, however, feel awfully perturbing to see him like that. It's like he's tumbled from his pedestal, and been stripped of everything that made him unique. It's pitiful, seeing him cuffed and arrested like he's some common criminal. There is absolutely nothing common about Moriarty, and you doubt there ever has been.

So, this was his weapon. The ability to enter the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, the Tower of London and who knows where else. If these places were vulnerable to his influence, then surely anywhere was. And that was probably the point. He was showing off - it didn't matter to him whether he was arrested or not.

There was probably a contingency plan for that, too.

This was all meant to happen - this was all part of his design, and you just had to trust in it.

Trust. Wasn't that a funny thing. You frown as you mull it over - trusting in him was probably a dangerous move, but he was the only person you have to trust in, and he had saved you from a fate much worse than this. You would have to believe in him - that everything would work out just fine.

Never in recent years had you been in a position where you had to depend on another person. You had always been the one flitting about, clearing up the mess, taking the abuse and festering in your own anger.

You should be the one in handcuffs - you would have been by now. But you're not, you're here, and Moriarty is the one imprisoned. Perhaps it is time to fight tooth and nail for the freedom of somebody other than yourself.

He would get out. One way or another, Jim Moriarty would make sure that he got free. After all, the game hadn't ended yet, and there were still plans to be fulfilled.

His absence was tangible in the house. There wasn't really anybody else around for you to interact with - his men certainly didn't care to, and you were rather awkward when it came to the realm of social interaction.

All that was left to do was wait, and trust.

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Omegaverse}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

The crisp, spring breeze wafted over the heavenly fragrance of an Omega. Hawks' nose twitched as it invaded, seeming to ghost through every crevice, every material part, until it permeated his very soul. The scent of lavender and pine was overwhelming, weakening his cognitive functions. Some deeply-buried, primal urge commanded him to go forth, to find the source of such a delicious aroma. He couldn't listen to the whispered voice chastising him, nor the pained twitch of his heart when he imagined taking this Omega by force. Their smell alone was a temptation too sweet to resist; he needed to mark them, to mate them. He didn't stop to consider their appearance - if this was truly his Omega, as the scent appeared to claim, then perfection would breathe into them at every given moment. They couldn't be any less than ethereal.

He abdicated a half-baked conversation with a member of the Paranormal Liberation Front, and took to the skies, searching...hunting. The Alpha inside him begged to hold this Omega, to cradle them, to perform...unspeakable acts on them. He couldn't fight it. His head pounded, following the rhythm of his heart, but he continued to scour the city. The scent should have led him straight to the awaiting Omega, but it was muddling his senses far too much. Soon, he wasn't even sure he would be able to fly, without falling.

Why had this tantalising smell enraptured him so, if it wasn't even within arm's reach?

It was powerful, inviting...but not the type produced by a heat. This Omega wasn't desperate, they weren't in need of sexual satisfaction...then, why did they smell so incredible?

Are they my fated mate? They have to be! I'll find them...I'll make them mine.

That same thought played in his mind a million times over. He couldn't control his instincts. He wanted this Omega - his Alpha craved them. The introduction would have to be short, choppy, or better yet...bypass the entire thing, and dive straight into baby-making. He was still attempting to maintain a semblance of rational thought, but he knew that wouldn't last. Once he found his little lost lamb, the hawk would pounce. There wouldn't be any sugar-coating, for time would cease to exist; he and his cute Omega would lose themselves in ecstasy...they would breed. He wanted three, maybe four chicks. His Omega would be unable to refuse. Of course they would. The whole courting thing was doomed to fly out of the window. Who needed such trivial, tedious romancing, when he could just as easily breed and marry? They would bond, whether this Omega cared to or not. After all, in the current society, Alphas ruled. Hawks didn't anywise liked this mantra, but now more than ever, it was bleeding into his reality.

He couldn't stop it.

Not that he actually would. This was intoxicating, sovereign over all other scents...it was an Omega - his Omega, and he would be damned if he didn't claim them. Right now.

The smoke-like trail, visible only by the carnal desire glossing over his eyes, seemed to be growing stronger, more intense. The aroma struck his heart now, with a new ferocity. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip - he was closing in on his Omega. Maybe he would snatch them up off the ground and fly over some houses, while fucking them into oblivion? After all, the Red-Tailed Hawk (with whom he felt the most kinship) mates airborne. It didn't cross his mind that they might be embarrassed by such a public display. They weren't even in heat...he had established this, but still, he was desperate to breed. He neglected to consider you - the Omega he truly wanted, the one he yearned for, every waking moment.

...You!

Glancing down with passion swimming in his eyes, he saw you. How had he failed to recognise you, a flirty and vivacious resident of Deika City, solely by scent? He knew it anywhere! Was this his mind's way of teasing him? You weren't the typical, meek Omega, by any stretch of the imagination. If honesty spread its wings around him, then he would reluctantly admit that he was drowning in love for you. He worshipped the very ground beneath your feet, he would probably grovel and beg if only you implored him. It was spellbinding, how he was wrapped around your finger. Though, perhaps the most bizarre part was your complete ignorance. It would take an actual conversation to realise the extent of his affections.

