#hardly anyone on here is old enough to get this reference lol

[fearsomeandwretchedandwrong]

Armand and Marius being all "The Boy is Mine" over Daniel.

[teaandcharchives]

Ask Skyrim Johnkat - Battlehorn Chapter 4

Fandom: Homestuck, skyrim, the elder scrolls.

Pairing: johnkat, DaveJade, and eventually we’ll be getting into some poly stuff that I hen’t figured out how to annotate yet.

Word Count:   13866

Rating: M, might go up to E later, or I might post those parts either. For now just sexual references.

Summary:   More in the realm of “after the happily ever after.” They may have managed to save the world, but can John and Karkat handle the actual homecoming? If that seems like a step down, it’s probably because early modern local government is a lot more complicated than it first appears. Especially because there’s a lot of moving pieces in the Egbert Family once everyone comes home…

Read on AO3 here, or under cut below

Series start

Notes: Let this be a lesson in why you leave comments on old fics - There was one very kind person who read all 260k words of this AU a couple months ago and really loved it, which inspired me to go back and reread it, learn it still holds up (though I did make a couple little tweaks), and realize I wanted to go back to playing in the space. So I did.

I'm not sure how this chapter got to be almost 14k, other than that the only logical splitting point was less than 1/3 in. Besides, if you're gonna come back after *checks watch* four years, might as well do a lot.Because this is just playing in the space, I'm not sure how much more I'm actually going to write, and it's definitely going to be a lot more episodic than the other pieces. But I do have outlines for 3 more chapters ready to go. So there's that lol.

Chapter 4 

It’s easier than you thought it’d be to slot yourself back into life at the castle. You were worried that after a full year of wandering around it’d be overwhelming to keep so many tasks balanced, to commit yourself to a schedule. Yet, after a few days it almost feels like you'd never left.

You’ve got Karkat now, of course, but you barely see him, especially compared to when you traveled together. He spends all day with his nose in books, but it’s not like when you were at Winterhold. You were separated all day, sure, but then in the evenings he’d be so animated in telling you about whatever he’d read. Now he just seems drained. You suppose that’s the difference between law or etiquette and shit he actually cares about. You can talk a little bit in the baths and you hold each other once you get back to your rooms, but you don't get much time before exhaustion takes one or the other of you. On Temple days you sit beside him, sure, but it’s hardly a social experience. You just share space as the priest and congregation offer prayers to the divines, and then as soon as services are over you have to hustle back to the castle to listen to grievances with your dad. You admit it was kind of nice to have a bit of space at first. It gave you something new to talk about in your time alone, but now you kind of miss him.

Then, one day in early Frost Fall, your father calls for a house meeting in his study. By the time you arrive, everyone else is there already. Your uncle sits at the desk and your dad stands behind him. You were expecting Karkat and Jake, but are somewhat surprised to see Provenco and Marcellia, the steward and head cook. That means it’s probably not strictly a family problem, but there are still plenty of things it could be. Your mind is racing. Did someone die? Is someone going to die? Are you losing funding? Are the borders changing? Which ones? When you take your place next to Karkat, he quickly grips your hand tightly. 

Two pieces of paper on the desk catch your eye. You see broken seals on the top and bottom. They’re clearly letters, but you can’t see enough to tell from whom, just that one was sealed with white wax and the other blue. 

A smile tweaks at the corner of your father’s mouth. “Don’t look so stressed. This is good news.” 

There’s a collective breath outward. Not a full sigh from anyone, but enough of a release of tension to be palpable. 

“Could have led with that,” you hear Karkat grumble. You gently elbow him. 

“First,” Your father continues. You’re not sure if he didn’t hear Karkat or is just choosing to ignore him. “Jade is returning sometime next week. And much like John, she's bringing someone home.”

“So she and Dave did get betrothed?” Jake asks. 

“According to this letter, yes.” 

In some ways that’s even more of a relief. You and Jake look at each other and smile. You wanted to believe Karkat when he said Dave would come home with Jade, but with how little you knew about the guy you couldn’t be sure. But she’s coming! She’ll be home soon! And then if she starts training apprentices too, maybe you’ll be able to have a little more time to spend with Karkat. 

“And the timing is perfect, because Countess Olivia Valga will be joining us for the Witches Festival as well.” 

“This isn’t a prank, is it, my lord?” Asks Provenco. His voice is firm, and his broad, serious features are set in a neutral expression, but you can see hints of concern in his eyes. “The last time a Count or Countess came for a banquet was your wedding. My staff would only have a week and a half to prepare!” 

“You may read her letter, if you wish,” Dad says, lifting the piece of parchment with the blue seal. “I am sorry for the short notice, Provenco. Especially since I know your father handled the preparations last time. However, you have managed this estate for many years now, and you are as skilled a steward as he was, and I have every faith in you, as well as Marcellia,” he adds, nodding to her. “You will have the apprentices fully at your disposal until then. It’ll do some of the younger ones good. John, Jake, I expect you to coordinate with the Pontillas, make sure they have all the help they need.”

You and your cousin nod.  

“When is she coming and how long will she be here?” Marcellia asks. “I need to know for menu planning.” 

“She plans to arrive the thirteenth and leave the fourteenth. She’ll be bringing one handmaid, but is leaving her husband to manage the city.” 

“Did she say why she’s coming now?” You ask. 

“She did not, but I imagine it has to do with you. The way most people tell it, you - with or without Karkat’s help depending on the teller - effectively ended the war and dragon crisis by yourself. And furthermore,” Your dad’s gaze turns to Karkat. “She’ll want to meet her future vassal.”

Your fiance inhales sharply, and you gently rub his knuckles with your thumb in reassurance. 

“We’ll be switching to a focus on etiquette,” Uncle Joel says, “So you don’t have to worry so much about logistics until after Olivia leaves. The goal, remember, is for you to succeed.” 

“Right,” Karkat says. It’s subtle (for him), but you can tell he doesn’t believe it. 

“Any questions?” Dad asks. 

Everyone looks at each other awkwardly. 

“Well, then, let’s get to it. Karkat, John, you stay.” 

You and Karkat both tense. 

“You’re not in trouble,” your dad and uncle say at the same time. 

Jake and the Pontillas leave. Jake gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder on the way out. 

“So…” You say. 

“We need to figure out the best way to get Karkat up to speed as quickly as possible.” Joel says. “And we’ll need to work together on that.”

Karkat looks down. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault!” you insist. “You’re doing great!” 

“I can’t complain about your progress thus far,” Uncle Joel amits, “But we weren’t expecting you to encounter other Cyrodilic nobles yet.” 

“Yeah,” you say, “I mean, sure, we technically invite Liv to every festival, and she always invites us, but that’s just a formality. More of a ‘you’re welcome if you want to show up, but we know you’re not gonna.’ kinda deal.” 

“Indeed,” Dad says. “John, I need your honest opinion. I know you interacted with several Jarls in Skyrim. How did he do with them?” 

“I mean…” you shift your weight uncomfortably, thinking of how to word it. “It seems like things are less formal in Skyrim. He didn’t treat them much differently than anyone else, but it seemed like that was fine.”

“‘Fine’ may not be good enough.”  

Karkat takes a deep breath, straightens his posture, and makes a valiant attempt to put on a proper accent. “Once I realized that John was more proficient in dealing with those of standing, I allowed him to take the lead in those conversations. I… do admit that at times my temper gets the better of me, however.” 

“Hey, good more formal word choice!” You say. 

He smirks at you. “I’m rather well read, as you recall. My vocabulary has never been lacking.” He drops the accent. “It’s just a lot of times the best word for the situation is ‘fuck.’”

You can’t help but laugh at that. You catch a smile on Dad’s face, but Uncle Joel is a bit more serious. 

“True as all that might be,” your uncle says, “I think your accent is unlikely to be solid enough by her arrival next Morndas. It may be better to embrace sounding a bit foreign and focus on learning some of the quirks of Cyrodilic etiquette. It's not uncommon for people of other provinces to take up positions in various courts, and while many never pick up the accent, the manners are indispensable." 

Karkat purses his lips for a moment before speaking again, this time with a much harsher accent, identical to his father’s. “If… If you think it would help, I can do this one much more reliably.” 

“Yes, that may be for the best. I don’t…” Uncle Joel pauses for a moment. “This is your home, and I don’t want you to feel exoticized, but we cannot risk you making an enemy of the countess. And, though we should not lean into it too much, playing the foreign card may serve to have her accept some things that aren’t at a fully noble level.” 

“No, I get it.” Karkat runs his fingers through his hair and goes back to his normal accent. “So what do we do now?” 

“Study, same as before, just a slightly different topic.” Dad turns to you. “John, walk him through as much of what he has to know as possible. Show him the actions, and tell him what you know about the Countess and her family. Tomorrow we’ll meet to go over everything. Hopefully by then we’ll have come up with a plan.” 

“Got it,” You say. 

“We won’t let you down,” Karkat adds, looking directly at your uncle. 

He smiles. “I’ll hold you to it.” 

Karkat nods sharply. Then, with an air of determination, he turns on his heel and leaves. 

—

“Okay,” John says, putting a closed book over the piece of paper you’ve been staring at. “So to review…” 

You sigh and lean back in your chair. “Yes?” 

“How long has Liv’s family been running Chorrol?”

“Six hundred years. Ish.”

“But?” 

“But not always in a direct line. Just before the Oblivion Crisis the count died and his only living child was married to the Count of Leyawiin. After the Crisis, that daughter tried to claim the County, but her… cousin? I can just say cousin right? Or do you always have to specify with you people?” 

“In this case cousin is fine. Keep going.”

“Okay, her cousin sued, saying that there was no way for the Countess of Leyawiin to manage counties on opposite side of Cyrodiil, but because the Imperial line just ended everyone was way too busy to deal with it, so the Countess’ mom stayed in charge until she died, then the cousin just kinda walked in and took over. Uh… no one stopped him because…  the Count and Countess couldn’t leave the city of Leyawiin because they were fighting Bravil and basically independent at the time. By the time the case actually made it to court, it had been like 20 years or something and everyone was just like, ‘yeah, just let the Valgas keep it.’ The Carros are still bitter about this but have way bigger problems now. Um…” You rack your brain, trying to think of any other details but you’re coming up blank.

“Remember any of the names?” 

“...No.” you admit. 

“Arriana Valga was the married countess, Alessia and Marius Carro, and the cousin was Horatio Valga.”

“Right, fuck, I kept getting Arriana and Alessia backwards.” 

John shrugs. “I mean, the good news is that you can almost always get away with referring to someone using either title-holding or title-family. That reminds me, what do you do when the Countess gets here?” 

“Cry.” 

He laughs. “No, but really.” 

This one you’ve got. It was the first thing he drilled into you. “She’s going to be introduced by a page. When she enters, your dad and uncle say hi first, then you, and then it’s my turn.” You stand and bow. Then in your best Imperial accent you say, “‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Countess Valga.’ Then if she offers me a hand I have to kiss it, because humans are gross like that.” John snorts. “If she has more shit she wants to say, I respond politely, then we get out of the way and let Jake go.”

“Good! And knowing her, she’ll probably ask you to call her Liv. And after that, remember-” 

“'I'll be there all night running interference.'” You say at the same time as he does. “I know. You’ve told me constantly the entire fucking time we’ve been cooped up here doing this!” 

“Right,” He says, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just worried.”

“Why the fuck are you worried?" You snap, "I’m the only one who’s really liable to make a skeever out of himself.”

John frowns. “I know I’ve told you this too. Even ignoring the fact that whatever you do is going to reflect on the whole family, Liv needs to know you can behave.” 

“Why does everyone here talk about me like that?” You demand. “I’m not a dog or a child!” 

“I know that! Dogs and kids have way more time to learn this shit!” He puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Karkat.” He says, after a moment. “I just wish I knew why she was doing this.” 

“I just assume she wants me to fail.” 

“That’s not like her. Not like the Liv I knew, anyway.” 

“People change.” 

“I know.” 

The two of you sit in silence for a moment. Crows caw in the courtyard and bits of dust dance in the slits of late-afternoon light coming through the narrow windows. You reach through the sunbeam bisecting your little table to cup John’s hand in yours. He looks up at you, sad and confused and it hurts. 

“Thank you,” You say. “For everything you’re doing for me.” 

He blinks at you and you pull your hand away. 

“So the cousin thing,” You say, changing the subject, “I’m still pretty sure you Cyrodilic nobles invented the concept of ‘third cousins’ and being ‘removed’ to either obfuscate or put checks on the ridiculous amounts of inbreeding the counts and emperors are wont to do, especially since arranging marriages is one of the only times it comes up. That and inheritance laws. But since inheritance is one of those reasons, why didn’t it matter with the Valgas?” 

“Oh, because it was an illegal seizure anyway. Chorrol should have gone to Alessia and her children by law. But I think they were first cousins anyway, which makes the claim stronger.”

“Is he the cousin that would have gotten it if Alessia died?” 

“I think so? I’d have to double check. The rest of the extended family wasn’t that important and it’s been 200 years.” 

You laugh. “See, you say that, but Dunmer politics you can see single family heads last that long.” 

John pauses for a moment and looks thoughtful. “Huh, you know, I wonder if that’s why you guys don’t need to track extended cousins. Because it’s just like you can’t marry anyone under the same family head, or under the same head as anyone who married into your branch of the family, right? But if that covers like ten generations-”

“Nords also don’t have second cousins.” you point out, “They just have kin, which is just ‘as far back as people can remember.’” 

“Yeah, but they settle inheritance disputes by duels,” he counters.

“Keep telling yourself that and just be glad you got born into the ‘let’s get fresh blood in here’ noble family.” 

“And yet we’re pretty sure everything wrong with me comes from Dad’s side and not the Skingrad side.” 

“Psh, Skingrad’s also new money. The last Hassildor only died 150 years ago. The Lafirias were wine merchants before then. Even with your scandalously short generations, a century isn’t enough time to get well and truly inbred unless you’re really working at it.” 

“Oh, so remembering details is easy if it’s to talk shit about my mom,” John teases, sticking his tongue out at you. 

“Not your mom in particular, humans in general and specifically Imperials as a whole. Besides, I never said that being from a merchant family was bad. If you are, then you are talking shit about both of our moms, and, while mine does kind of deserve it, I thought we’d agreed after meeting her that she could have been a lot worse.”

“Divines and Daedra, I love you,” John says with a laugh. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” John calls out. 

The younger page, Quinn you think his name is, opens the door. “I was sent to tell you Lady Jade and Sir Dave have arrived.” 

“‘Sir?’ Who’d he get to knight him?” You mutter.

John ignores you. “Thanks for letting us know, Quinn, we’ll be right down.” 

Quinn bows and leaves. 

“You’re not gonna make me dress up in the name of practice, are you?” You ask. 

“I won’t encourage Dave and Jade to give you more shit than is necessary.” 

You put the proper affectation back on. “You are too kind, my lord.” 

“Pfft, never speak to me that way again.” 

“You got it, dickwad,” you say, standing up.

“That’s my Karkat.” He gives you a quick kiss before leaving your chambers.

You follow him down the stairs. He pauses for just a moment, clearly trying to figure out where everyone is, then takes off towards the east wing. You hustle just to keep up. Thankfully he keeps it below a run.  

Dave and Jade are in the study, talking to John’s father and uncle. John runs right up and embraces his cousin the same way he did in Whiterun. Jade looks exactly like you remember her, but there’s something different about Dave. Part of it is probably clothing. He’s ditched the heavy cloak and thick Nord-style shirt and pants. He still wears a red laced-up vest, but even that looks to be lighter in terms of both material type and color. He’s switched to a white linen shirt and gray pants, rather than the black he wore before. It’s a nice change, you think. It makes him look less washed out. …Or is that it? You remember with a start that his eyes used to glow. Then you realize he’s breathing. 

“You’re alive.” You say.

Dave smirks, just barely showing off normal-sized canines. “You’re damn right.” 

John stiffens and looks with concern at his dad. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I told them ages ago,” Jade says. 

“Okay good.” John returns to your side. 

“Yeah, and I already got read the riot act from Jade’s folks in the capital.” Dave adds. “Her dad did not appreciate my observation that while the age gap is pretty significant it’s now literally impossible for me to meet girls my age without necromancy.” 

“I think he mostly didn’t like the one-two punch of you being biologically eighteen,” Jade says with a giggle. 

He shrugs. “Sorry, I can’t help being too old and too young for anyone I’ve been interested in for the last few millennia.” 

“Anyway,” John’s father says. “I was just telling them about the Countess’ upcoming visit.”

“It will not be a problem,” Dave says, his accent flawless. “It’s been quite a while, but from what Jade tells me, the rules have not changed too much in the last few centuries.” 

“...That’s not fucking fair.” You grumble. 

John takes your hand gently. 

“I’d been meaning to ask, though,” Dave continues. “Is the dancing still mandatory?” 

“More or less, unless you’d like to play the part of an old man like me,” 

“Yeah, no, I’d rather keep the ex-vampire thing within the family.” 

“Reasonable. Now,” Lord Egbert fixes his eyes on you and John. “How is Karkat’s progress?” 

John’s face lights up. “Great! I think he’s just about got the trivia and manners all down. Right?” 

“Oh… Yeah.” You say. 

John’s father and uncle give you identical skeptical looks. 

“I know enough that she’ll know I did the research, even if I don’t have all the details.” Their expressions do not change. “I’ve only had four days!”

“Fair enough.” John’s dad says. “I’m certain she’ll take it into account. We just also want to wow her as much as possible.” 

“Right.” Good enough isn’t good enough. You get it. Fuck. 

“Do you think there will be time to practice dancing soon?” John asks. “I know everyone else is also busy preparing for the feast, but I am so rusty and haven’t been able to teach Karkat at all.” 

“Why don’t we work together?” Jade suggests. “If you still remember how to play the harpsichord we can trade off playing and teaching! Dave is about 400 years behind on dance moves.”

Dave shrugs.  

“It’s more I don’t think I know enough to teach,” John admits sheepishly. "I haven't been to a real feast since Liv's wedding." 

“Speak to Jake,” Joel says. “The other day he told me that most of our apprentices, even some of those that come from noble families, need a dance lesson. Besides, I’m sure he’d like the excuse to spend some time with the rest of the family. With the three of you working together, I’m sure you’ll get it.” 

—

The next week goes by in a blur. Whether it's dancing or studying, you’re exhausted by the end of the day. None of this comes naturally to you; not the endless parade of names and dates, not the imperial dancing with its fancy footwork and next to no movement in the arms or hips, and certainly not holding your tongue and following the strict, hierarchical code of manners. John tells you you’re doing good, but you understood his uncle loud and clear. Good enough isn’t going to be good enough. And, fuck, it feels like the literal children are doing better than you, much less Dave. He almost makes the imperial dancing look good. Almost. 

You’re just… you’re tired. You don’t know how much more you have to give. You just want to spend time with John. Preferably doing something other than memorizing a bunch of dead humans’ names or looking like some sort of mentally deficient ground bird as you attempt to dance. You try not to fall asleep too quickly every night so that you can have some time with him, but inevitably you fail, drifting off what feels like mere moments after you lay down. Then, the next thing you know it's the day of the Countess' arrival. 

You frantically leaf through books, trying to pick up on something, anything, you've missed. But as soon as you look away from the pages, the facts slip from your mind like fish from a cracked basket.

John comes back from the kitchen with your normal breakfast. As fall has set in, the fruits you enjoyed earlier  He smiles at you softly, if a bit sadly. 

"Here." He says.

You ignore the food and look back down at the book.

"You should eat." 

You give a noncommittal grunt. 

He puts one of the scones on a small plate and shoves it in front of you. You give him an annoyed look, and he responds by raising his eyebrows and tipping his head down in a clear, “you’re going to do it, though.” You sigh, roll your eyes, and begin picking at the scone. It’s just not worth fighting over. 

"So,” he says, grabbing an apple, “Today, Dad is entrusting me with doing some rounds through the domain, making sure everything is ready for Liv's arrival."