No, he hadn't spoken to you once. He simply...observed. It was, quite obviously, to ensure your safety, especially with the League now occupying the city. You couldn't be stolen from him. He wouldn't allow it. He was your destined partner - you would be foolish not to reach that conclusion alone.

You couldn't be so blind to fate.

Despite his lust haze, he remained at a distance. This was his big opportunity...but anxiety was alighting in his system. He needed a minute to cool down. This was you, for gods' sake, not just some random, ambrosial Omega. If he introduced himself now, so aroused and craving the soft flesh of your neck, you'd probably slap him. You were feisty, and he loved it. His feet touched the ground, but something inside him bade him to hide. The gentle smile gracing your features as a child approached you, tugged on his heartstrings. It was a sight to behold, and he felt blessed. So, incredibly blessed. The child, such a timid, little thing, held two withering flowers in his palm - a daisy and a crocus. He spoke, but Hawks wasn't listening. He was watching. You placed warm hands atop the flowers, instructing the boy to close his eyes and count.

The colours, the life...they returned to the flowers.

You earned a hug, and Hawks almost lost himself entirely. You were masterful with children. When you conceived for him, you would be the most devoted mother. The way you cherished such fragile creatures as if they were your own...he wanted to breed you immediately. You weren't doing anything to deflate his libido. If he attacked you now, the fault would lie with you. He would make you understand this. You wouldn't ever tempt him, seduce him, so naughtily again.

The child dashed off, leaving you on your lonesome.

Perfect.

A sudden gust of wind lifted your hair, and you giggled. This strange Alpha wasn't aware that his pheromones were being carried on the air, was he? You remembered him fondly - his out-of-control urges never managed to conquer him. You respected that. It was refreshing. It was...funny, having the Number Two Hero chasing after you. In your peripheral, you watched him stalk closer. He smelled wildly needy, like he was holding in his arousal to the breaking point. That...wasn't healthy. It was adorable, yes, since most Alphas would pounce on sight. The scent crept into your heart. This abstinence...it was really hurting him, huh?

At least you weren't alone. Your Omega, your entire being...it ached for him. Your pace slowed as he called out, trying to veil his whiny voice with that almost-permanent, playful façade. It didn't appeal to you quite as much as his raw emotions would, but it was still him, and it was sexy.

"Hey, what's such a pretty bird doing out here, all alone? An Omega, at that? It could be dangerous, y'know?" His concern was genuine, but that tone...

Batting your eyelashes at him, you replied, "But I'm not alone? I have a big, strong Alpha with me."

He nearly choked; it took all his willpower not to fuck you right then and there. "Oh yeah? Anyone I should be worried about?"

"Hmm...nope!" You giggled, absentmindedly walking backwards.

She's up against a wall...with no way out. Is she inviting me? Can I really take her? Right here?

He shuffled ever-closer, determination rising within - soon, not even the air would present an obstacle. He would close the gap, even if it was his dying act. This setting was so intimate. Maybe...just maybe...Lady Luck would side with him today. His hand slapped the wall beside your head.

As he leaned into your body, you stroked his hair, whispering, "Don't you know it's rude to wear headphones when talking to someone?"

His hungry eyes darted to your lips. "I don't, so why don't you teach me?"

"Make me."

Oh, he most certainly planned to.

[Word Count: 1407]

[admirableringmaker]

@childrenofthegoldenlights Haldalotie watched the small egg her father had given her very carefully, never letting it out of her sight. She had made a nest for it in her room, with several soft blankets, dangerously close to the fire, though that was what the books she had read on the subject said was best for it. And when she was out and about she would carry it in thick blankets, using her body heat to keep it warm. She knew it may take a while to hatch, so she remained patient, though occasionally she would go to the hatchery to just be certain she was doing things right. In doing so, it usually led her past a certain maia's territory, and though she was not most keen to see him, she didn't object to conversing when they ran into one another.

@childrenofthegoldenlights

When he had a moment of time to spare, which was less and less often, he frequently went to monitor the beasts of Angband. There were his wolves, of course, who he trained and raised to adulthood with utmost care. He had birds, too, clever sharp beaked ravens and crows. But he was also quite fond of the dragons, for their sheer maginfence, and perhaps he felt a touch of kinship with fellow creatures of fire.

He had not been expecting to find his master's daughter heading for the hatchery, a bundle of blankets in her arms. He smiled when he saw her.

"Lady Haldalotie," he began, with a sweeping bow that was only half mockery. "What brings you all the way out here?"

[eagle-feather-2014]

BakuDeku SFW: “Turned to Stone”

The garden was always quiet. Too quiet really. It used to be loud and full of such life. The garden is as green as ever, make no mistake of that, but the birds and deer that used to visit have forgotten their way, and the butterflies and bees that brought fresh pollen to keep blooms bright have forgotten the pots and ponds, and the fireflies and crickets have forgotten to keep nights magical. Quite frankly, it seemed that everyone and everything had simply forgotten the garden. Forgotten him.