"Good for you,” you reply flatly. 

"You should come with me."

"I can't. I'm studying." 

He sighs. "Karkat."

"What?"

"Are you even absorbing anything? This is like the tenth time you've read that book." 

You freeze and look back up at him, feeling the guilt on your face. "But the banquet…" 

He grins. "Come on, I'll be sure to get us back in plenty of time to make you all pretty."

You scoff. "There's not enough time in the world for that." 

"Shut up. You haven't seen you in the good clothes. Besides, what if she asks what you think of the barony?" 

"That's… not a bad point…" you concede.

"Come on, Karkat. Let's go out, ride around the countryside. I know it's not as pretty now that the wheat has all been harvested but it's a lot cooler out now. We can talk, ride together. Just like before."

Your hand reflexively goes to where your ring hangs under your shirt. You smile in spite of yourself as you finally meet his gaze.

"Let's do it." 

You put on your vest, grab a light cloak and one of the apples, and then the two of you are off. 

As you descend the castle, you see the Witches Festival fair beginning to take shape in the town square. A couple dozen people are hard at work assembling stalls and hanging banners from the buildings. In a manner of hours, practically everyone in the barony will be down there singing and dancing, trying the sweets and rich pumpkin and sweet potato dishes, with no expectation of decorum or stratification. 

From what John said, in a normal year, everyone from the castle would be right there with the common folk. Before the Countess' letter came he'd excitedly told you about everything he wanted you to try: the sweets, the breads, the games and folk dances. After the letter he promised you next year. You just hope you can give him the chance to make good on that. 

By the time you reach the stables, Shadowmere and Mouse are already ready to go. Demeem, the stablehand, is mucking out the adjacent stall. He’s a solid man, almost as tall as John and even broader with a wide flat nose and the longest dreadlocks you’ve ever seen, which he keeps tied back with a silk ribbon. His size makes him imposing, but he might be the gentlest man you’ve ever met and the horses love him for it. 

He pauses for a moment, tucking a loc that had come loose from his ponytail behind his ear and smiles at the two of you. 

"Mornin'" he says. "Got your horses ready. This is where we'll be putting Countess Chorrol's when she gets here. And we got plenty of space for her carriage on the end. Should be able to pull it in straight. Couple of septims and a handful of the village lads were more than happy to help." 

"Perfect," John says. 

He takes both horses’ reins and leads them outside. It takes a mere moment for the two of you to get into your respective saddles, and then you’re off at a reasonable trot. Though it’s been nearly a month since you’ve ridden, keeping up with John is nearly effortless. Gods, when did that happen? It wasn’t long ago that even being near a horse scared you. 

John notices and gets a wicked gleam in his eye. “Well,” he says, “First we gotta make sure that the road’s in good shape between here and the border.” 

“That’s, what, a little over two miles?” 

He nods. “Just about. So it’ll take about fifteen minutes at a trot.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, not sure where this is going. “Right.” 

“See you when you catch up!” He kicks Shadowmere into a full gallop and tears off down the dusty road. 

You curse after him and urge Mouse forward. She’s startled and confused, but that makes it easier to urge her into a sprint. From there it’s a race. You haven’t gone further than the little lake at the end of the village since you got here, and John probably knows the way in his sleep. Fortunately, most of the time the local masons have nothing else to do but maintain this stretch of road, and the horses naturally follow the easier path, rather than attempt to cross the fields. Shadowmere is bigger, with a longer stride and the power of Sithis, and he had a head start. But Mouse is slight for a Skyrim horse, and John is a lot heavier than you are. As the fields get rougher and more overgrown, the gap between you and John starts to shrink as Shadowmere starts to tire. 

But John knows you’re coming, and the road isn’t that wide. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, nudging Shadowmere left or right so you can’t get around. 

“That’s a dirty fucking trick, Egbert!” 

He flips you off over his shoulder. 

You growl at him, trying to figure out what to do. Fuck, you wish you knew some kind of magic that didn’t involve setting shit on fire. You should have Jake teach you a calm spell. But then you see your chance: the road curves slightly just up ahead. You grin and hold tight to Mouse’s reins, directing her up over the edge and straight across the scraggly grass. 

“Eat shit, asshole!” You shout at your fiance as you pass him. 

By the time you finish cutting the curve, he has to pull back or he’d plow right into Mouse’s ass. But unlike John, you’re a decent person and keep Mouse galloping at top speed. Or as close to it as she can do uphill after two miles. You’re approaching the border marker rapidly, and a quick glance over your shoulder proves you’re leaving John in the dust. 

You crest the top of the hill and cross the border with several lengths between you and John. The horses startle a murder of crows, which fly off a hundred feet or so before settling back down into a freshly-cleared field. 

“Who’s the better rider now?” You demand as John catches up. 

“Heh, I’ll remember that the next time you ask me to top,” John teases as he slides off of Shadowmere. 

“Hardy fucking har,” you say sarcastically, hopping down. “I won and you know it.”

“Still fun, though,” John replies, grinning. He pats Shadowmere’s heaving flank. “We should probably let these guys have a little rest now, though. Thanks for being a good sport, buddy!” 

Shadowmere shakes his head, you assume because horses are physiologically incapable of rolling their eyes. You take an apple from your pouch and slice off a large chunk to give Mouse as a treat. After what John put you both through, she deserves something for her trouble. That gets Shadowmere’s attention and so you have to give him the rest. You wonder briefly if he misses being your only horse before you decide that’s stupid. Demonic or not, he’s still a horse. 

John sits on a nearby stone fence and looks down into the valley below. You walk over to him and follow his gaze. From here, you can see what you know to be Chorrol’s walls rising in the distance and the Great Forest beyond. The city is scarcely more than a little gray lump sitting atop a golden and brown quilt of fields, woods, and farms, stitched together with stone or wood fences and embellished with cottages and hamlets. The Black Road gently curves down towards the city, disappearing every now and then below the cover of gold and burgundy trees. You know there are guard patrols and carts down there. The Countess is on her way in the carriage right now. But all of those people and horses are nothing more than specks against the gray stone. You’re alone in the middle of the countryside with John, and it gives you more of a pang of nostalgia than you thought it would. You take a seat on the three-foot wall next to him. 

“Someday,” He murmurs softly. 

“Huh?” 

He clears his throat. “Dad says that when he was growing up, our lands looked like that too. I mean, not so much in the west. That was still mostly shepherds. But this side was all farms. Did Uncle Joel tell you that?” 

“Right, but then the war happened.” 

“Yeah, and the damage and Imperial relocations cost us two-thirds of our people.” He sighs and looks down at his lap. “I know Dad regrets not fighting harder, but what could he do? He’d already lost most of the family.” He pauses, then looks out at the valley with renewed determination on his face. “But we’ll get there. I know we will.” 

You take his hand. “We will,” you affirm. “You’ve got a solid start. The population’s gone back up about 50% in thirty years, right? So don’t do anything stupid and even with your evanescent human lifespan you might live to see it.” 

He nudges you with his elbow. “See? I told you, stuff is sticking. You just need to get out of your head.” 

You scowl, “I need to work on my insults. They aren’t doing a damn thing anymore.” 

“When have they ever bugged me?” He laughs. “As soon as I realized you don’t really mean them-” 

“I’ll show you meaning it!” You growl, shoving him backwards. 

He wraps his arms around you, bringing you down with him. The two of you land on your shoulders, laughing and holding each other. John leans in to kiss you, and in that moment you remember what it is to be young and in love. 

When you return to the castle you’re in much higher spirits. John cheerfully reports to his father that their holdings are in the best shape they can be at this time of year. The two of you do a little work helping get the festival ready, and the innkeeper (Mrs. Dralentius, John helpfully supplied) gave you each a couple of candies in thanks. 

By that point it’s up to get ready. You and John wash and shave, then John does your hair. He just starts with water and a comb, but then he starts to work in a tiny bit of this thick cream called Uhigris. You didn’t quite believe him when he said it’d make your hair manageable but it does. Your hair isn’t flat, not really, but it weighs the curls down and defines them better, makes them look intentional. For the first time, you briefly consider growing your hair out. There were so many lice problems in the Gray Quarter you’d never dreamed of it as a child, and then when you’d moved out you’d assumed your hair was too unruly but maybe… 

Then you have to move out of the way so John can have the mirror to plaster down his perennial cowlick. Instead, you go to the wardrobe and pull out the small cedar chest John gave you. You pull out the clothes and check them over carefully, expecting some horrible stain or tear to have appeared somehow. But no, they’re as perfect as ever, which is probably why it feels so wrong to pull them on. You’ve been sleeping on silk for almost two months now, but somehow having it as a shirt feels different. The way the outfit is cut to be looser around the shoulders and thighs and tighter around the forearms and calves makes it feel like it’s designed for someone else, in spite of the fact that it’s bespoke and that every transition hits the exact right spot on your body. You look down at yourself. This outfit is a costume, and an utterly unconvincing one. You might as well be down with the peasants dressed as a lich or something. At least boots are just boots. 

John laces his doublet shut as quickly and easily as breathing and goes to grab his sword and its formal sheath. After he places the weapon on his belt, he looks up at the mirror and smiles. 

“Gods,” he breathes, “Look at us.” 

You do and… he’s right. John is, of course, radiant. The deep blue doublet brings out his eyes and the gold of the embroidery pops. The paler blue silk of his shirt contrasts perfectly with his dark skin, making him look as warm as his personality and his embrace. Though his body will always be more enticing with less on it, the doublet helps emphasize his shape; the breadth of his chest, the strength of his core. The contrast of looseness and tightness in the shirt and pants gives you just a taste of the muscles hiding below. 

But it’s not just John. You… you look like you belong. Your red doublet and black shirt complement your natural colors the same way John’s outfit does for him, and play perfectly with the silver accents. You don’t understand how the same cut of clothing can make you look as lithe and ephemeral as it makes John robust, but it doesn’t matter. It works. 

He offers you his hand and you take it in the graceful, dainty way you’d been taught over the last few days, barely cupping it. 

“What’d I tell you? You hadn’t seen you in the good clothes.” 

You pull the fancy accent on and dressed like this, looking like this, it somehow feels right. “I do not recall that conversation, my darling. But if I did, I’d probably point out that neither of us had seen me with my hair under control.” 

He laughs and then puts on his proper accent, “Well then, what say you we bring you to your first official event as a member of House Egbert?” 

“I say that sounds splendid.” 

Hand in hand, the two of you descend down the stairs without a single misstep. 

The rest of the family waits for you in the main hall. The tables have been moved, arranged into a large U shape with the opening facing towards the entrance. A couple of musicians who you think normally play in the tavern glance up for a moment when you enter before turning back to each other and speaking softly. 

The men in John’s family wear similar styles of outfits to yours, but none of them match quite the way you and John do. Jake’s is the most similar, but rather than flare out at the hip, his green doublet ends and he wears separate pantaloons. On the other end of the spectrum, John’s father and Uncle have much looser, almost robe-like vests that stop at the mid-thigh. You don’t know enough to say whether that’s an older style, or just viewed as more appropriate for men their age. For the first time, you see John’s father wearing his badge of office, a golden circlet with a large black gem in the center, and carvings reminiscent of Daedric script around it. 

Jade’s dress has a similar silhouette to her daily dresses, except she also has the puffed sleeves, but has several different shades of green silk woven into a plant-like pattern. It’s also cut much lower than her other dresses, and you think her purplish-brown bodice might be laced tighter than usual. You make a valiant effort to stop noticing that and the low gold and emerald necklace she wears. She claps and grins when she sees the two of you. 

“Aw! You guys look so cute together!” 

You feel yourself begin to blush. 

And John, seeming to feel every bit as awkward says, “Thanks, um, you too.” 

She laughs and loops her arm around Dave’s. If anyone looks out of place here, it’s him. His clothes are closer to a Nordic style, with most of his body covered in a long quilted coat made of burgundy velvet. 

“Aren’t you hot in that?” You ask. 

He winks, “You’re damn right I am.” Jade elbows him. “For real though, I’m fine.” He reaches down the neck of his shirt and fishes out a silver pendant pulsing with a faint blue light. “Amulet of ice.” 

“I need one of those for next summer,” you say. 

“400 septims.” 

“He’ll do it for free,” Jade says, elbowing him again. 

“Listen, if I do one for him, I’ll have to do one for everyone.” 

“Make it a wedding present.” 

“Anyway, what’s the word on Liv?” John asks. 

“She arrived very shortly after you returned.” John’s father says. “I showed her to the room she’ll be staying in. I believe she is preparing as we speak. She knows supper will be ready in about an hour and a half, but I do not know exactly when she’ll choose to join us.” 

“So, what?” You ask, dropping John’s hand. “We just wait here?” 

“Yep!” John says. “I mean, Dad’s the host, but none of us can really tell her what to do. The food’s gonna be ready when it’s ready, but other than that we’re on her time table.” 

“Right.” 

“Please do try to hide your disgust with the hierarchy while our liege is present,” Joel says. 

“Huh?” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly emotive face, Karkat?” 

“Shit. Uh, sorry.” You try to put a blank expression on your face. 

John chuckles. “Now you look like you have gas.” 

“...Man we’re so fucked.” You murmur in Dunmeri. 

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s gonna be fine. Remember, just stay next to me, follow my lead, and now… I don’t know, think about puppies or something?” 

“I’m not a dog person,” you remind him. 

“Yeah, that’s Jade.” 

“Hey!” she calls out, but then she grins. You can practically see the wolf tail wagging. 

At that point the door opens. Truss, the older page, enters and clears his throat. “Introducing her Excellency, Olivia Valga, Countess of Chorrol.” 

John takes your hand less delicately than before as the whole family, with the exception of Joel, rushes into position in a receiving line. The bards quickly begin playing softly. Once you’re all ready to go, Truss opens the door. An Imperial woman glides in. She wears a dark blue velvet dress with silver details. White lace rims every hem, and her arms are heavy with bracelets and rings. Her long black hair is intricately woven into a single massive braid with several baubles inserted. Atop her head she wears a large silver circlet with a sapphire half the size of your fist embedded in it. Behind her walks an Argonian wearing a nice cream gown and veils over her fins. She almost looks familiar. You wonder if any of her relatives work at the Assemblage. Not that you’re likely to get a chance to ask. While the Countess is around, she’s invisible. 

“Welcome, my Countess,” John’s dad says. He takes her hand and kisses it. 

“Oh Jack, there’s no need for such formalities with me. You’ve always been like an uncle to me. I’m glad to finally sample your hospitality.” 

“We’re delighted to have you. I hope you can forgive my brother for not standing to greet you. At seventy, getting around with one leg is enough of a challenge for him.” 

“Of course, I understand we all have our limitations” She nods in his direction. 

“Naturally, you remember my son…” 

“How could I ever forget? It’s wonderful to see you again, John.” 

“The feeling is mutual, Liv.” John also takes her hand and kisses it. 

“You’ll need to tell me all about your trip to Skyrim! I understand it was quite exciting! And certainly rather rewarding.” She turns her gaze to you. “After all, what Egbertian adventure is complete without bringing home a spouse?” 

He chuckles. It’s not the carefree laugh you’ve learned to love, but a lot more restrained, measured. “What adventure indeed? This is my betrothed, Karkat Vantas. I asked for his hand this spring. As is tradition for us, he’s not a noble, but he and his family are well-connected with the Dunmer of Skyrim, and I’ve been teaching him our ways.” 

“It’s delightful to meet you, Karkat.” 

“Likewise,” Your voice comes out in your attempt at a proper accent, rather than your father’s. Shit. Fuck. Well, we’re rolling with it now. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Countess Valga. John has told me so much about you.” 

“All good things, I hope.” 

“Of course.” 

She offers you her hand and you kiss it as you were taught. “And please,” she says, “anyone so close to my favorite page can call me Liv.” 

“Liv, please, it’s been eleven years since I left,” John says. 

“I know, but you were so darling! I think it may be because you were the right age to really look up to me.”

You don’t know what to do now. Everyone’s been introducing the next person down the line but… 

“Jake,” she says, turning her attention to him. Thank Stendarr. “It’s nice to see you again. How are this year’s new apprentices?” 

“Oh, every class has its quirks. But we’ll get them in tip-top shape in no time!” 

“I have every faith in you and your family. You know, my youngest brother turns fourteen next year. I understand you must be objective in selecting apprentices, but perhaps we can speak about his prospects.” 

“I’d be happy to. Though I’d prefer to talk to the lad too, find out his ambitions and see how he handles himself.” 

“Lovely, we’ll set up a meeting. I’m sure my mother will have an opinion as well.” 

“And your sister?” She asks, looking at Jade.

“Oh, I’m still getting my feet back under me. I only arrived home last week.” 

“Now, I haven’t heard as much about your escapades, Jade.” 

“Well, my adventure didn’t involve dragons.” 

“I see it also involved finding a man, though.” 

“It did! This is Dave, he was instrumental in helping me avoid a proxy civil war in High Rock.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” Dave says with his stupid flawless fancy accent. He bows deeply.

“High Rock? Are you a Breton?” She asks. 

“No,” he says, “I’m a Nord.” 

“Indeed?” 

“It’s a long, sad story.” 

“I’d love to hear it.” 

“Well,” He shifts uncomfortably. “Perhaps suffice it to say my father was a high elf, and my mother was… less than thrilled.” 

“Ah. Yes, say no more. I should have realized, such things often happen in the wake of wars and occupations.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Well,” John’s father says, clapping his hands together, “The Apprentices will be joining us for supper, but we still have a bit of time before that. Now, let’s have some wine, enjoy each other’s company, or perhaps the gardens? They’re starting to be a bit sad, but fall has its own beauty, don’t you think?”

One of the servants, a teenager named Theocus, comes out with a tray laden with pewter wine goblets. John’s father takes the lead, talking about the vintage and this year’s grape harvest and the status of the vineyards here and blah, blah, blah. But still, you’re grateful. If he’s talking, you have less of a chance to say the wrong thing. You need to write to your father. He’ll want to know you’ve overcome your medical inability to shut the fuck up. 

Unfortunately, it gives you time to analyze and over analyze everything you do: your stance, your facial expressions, if you’re drinking enough, if you’re drinking too much. You keep looking to John, and every now and then he gives you a little reassurance: a touch of the arm or a little smile. Maybe being his arm candy isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. At least you can feel confident you look the part. 

You successfully manage to answer a couple of questions when they’re directed at you, mostly about your opinions of the barony, adjusting to Cyrodiil, that type of stuff. You have your canned responses ready, try to make them sound as good as possible. But, good to his word, John takes the lead and directs the conversation whenever it turns to the two of you. Sometimes he’ll prompt you for your input, give you the chance to respond, and then take back over. 

Fortunately (and you’re still not entirely sure how rigid the seating rules are, other than “most important people near the middle”), once you’re seated you have John, his uncle, and his father between yourself and the countess. Even with the music and multiple conversations reverberating through the high-ceilinged stone hall, you’re positive you could make yourself heard, but you have no desire to do so. Instead, you and John mostly wind up talking to Gitmel (who’s technically at the next table, but whatever) about her ongoing research with Ayleid stones. Most of the stuff she talks about with resonances goes over your head, but it’s at least mildly interesting to compare the Aylied with the Dwemer. 

It’s almost… pleasant? Maybe the wine is starting to get to you. It’ll be hard to tell until you stand. The food certainly helps. Marcellia prepares a veritable banquet for everyone on a normal day, and tonight she’s gone all out. You understand now why she called so many of hte apprentices in to help her in the kitchens. She’s made an entire young pig, a capon, several pigeons or some other small birds, and at least three kinds of mutton, on top of intricately woven breads, miscellaneous pies, and more local vegetables than you can hope to identify. She’s even put together a multi-tiered aspic. (You try a little bit and though you’re not a fan you at least appreciate it’s a fancy thing that took a lot of work.) 