His feet pad softly across the grass, the lush blades caressing his soft skin, thanking him for remembering them. The morning air was crisp and cool, the ocean kissing the mainland and sending it a front of salty breezes. How he missed the sand between his feet when he would take him there. The playful licking of the gentle waves across his ankles. The endless expanse of ocean stretching to the horizon to flirt with the sky. It felt like a lifetime ago. Perhaps it was…

He wanders aimlessly through the garden, following the weaving paths of cracked and crumbling cement. The shin high walls that lined the paths were being encroached upon by the soft, dewy moss that crept higher and higher on their sheer faces, relentless in their attempt to overtake the man-made material with their natural façade. Little warrior plants, they were. Like the Spartans, abandoning creativity and intellect for mindless conquest. The fools. It was no wonder they fell. He smiles at the thought. Humans and their propensity for war… it was tragic, but it was so familiar to him. The rough, bellowing voice that yelled obscenities and declared himself the victor remained so clear in his ears, even after years of their absence. He brushed scarred fingers across the rim of fire blown clay pots, designs carved crudely into their faces with the tips of arrows. Illustrations depicted battles and wars, beasts and battles so grad he could only imagine their reality.

The wind blows by, making the reeds creak and clatter together in a ballad to break the silence he had become so accustomed to. He was very lonely, if he were honest with himself. No one dared enter the Gorgon's garden… Not since the loss of the village hero. A fiery young man with no fear… He charged into the garden, shield and sword in hand, no armor to speak of, confidently asserting that he, this boy, was the land's greatest hero, and that he would put a stop to the monster's reign of the garden that once fed their village. A silly child. He was wholly unprepared to charge up to a mere child like himself. The men were afraid of a young boy with a messy green mop of hair that snakes protruded from, idly busying themselves with their interactions with the boy they called their host. He was so small and frail, draped in plain white garments that fit far too loosely. A gorgon youth, lost and on his own. His wide emerald eyes were kind and frightened. Statues of the men who tended to the garden were strewn across the property.

The child cried out for a mother that he had strayed from, and the warrior stared. The child shrieked at him to avert his gaze and leave him be. A monster so young… They did exist. Like a snake without fangs, he was so pitiful as the boy approached. The shield was raised between them as the brat thrust a hand out at the fallen crybaby. "Get up! Why are you here?"

Gentle fingers took the outstretched hand, mumbling a teary-eyed gratitude. "I got lost… I didn't mean to hurt them… I was hungry…" Sniffled broke up his thoughts as he voiced them.

"Well you can't stay here!"

"Why not?" Why not indeed. What was the harm? Gorgons were great with nature, and the child was lost and owed them a debt for taking their farmers. Perhaps he ought to replace their labor with his own.

"Because you're a monster!"

"A monster?"

"Yeah!"

"What's a monster?"

Oh gods… How silly the whole thing had been. A child warrior marching out after a monster alone, only to meet a lost child who knew no better and meant no harm. How the pair became friends, neither were sure of themselves, but a kinship blossomed, and the gorgon child was tasked with the care of the garden, providing the village with the food he grew. He stayed in the garden, and he only had one visitor, the boy with messy golden hair like the lions of the colosseum and eyes red as the blood that he spilled in battle as he grew older, tougher. He would be at home in Sparta, but he was here, the hero of the little rundown village with a "gorgon problem." The boy was brave, and he only got bolder as years passed. The child had a friend, and the warrior had someone he could pick on without the adults scolding him.

So he came, a cloth tied tight around his head, covering his eyes, learning the lay of the garden like the back of his hand with the child's help. As he got more familiar with the paths and lay, he no longer needed those small, work worn hands to hold his as they walked, but he never spoke up about that fact. In fact, as they grew older, their touches increased in frequency and intimacy. This boy could kill him with a look, but the danger didn't deter him in the slightest. He laughed like honey and his fingertips brushed so gently across his skin that it awakened fire within the warrior.

Now, the garden was empty, and no visitors came, not even the wildlife. He passes the statues of the gardeners every day and his heart bleeds for the families he hurt. Children never saw their fathers again because of him, but he could not bring himself to dwell on it for too long. He had been a child, startled and unfamiliar with the power he possessed. They meant no real emotion in his heart.

Warriors lined the courtyard, stone bodies poised to fight, forever unable to. It had been such a terrible day, and he knew that their statues meant more families without fathers. Again, he could not dwell nor did their stir emotion in his chest.

No, the only statue in this garden that stirred despair and heartbreak sat on the wall overlooking the fields, feet dangling over the ledge several feet above the fields below. A surprised look adorned his perfect face, one that the child had never seen in flesh until the moment it no longer was. The yelling of warriors approaching had made him lift the blindfold… and their gazes met incidentally… Now the only friend the Gorgon had known was just another statue, cracked and beginning to strain to remain whole after years of weather. Tears welled and fell freely when the boy visited the warrior child that he had loved so dearly. He would hug the stone and wish it would warm into flesh… He would patch and fill cracks in the stone to try and keep him whole a while longer… He couldn't bear it if he ended up truly alone again.

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