But all too soon, dinner is finished. The moment the last of the dishes are brought back to the kitchen, the bards start playing just a little bit louder and a little bit more intensely. A couple of the teenage apprentices are the first to get up and start dancing, then Jade drags Dave out onto the floor. Jake, who had been sitting beside the countess, says something to her and then the two of them are off. You look at John nervously. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Yanno, if you were actually any good I’d just be dragging you down.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that, as does John’s uncle. Fuck, though, some of the kids are good. Their steps are precise, so fast, and they complement each other perfectly. You sincerely hope these are younger noble children, ones who served as pages or maids only to learn that their real choices in life were legion officer or priest. Honestly, you’ve spent such little time with the apprentices you’re not sure. 

John stands and offers you his hand the way he did in your chambers a few short hours ago. With a deep breath you take it and rise to your feet. Glancing about the hall, you see that no one is really looking at you very closely. Maybe John’s dad and uncle, but everyone dancing is far more interested in their partners. 

It still doesn’t quite feel right, but you have to admit it makes a little more sense in the doublet. Helps you keep your spine straight, anyway. And the softer soles of the fine boots make it easier to keep your steps light and dainty. You hold your own for the first few songs, the old-fashioned processionals and traditional Cyrodilic banquet dances. You’re not great, but neither is John. You’re not the best judge, but either Jake and the countess or those two apprentices who won’t admit they’re dating are probably winning. But you haven’t been told you’re offensively bad, anyway. 

Then the countess breaks away from Jake for a moment and approaches the bards. From where you are you can’t hear what she says, but the music pauses for a moment. The bard playing the harpsichord changes the tempo from a 4/4 to a 3/4. As the flute and lyre rejoin, you realize you recognize the style, light and bouncy and elven. This is an Altmer dance, the one you could never quite get right. You take a step away from John.

“Are you thirsty?” You ask. “I’m thirsty. I’m going to get some wine.” 

“I’m good,” he says.

You give him a sharp look. 

“I’ll come with you, though. Not a bad idea to take a breather.” 

Before you’re even back to your seat, Theocus is there with a pitcher of wine. 

“Take your time,” you murmur to him. 

You’re not the only one who’s bowed out. Most of the apprentices are taking the opportunity to have more water, and many of them are chatting amongst themselves. But that gives the remaining four couples more space. There’s two pairs of apprentices, including the two that started the night, Dave and Jade, and Jake and the countess. 

You hate to admit it, but when done correctly the dance is beautiful. The expressive arm movements almost remind you of Dunmeri folk dances, but combined with the same light stepping of Cyrodilic dances. The couples are arranged in a square, and they begin to switch partners, the leads breaking away to circle one another, then the followers. But they eventually always return to the same base corner, walking in a circle with their palms gently touching. 

When the first song ends, the pair of apprentices that are totally dating go down and join in, apparently gathering up their nerve. There’s a bit of a shakeup in partners, as Dave steps away. You watch him tap his chest, where you know his amulet is hidden, and walk out of the hall. Jade approaches her brother to take his place, and the countess gracefully nods her head and comes back to the table. She takes a few sips of her wine, and then locks her eyes on you. 

She approaches smiling. “John, my dear, you look a bit sad.” 

“Oh, not at all. Just watching.” 

“Do you remember the choreography my father had everyone learn ahead of my wedding?” 

“I think so. It’s been a while, though.” 

“Want to give it a try?” 

He gives you a worried glance. 

You plaster a fake smile on your face. “Go have fun. I’ll be here.” 

“Alright.” He gives your shoulder a little squeeze and then takes her hand the way he took yours. 

The two walk away, speaking too softly for you to hear. She leads him to the center of the room and everyone else seems to give them a little more space. It seems like everyone is watching them. John notices and looks around nervously.

You can almost hear her words when she looks at him gently. “Don’t pay attention to them. Eyes on me.” 

Your stomach clenches and you down your wine. Theocus kind of gives you a look. You glance over to John and the countess. Their eyes are locked, hands lightly touching as they start their dance. Theocus looks at them, back to you, and then shrugs as if to say “fair enough” and refills your goblet. 

The apprentices have all gone to the benches along the edge of the hall, just leavine Jake and Jade and John and the Countess. The choreography is a lot more complicated, and requires all four to coordinate. Each of them stumbles at least once, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They’re smiling and laughing and it ties your stomach in knots. 

When the first song ends. 

The countess laughs and says “Let’s try that again.”

The other three agree. The music starts back up and they try again, this time more assured. Jade is doing this with her brother. It doesn’t mean anything. You know it doesn’t mean anything. And yet… Watching John and the countess look at each other like that. 

It’s around then that Dave comes back. He watches the four of them for a moment, then looks up at you. He walks up along the edge of the hall, staying out of the dancers’ way. 

He plops down in John’s chair. “You know,” he says. “During dinner Liv spent a lot of time asking about the local flavor in Skyrim.” 

“So what? You think they’re just doing that to talk about our trip?” 

“Nah, they’re not talking. I’m thinking that this is 3/4 time. So,” he bows and puts the accent back on, “May I have this dance, Mr. Vantas?” 

You give him a wicked grin. “Oh, Sir Strider, I’d be delighted.” 

He takes you by the hand for real and says, “You can lead since you’re taller.”

Having watched the dance once, you know about how far they go, and that most of the U between the tables is safe. You put your hand on Dave’s hip, he puts his on your shoulder and gives you a twitch of a smile. As you begin to dance with Dave, it’s the most comfortable you’ve felt all night. The upper arms of your shirt are a little tight for this, especially when you help Dave do a spin or two, but you actually feel like you know what you’re fucking doing. 

Before you know it, the song ends. You and Dave stand there, together for a moment, and then over his shoulder you notice everyone looking at the two of you. You turn to look at John and the Countess, and they’re both staring at you utterly gobsmacked. 

You saunter up to the two of them and clear your throat. “Dave told me you were interested in knowing more about Skyrim culture, and thought you might want a demonstration.” 

The countess collects herself quickly. “That was… certainly something. I suppose that’s a folk dance?” 

“As I understand the Jarls do it as well,” John says, “Not that there was much time to attend proper banquets during a war.” 

“Fascinating. Perhaps I should arrange a visit someday,” The countess says. “It is a rather charming dance.” She looks up at John. “So that I’m prepared for such an event, do you think you could teach me?” 

You feel your face fall. 

John shakes his head. “I… Probably wouldn’t be the best teacher. Karkat taught me actually. Him and his friends.”

“Oh, nonsense.” 

“Well, for now, I think I might have been neglecting my fiance a bit too long.” 

“John…” She says, a bit of sharpness in her voice that hadn’t been present before. 

Dave swoops in Jade and Jake in tow. “Hey,” he says, “These two were interested in learning too. Let me show you all at once, let them have their fun.” 

“That’s very kind of you, Sir Strider,” she says. “I’d appreciate your tutelage.” 

You smirk and take John back out onto the floor. 

“Karkat,” He says, voice low and serious. “What are you doing with all this?” 

“Dancing. Showing her I know what I’m doing.” 

“You know most Imperials… think this is too close for dancing.” 

“Most imperials can suck my dick. You brought home a foreign elf, you told me she wants to know about adventures in Skyrim, let’s show her.” 

He sighs. “Karkat, keep it together.” 

“I have it together,” you hiss. 

You see the countess start dancing with Dave. She’s a little uncertain, and it’s always going to be a little awkward because Dave is leading and he’s half a head shorter than her. But she’s catching on quickly. Too quickly for your taste. 

When the song ends, she approaches you. 

“Alright, then,” she says. “Mind if I cut in? I’d love to continue our conversation.”

“Come on,” you growl, your accent slipping. “Can’t you just leave him alone?” 

“Karkat!” John hisses

“Excuse me?” the countess asks. Her tone is still fairly even but you can hear the threat. And you don’t like it.  

“You were on him at the first opportunity and haven’t let up since then! John is my fiance, not yours!” 

Her nostrils flare. “You insult my honor and forget your place.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I think we all fucking know my place. I’m not made for this kind of charade and had no time to learn to bullshit may way through properly, since you gave us less than a fucking week before dropping in! Then you needle me with comments about being cute and quaint and monopolize John’s time all night! I don’t know what your game was, if you were hoping to get a rise out of me to prove I’m not good enough, or if your head is so far up your own ass that you have no idea how to talk to people who don’t bow to your every whim, and at this point, I don’t care.” 

“That’s enough!” John’s father stands. You think this is the first time you’ve heard him raise his voice. It booms through the hall, and you feel an immense weight in your chest as you realize what you’ve done. 

“Fuck.” You whisper. You look back at the countess. Congratulations,” you say. “You win.” 

Before the words even leave your mouth you hate yourself for them. You storm out of the hall before you can make things worse. 

—

You’d say you can’t believe he did that, but you absolutely can. That might be why you’re the first person to stop gawking after Karkat’s outburst. 

“Gods, Liv, I’m so, so sorry. I’m not sure what’s gotten into him! He’s not usually like that!” 

In your mind Miraak scoffs. Sure, you also know it’s a lie, but it’s the one you need to tell. 

Liv just shakes her head. “My… my goodness. I’d always heard tell Dunmer have a fire in them, but that’s just-” She turns to Jake, “Did you hear the way he spoke to me?” 

“I did,” he says. “I, er, think we all did.” 

You think the whole county did. 

“He’s…” You choose your words carefully. “He is a work in progress. Dunmer, especially those in Windhelm, are a proud people, and Karkat is, if nothing else, fiercely loyal.” 

“Loyalty? You tell me about loyalty and he just-” she gestures to the door. 

You’re not sure what to say to that, but by then your father is there. 

“My apologies for his outburst,” he says, “It shall be dealt with.” 

“Wait, what do you mean by that?” You demand. 

He gives you a hard look. 

“Dad, you can’t just- after all we’ve been through!” 

“Well, it is not up to me whether Her Excellency feels it right to forgive him.” 

You turn back to Liv. She’s clearly still reeling from shock, but you’re beginning to see anger creep back in. 

We can stop them both, Miraak says. Make them do whatever you want.

Until the spell fades, then we’re in even deeper shit. 

I’m not proposing using the Shouts. I can perform a very subtle calm spell. 

It won’t work on Dad.

What about her?

We can’t risk it. 

At this point what else is there to risk? 

…You have a point. 

Speak, child, and trust me. 

“I’ll go talk to him,” you say. You can feel a prickling sensation on your tongue, almost like mint, as Miraak works magic into your words. Gods, you hope this works. 

Keep talking. This spell is delicate and precise. It takes time to sink in. Make sure your words would be soothing on their own so that no one suspects a thing. If she knows she’s being manipulated all will be lost. 

“He was wrong to confront you on all counts, but it is true that he has not had much time to learn to behave in high society. It is… a significant drawback to choosing our partners as we do, I’ll admit. But if I remember correctly, my father’s first wife also struggled with etiquette when she first arrived, having grown up in Valenwood, and your parents grew to love her, right?” 

“That is true…” your father admits. He gets a wistful look on his face, and part of you regrets bringing her up but… 

Keep talking! And don’t give them more openings! 

“Karkat is a good person,” You say quickly. Gods, you’re so nervous your accent is slipping a little. But you have to keep pushing. “He’s been working so hard every single day to catch up because he didn’t have the noble education we did. I know he’ll get there. He cares about everything more than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes too much, I know, but there are benefits to being that passionate.” You lower your voice, making it almost a whisper. “Gods, Liv, you should have seen the way the people in Windhelm listen to his father, the way his friends listen to him. And I know you’re skeptical about the loyalty right now because his anger was so clearly misplaced, but I know he did that because he cares deeply about me. He doesn’t know you well enough to give you his loyalty yet, but he’ll get there. I know he will.”

Just a little longer, Miraak says. 

“He lost control, and that’s bad. But, Liv, if you wrote off everyone who lost control in front of you, everyone knows I wouldn’t be here today. Please, let me talk to him, give him a chance to apologize and prove himself to you.”

As you speak the last few words, the tingling sensation leaves your tongue, and you think you see a bit of green flash in her eyes. 

It is done.  

Liv looks at your father for a moment. His features are expressionless as usual. 

“Very well,” Liv says. “Once he has calmed down I’ll hear his case.” She glances around, noticing how literally everyone is staring at you. “Perhaps somewhere a little more private? No need to drag this scene out any further than necessary. Go speak to him.” You jump to follow her instructions. “In the meantime, Jack, I’d like your opinion on his prospects.” 

He takes her hand and starts leading her back to the head table. “Karkat is absolutely still rough around the edges, but what John says is true…” 

You close the door before you can hear anything else. 

I can’t believe that worked, you think. 

Why not? Humans are such simple creatures. Noble or peasant, it makes no difference. Elves and the bestial races present a bit more of a challenge, but only a bit. The mind is such a fickle, fragile thing… 

And she won’t know we cast a spell on her?

No. No one will. That’s the beauty of targeted emotional manipulation. But it… takes a lot out of me. I’m going to have to teach you.

We’re not doing it again. 

Of course not… 

He sinks into the back of your mind. 

We did what we had to, you think. I did what I had to. 

You climb the stairs to your chambers. Karkat hasn’t lit any candles, so you cast magelight. You call out for him but get no response. Maybe he’s not up here? Then you open the door to your bedroom. There’s an elf-sized lump under the blankets and you hear sniffing and muffled sobs. It hurts to see him this upset, but you’re relieved he didn’t just run away into the dark somewhere. 

“Hey,” You say softly. 

“Fuck John, I’m sorry. I fucked everything up.”

“It’s gonna be okay. Dad's talking to Liv,” You say, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “He'll smooth it all over. But you’re gonna have to apologize.”

“She started it!” He snarls. “She provoked me, climbing all over you like that!”

“She was a little much tonight,” you admit, gently placing your hand on the lump of blanket containing your fiance. “I’m not sure if she was trying to test you and you took the bait, or if she was just playing around. I should have prepared you for it better, but that kind of flirting is all just a game. It doesn’t mean anything to anyone. Liv loves… okay, I don’t actually know how much she loves her husband, but she’s completely loyal to him, and I love you.” 

“Then why?” 

“I don’t know. That’s just how it’s done. I know you don’t know all the rules yet. If anyone was expecting you to have all of them it’d be a massive dick move. But at the same time, you did… kinda overreact. Like a lot. You can’t just shout at a countess like that. Especially not your countess.” 

“It’s fucking bullshit,” he says, poking his head out. “So she’s just allowed to say whatever the fuck she wants and I have to take it?” 

“I mean, kinda?” 

“It’s not right!”

“I know. But it's not about being right.” You smile sadly down at him. “It's about convincing more powerful people that you're not a threat.” 

“Why would I want to do that?!” Karkat snaps. “I was supposed to get her to take me seriously, not make her think we’re her playthings!” 

You sigh. “We can't fight every battle. At least not on this level. The cost is too high.”

“So we just let her push us around?”

“Only when it doesn't matter.”

Karkat looks at you incredulously. “How the fuck doesn’t this matter?” 

“Because this is just a social call. Who cares if you look stupid or she thinks of you as a toy or a pet or whatever as long as when push comes to shove she'll fight for us? If she wanted she could revoke our title, expose us as daedra worshipers, do anything she wanted. But she doesn't, because she likes us.” 

“For fuck's sake, though, can't she give us a fucking ounce of respect?” 

You stand. “I… I'm sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” He asks. “For what?” 

You walk over to one of the tapestries and begin playing the the fringe. “I- I knew you were stressed. You hadn't been acting like yourself. You were barely swearing, forcing this fake smile all the time.” You glance back at him and he’s got his eyebrows lightly furrowed, a small pout on his lips. He’s listening. “I knew that, so I tried to help you relax earlier. And I knew it wasn’t enough the second dinner started, but I kept telling Liv whatever she wanted to hear anyway. I pushed you too far.” 

“John, you-” Then he cuts himself off and his face hardens. “Wait, fuck, you're doing it now, arent you!?” 

“This isn’t the same.” You say. 

“It absolutely is! I see you do this all the time: you pretend to be dumb and friendly to soothe the situation when people get pissed.” 

“I don't do it to everyone, Karkat.” You go back to the bed and try to take his hand but he pulls it away. “I don't do it to people I trust. You know me.” 

“I thought I did.”

He might as well have reached right through your ribs and crushed your heart. “I've shown you everything. You've been in my soul. I've been in yours. What more can you want?!”  

“I don’t know!” He shouts. Then he wraps his arms around his knees and looks down. “I don’t know.” He repeats. He sniffles and you see candle light reflect off of the tears in the corners of his eyes “I want to be good enough for you. But good enough isn’t good enough. I’m the half-breed son of a disgraced spy and an adultress. I’d have to be perfect, better than perfect just to make up for the crime of being me.”

“That’s not true.” 

“It is, though. Your uncle told me.” 

“He did what?!” you demand.  

“Well…” he shifts uncomfortably. “Not in as many words but… it felt pretty clear. I had to shape up, I had to have her accept me, or you’d have to find someone else. This was my only chance.” 

You feel your heart plunge into your stomach. 

“No.” You say, standing. 

“No?” He looks up at you in confusion. “But you said it yourself-” 

“It was going to be. But I talked her into giving you another shot.” 

“Really? How? After I-” 

“I… Can be persuasive. And I know the rules.” 

“What, did you bat your eyelashes at her some more?” he snaps. 

“It wasn’t flirty, actually. Just… said the right things the right way, I guess.”

He looks at you curiously. You have to press on. 

“We still need to impress her tonight, but the night isn’t over.  Let’s get you cleaned up. We’re going downstairs.” 

—

The countess waits for you in the trophy room. She stands with her arms crossed squarely behind her back, staring into the fire burning on the far side of the room. John’s ancestors look down at you from their portraits above her. You’re not sure if it’s your nerves or how thin the line between worlds is tonight, but you feel them judging you. You glance over to the first portrait, Colonel Sassacre… Sheogorath. You already have his blessing, but how much does that really help? 

“Liv,” John says firmly. He has his shoulders squared and is standing at his full height. “Thank you for waiting for us.”

She glances over at the two of you. John is head and shoulders taller than her, but she’s utterly unintimidated. “I find it prudent to hear my vassals out, at least. Whether or not I take their positions is another matter.” 

“I understand.” John replies. “But I was not thinking of this as a negotiation.” 

“What is it then?” She asks sharply. 

“I’ve come to apologize,” you say, putting on your best accent. 

“Indeed,” she replies. Her tone is flat, disbelieving. “Please take a seat.” She gestures to the two large armchairs facing the fireplace. 

You look at John. He silently nods and you sit before speaking. 

“I… allowed my anger to get the better of me and acted without thinking. In doing so I insulted you, and for that I’m deeply sorry. It was a poor first impression, to say the least.” 

John gives you an approving smile. 

“That it was,” the countess says. “And among higher nobility, first impressions are everything. What if I had been the emperor?” 

“I’m not asking for your approval,” you say. “Not yet, anyhow. I just… Please give me another chance.” 

She turns and appraises you, her pale blue eyes, which looked at you and John so kindly mere hours ago, tear into you like an ice wraith’s bite. You’ve combed your hair back down, straightened your clothes perfectly. You’d hold your own in a Tribunal delegation, and you know it. At least until you opened your mouth. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since Last Seed,” You reply. “Most of my training has been in local history and administration. The plan was to pivot to etiquette after Sir Joel evaluated my ability to serve as John’s right hand. We… were anticipating more time before I met you.” 

“Liv,” John says, dropping the formal accent. “You’ve known me since I was seven. You know that I know how to play the game. And I believe in Karkat. Out of everyone I met, there’s no one I’d rather work with. He’s who I want.” 

“Love is blind, John,” she says. 

“But I’m not. And I’m not a kid anymore either. At some point, you’re going to need to trust me to make major decisions. You weren’t in Skyrim. You didn’t see the way he brought people together. The way he fought tooth and nail to save everyone. He had a way out multiple times and he never took it.” 

She looks directly at you. “He could be playing a long game.” 

“I’m not!” You insist. 

“John’s already said his piece on your behalf. Twice now. As did his father and uncle. But I need you to prove the value in those words. Convince me.” 

You start to snap back, but kill the words before they leave your throat. 

“No,” she says. “Say it.” 

You take a deep breath. “If… If I was just in this for the money or status, why would I have called you out in front of everyone? If I didn’t care about John, it would have been easy to sit back and watch you two together. But I just- I couldn’t.” 

“John?” She says. 

“Yes?” 

“Leave.” 

“But I-” 

“Go. It is nearly midnight, and I believe you have a ritual to perform.” 

He looks at you with concern clear on his face, but you nod at him. 

“Alright,” he says. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze and then leaves the office, closing the door behind him. 

“You understand that behaving like you did tonight is unacceptable, yes?” 

“I do. Which is why I came to apologize.”

“Then why do it? Why jeopardize your status?”

“I… I was jealous,” You admit.  

“Of what?” 

“John… when he was younger he used to like you. He told me a long time ago. And then seeing you tonight, without understanding the nuances and particularities of courtly interactions, I misunderstood both of your intents. I felt jealous and let it get the better of me. I am working on my temper.”

“Indeed. You, Karkat Vantas, are an unsophisticated brute without the first concept of deference or decorum.” You wince. “And I can work with that. The only thing I truly require from my vassals is loyalty. I need to know above all else that I can trust you. You’ve certainly won over the Egbert family. After you left, John spoke quite passionately in your favor, and Jack and Joel both spoke quite highly of your abilities and character.” 

“They did?” You ask. “Like, Joel specifically?” 

“This is a surprise to you?” She asks. 

“Er…” You snap back into formal mode. “He has very high standards. And I know I still have much to learn.”

“I see. But that does not answer the primary question.” She turns sharply and marches towards you, bending down so your eyes lock. “Can I trust you, Mr. Vantas?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” She sits in the chair beside you. “So, then, while the Egberts channel a dark god, tell me your story. Omit nothing of importance, no matter how it makes you look. After that, I will tell you how you can best be of use to my county. And keep trying with the accent. The practice can only help.” 

—

End notes:

So I spent like 2 days doing research on specifically 1400s-ish banquets and feasts to write like 2 paragraphs of details. I then spent a further 2 days researching what went into managing a barony in the later medieval and early modern periods. Like a lot of history, the answer is “idk, it depends *shrug emoji.*” A lot of the sources are about England and France, which the Empire is probably closer to politically, but the climate is all over the place and the names are certainly Latin/Italian inspired. Given its proximity to Hammerfell and being at the foot of the mountains, I’m giving Battlehorn a Near East adjacent climate, but historically that area has a very different culture and style to what appears in Cyrodiil so this is a case of having done a good chunk of research and then deciding to mostly throw it out the window. 

 A lot of the political background details I’m saving for if they become relevant later (like, for example, the 50-odd townspeople I have now named and given life stories), but some of the feast stuff was kind of interesting, so I thought I’d include some historical notes here. 

While I’m using banquet and feast interchangeably, there was usually some sort of difference with the former being fancier occasions. But regardless, the tables would be arranged in a U with everyone seated around the outside so that servants could bring things and take it away more easily (I was not able to confirm, but part of me wonders if this is why everyone is on the one side of the table in the Last Supper painting). In the earlier medieval era, food would be served on bread trenchers to sop up juice. However, by the early modern period, these had mostly been replaced by flat wooden trenchers, which is closer to what we see in the Elder Scrolls games. Music would be playing the whole time, and dancing was a must. 

It turns out that there’s actually a lot we know about formal dancing during the Renaissance, since a lot of kings and dukes and such employed dance masters to teach courtiers more complex choreography, and some of these masters wrote and sold dance books (Some of the more prosperous counts and countesses in Cyrodiil probably do this, but the Egberts certainly would not). There were some processionals (think like two lines approaching each other and walking back), but they were somewhat old fashioned by that point. To the modern eye, a lot of the popular dances look really goofy. Because of how stiff the clothing was in the upper body (think like Elizabethan ruffled collars), there wasn’t much movement in the upper body, but a lot of prancing and jumping. (Eventually, these would develop into ballet). By the mid 1600s, minuets had become dominant in England and France, and I like to think that maybe this is a Altmer dance that’s become more popular in Cyrodiil since the Aldmeri Dominion’s influence has grown and a lot of Cyrodiilic nobles try to suck up to them. People Jake’s age are probably the oldest to have learned it, but by the time John was growing up, they were standard. 

Waltzes are kind of a weird case. It seems they were invented near Vienna in the 13th century, but it took 600 years for them to make their way to England. In the 1800s when they first showed up, many of the upper crust thought it was scandalous, due to how close the man and woman were. I was purposefully vague on how Nordic dancing worked in the original Skyrim Johnkat, but I’m giving this to the Nords, somewhat arbitrarily but also because it worked and, like I said, we’re playing fast and loose with historical inspirations. Just about everyone who lives in Skyrim adapted the waltz fairly quickly because (just like in real life) any excuse to be good to your cute dance partner is a good excuse. (Also, Nords and Dunmer are somewhat used to sharing dances, as both traditionally practice forms of circle dance, and while the forms are distinct, they share centuries of cultural exchange and adaptation, dating back to before the eruption of Red Mountain). At this point, the Imperials consider the Waltzes to be a northern folk dance, much like Dunmeri and Nordic circle dancing. And while it is viewed as more graceful and refined than the circle dancing, it’s also more scandalous. 

But it could be worse, it could be Redguard dancing, which is normally done like a competition between two individuals or groups, and tends to feature stomps or otherwise firmer leg movements and very expressive and often quick movements in the upper torso. Because it is, in many ways, the opposite of the primary form of court dancing, most nobles consider it to be incredibly base. It is, however, the primary form of dancing enjoyed by the Battlehorn peasants, along with Colovian folk dancing, which is similar but does not involve as strong stances and often has slightly smaller hand movements. (Having spent most of his life in Battlehorn and taking part in folk celebrations, these are the forms of dancing John is more comfortable and skilled in. That and the wide, strong stances are closer to how he’s used to moving his body for combat training). 

[bigskydreaming]

Headcanon that everyone within the family may think of Dick as the one most in their father’s favor, but Dick is keenly aware that the general public thinks of him as their father’s ‘Consolation Prize.’

After all, when from their perspective he’s the one Bruce raised since he was eight as his ward, with that dissolving when he was eighteen and very little perceived contact between the two of them for years after that, while Jason was adopted soon after being taken in and Dick was then later adopted years after Jason’s death, without any public fanfare.....

What does that look like other than Bruce ‘settling’ for the son who didn’t appear to be his first choice, just chronologically first, once he lost Jason but still needed/wanted an heir, as he was getting older and the general public still didn’t know yet how closely tied Tim was to the family or that it wouldn’t be long after this that Bruce adopted him too?

Now granted, you can definitely perceive the above as overly angsty and not the only way this situation was likely to be perceived outside the family, but my point is more that like.....nobody ever presumes that the general public are overly kind or generous in their views or assumptions about the Wayne family behavior. I just don’t buy that people assumed there was some optimistic explanation for the way things appeared here, or that people just went “oh its probably because the kid who grew up in that house the longest just doesn’t WANT to be adopted by the billionaire and have all the security that brings, and that’s also clearly why he lives in Bludhaven of all places and a shitty apartment building at that.”

I mean, no matter what WE the readers may know of Dick’s personal priorities and how little he cares about where he lives or that Bruce would have willingly paid for him to have a better place to live if he really wanted it, is that what people are most likely to assume, based on appearances?

Anyway, I’m just saying, I bet it bugs the crap out of Dick to hear his siblings casually refer to him as so obviously enjoying favored son status and being the clear apple of Bruce’s eye, as he’s like, cue internal monologue: gee, sure wish I was as confident of that back during the years he seemed to want nothing to do with me.

Like I’ve said before, I think Dick isn’t actually super insecure and his insecurities such as they are mostly revolve around how his family and friends perceive him, not the general public.....BUT I do think that with as high profile as the Waynes are, there’s no way that nobody picked up on how little contact Dick and Bruce had in the continuities where they literally went over a year without even speaking to each other....and like, felt free to draw their own conclusions.

 And I do think this is also part of why I default to thinking a lot of canon takes and headcanons tend to gloss over how shitty Gotham public could be in their views/treatment of Dick. Like just because Dick was basically trained from birth to be able to work a room and entertain people while in their direct presence, that didn’t actually make him ‘one of them’ in their eyes, and I reeeeeeaally don’t think you can actually underestimate the pettiness and jealousy one percenters feel when they see someone they inherently view as lesser than them - as they would’ve viewed both Dick and Jason due to their lower class births - like....’leap frogging’ over them into greater wealth via being taken in by Bruce. 

Like, idk, maybe it just comes from having been a scholarship kid who went to a richy rich private high school attended mostly by the children of senators and hotel-chain owners, lol, but like.......I can not for a second picture Gotham’s upper class actually LIKING Dick or being as charmed by him as they frequently are depicted as, just because Dick knows how to be charming and likable. Like they might play it that way when in public at a gala, for appearances or whatever....but the second he turned around they’d be badmouthing him at juuuuust a high enough volume to ensure he’d be able to HEAR them but not be able to call them on it without it looking like he went back and provoked a scene over something ‘nobody else around them heard them say’ or whatever. Just to make sure that no matter how well he came across in public social settings, he never ‘forgot his place’ or whatever or forgot that they were all too aware of it too.

And also also, it always kinda bemuses me that as much focus as the Court of Owls and Talons get in Dick’s narratives in canon and fic, that we’ve barely ever seen any examination of what the Court retroactively means for Dick’s years growing up around upper class Gothamites who likely included more than a few Court members.....like, we KNOW years later that like, all along there were these people who even without knowing who Batman and Robin were, like, knew Dick Grayson was their ‘Gray Son’ and intended to claim him as their weapon someday, and you can’t tell me that wouldn’t have factored into how they viewed and interacted with a child and teenage Dick Grayson as they attended many of the same social gatherings and functions. OR that Dick himself in the aftermath of the Court of Owls reveal, didn’t look back at his OWN childhood and reflect on how many creepy or uncomfortable encounters he had with various socialites that left him feeling decidedly skeeved out and not a fan of how they were looking at him or things they might have said to him, thinking themselves oh so clever for alluding to things he had no idea about......like, I imagine there had to be more than a few encounters from his younger years that always stuck with him, and after the Court of Owls revelation like....looked TOTALLY different to him, especially if he happened to know for sure that some of those very people were in fact Court members. BUT I DIGRESS.

All in all though it all circles back to the same thought for me.....people might have been polite to Dick’s face when he was growing up, but they most likely had plenty of shit to say the second his back was turned, and I doubt they were afraid to be overheard by him. Especially in his later years, once people noticed how distant he and Bruce seemed to be, and thus perceived that as meaning that nineteen year old Dick Grayson wasn’t as ‘protected’ by Bruce the way he was when he was younger.....meaning the people who were most jealous of Dick’s ‘catapulting’ up the social ladder and eager to knock him down a peg because of that, like....probably would have looked at the relative lack of contact between he and Bruce as far as anyone could publicly tell, and felt emboldened enough by that to up their snide whisper game with shit like gossipping about how oh, the Grayson boy may be back in Gotham again, but we all know he’s just poor Brucie’s consolation prize anyway, why, if he really cared all that much about the boy, he’d hardly have ever let him run off to Bludhaven of all places, without even making sure to staple the advantages and opportunities granted by the Wayne name to him the way he made sure to right off the bat with the younger one.....

So yeah. There’s my angsty musings on how Dick likely is perceived by Gotham public at large, and how his interactions with them - especially when NOT around Bruce and Jason and the rest of his family....probably very much does not match up with what they assume public perception of Dick is, given that in their eyes ‘everybody loves Dick Grayson,’ but in Dick’s experience ‘everybody may be charmed by Dick Grayson while he’s doing his best to be charming,’ but don’t mistake that for acceptance. Not when Gotham’s public are just as likely to dismiss him as the second choice Wayne heir and consolation prize to make themselves feel more important/elevated than him the second their own insecurities have them feeling intimidated by the wealth, power and prestige Dick does actually share in by virtue of being part of Bruce’s family.

[starconsumer444]

Anniversary (18+)

Kenma x Male!Reader

A/N: Turns out that hiatus isn't permanent, so I'm back with my really shitty writing! I'll start taking requests again too (but I'm going to be slow at doing them and I probably won't get to all of them lol) <3

(CW/TW: Top!Reader, Dom!Reader, Sadist!Reader, Kidnapper!Reader, The reader is literally evil personified ;P, Kidnapping, Spit, RAPE/NONCON, FORCED FEMINIZATION [Kenma gets referred to as princess and his asshole is referred to as a cunt, needless to say... he doesn't like it], Blood [it's a nosebleed], hitting, crying, a lot of bad things??? disassociation??? this is... yeah... I tried...)

“I don’t want to hurt you.” That’s what you say, but Kenma can still feel the dull ache in his nose. “You’re too beautiful to hurt, you know?” You coo, lifting his chin with your index, forcing his eyes to meet yours. They’re puffy, red, and filled with hate. You smile and Kenmas stomach is in knots. His mind is telling him to run, but there’s nowhere to go, is there?

Trying to run is the reason blood is flowing so freely from his nose, down his chin, and on to the white dress you forced him into this morning. The bow around the dress— it’s pulled too tight. He’s undone the knot three times today, but every time you come and pull it back around his waist somehow tighter than the last time every...single...fucking...time.

Tears start to well up in his eyes again and when the first one starts to fall you let him drop his head. He’ll be past all this crying soon, he just has to get used to it or you’ll beat it out of him; whichever comes first.

He curls into himself, smearing blood and tears all into the skirt of the dress that surrounds him.

Beautiful, you think.

“I hate you.” It’s small, it’s quiet, it’s weak, it’s not worthy of a response— not yet— at least. You ignore it. You’ll let him have that one.

You're merciful enough to let him cry  on the floor between your legs as you flip through channels on the couch. You’re looking for something specific, something that will really help commemorate this as your one month anniversary.

Needless to say, you find it, right on time.

He lifts up suddenly, as if controlled by strings like a puppet, wiping tears from his eyes and turning to face the tv. He hears her voice and tears won't stop falling. They can’t stop falling when he sees his distraught mother on television crying about her son who’s been missing for a month. They can’t stop falling when he sees all his fans with candles holding prayer circles and praying for his safe return. They can’t stop falling when he sees his old friend, Kuroo, holding his shattered mother in a tight hug.

None of the words from the news broadcast register. He just sees people crying and holding each other. He sees candles lit for him. He sees flyers of his missing face being handed out. Then it’s over as quickly as it started, with the reporter coming back into frame and passing it off to one of her coworkers.

He turns to you with a new type of rage boiling inside of him and surfacing on his face. He’s up on his knees, perfectly manicured hands grasping at the fabric covering your thighs, brows furrowed, and finally looking you in the eye of his own volition. It’s the first time in a while it looks like he’s really seeing you.

What is he going to do?, You wonder.

“You know better than to hit me, don’t you?”

Surely he knows what will happen, he’s tried it several times since you’ve had him and not once has it ended positively for him.

His hands are gripping the fabric of your sweats, twisting at it with a certain fury that tells you he wants to hurt you. He does this a lot— it’s as if he has to muster up the courage to carry out such a fruitless action.

His body feels like he’s in a burning house. He can’t take this mocking. He can’t take this abuse. He can’t do it anymore. You’re watching him burn and not letting him leave or even trying to put the fire out. He wants to go home. He wants to hug his mom and tell her he’s alright. He’s tired of this.

“Please, let me call her.” He talks with a tight jaw, anger seething through clenched teeth. His head falls with his tears wetting his hands and your sweatpants. “Please let me call her. I want to go home so bad. Please.”

“No.”

And that’s all it takes.

“I fucking hate you!” and before he can even think to hurt you, he’s already down. All it takes is one good slap to the face and he’s back to his senses. His hands free the fabric he was holding on to for dear life.

He knows where he’s at. He knows he can’t win.

He lays arms crossed in your lap, sobbing. His body is wracked with shivers periodically as you stroke his hair.

“Pretty girls don’t act like this, you know.”

I’m not a girl, He thinks to himself. He’s far too gone to assert himself in any way right now.

“It’s okay to hate me. I still love you even if you do hate me.”

Kenma can’t stand that softness in your voice. You’re too good at playing the good guy. Anyone who wasn’t in his position would be inclined to fall for your fake prince charming bullshit. Is that how a psychopath like you gets by? You pretend to be soft spoken and harmless then hurt people when no one else can see you.

“You’re sick.”

“I know, it’s okay.”

You let him cry like that for ten minutes. You let him curse you under his breath (where he should keep it if he doesn’t like getting hurt), you let him get it all out. He even quietly begs for his mom and you can’t help but to think about how cute he is.

You pull him up by the back of his hair. Kenmas only got more beautiful since he’s been with you; you didn’t think it was possible. With drying blood and tears everywhere he’s mesmerizing. Even with your hands locked in his hair, this feels too good to be real.

He’s not looking at you, his eyes are unfocused, it’s more like he’s looking through you. Despite that, you pull him in for a kiss, blood and tears still fresh on his face. Of course, he doesn’t kiss back, but for once he doesn’t resist. It’s a small victory.

Now there's a growing tent under the surface of your sweats.

You let him go and pat the wide space on the couch beside you, “Get up here.”

Kenma shakes his head and backs away from you.

“Please let me go.” He pushes his body further away the moment you stand to tower over him. Then he’s turning and slipping on the skirt of the dress in his panicked rush to get away from you. He knows what’s going to happen and he wants no part in it.

You lift him with ease and slam him down onto the couch. Not once does he stop fighting you. He’s yelling for help and for you to stop. He’s kicking and screaming, begging like you’re going to kill him. Doesn’t he know that no one can hear him? It’s been a month and he hasn't figured out that much? If he’s that dumb, maybe he does really need you...

Still, it’s annoying and leaves you with no choice but to wrap your hand around his small throat. He kicks you in the stomach and your only response is to squeeze harder.

The fear sets in right then and there for Kenma. He stops his flailing and looks up to you with apologetic eyes. He doesn’t want to pass out, you choked him like this when he first got here. He can’t do it again— he doesn’t want to.

His hands come up to gently hold your wrists and his eyes become more apologetic with the increased pressure.

“Are you gonna calm down or do I have to calm you down myself?”

Kenmas body goes rigid for a second, but then he realizes he has to respond. He nods. His heart feels like it might beat out of his ribcage, but he has no choice but to force himself to stay calm.

Slowly, you release your grasp on his neck and flip up his dress to reveal his clean shaven legs and white lace panties (that do little to cover his private area). Your hand strokes down the soft skin of his thigh and you can feel him tense up, “Calm down princess. You wanna make me feel good, right?”

Kenma shakes his head and recoils expecting to be hit for his honesty.

You just chuckle as he slowly realizes you’re not going to hurt him for that and settles into himself. “Cute.” You say.

“Please…” The blonde mutters out.

“Please what?”

His throat hurts and his voice is shaky, “Don’t make me do this. I can’t do this again.” It sounds like he’s about to start crying again.

It’s been a month since you did this the first time and it’s been six days since the last time.

Kenma sees that you’re lost in thought and takes it upon himself to sit up as carefully as possible so that you don’t hit him. “Let me…” He trails off slipping his soft hand under the waistbands of both your sweatpants and underwear.

His strokes are graceless. He’s shaky, unsure, and clearly has no idea how to go about this. He only feels you getting harder in his hand as he looks you in the eye’s trying to find any sign of mercy.

You smile, “You’re such a good girl, huh?”

Kenma forces himself to smile back, but his fear is more obvious. “Yeah, Imma good girl.” He nods aggressively. If it means he has any chance of getting out of this, he’ll comply without a second thought. Dignity doesn’t matter when he’s here, he’s come to understand.

He plants soft kisses up your neck and across your jaw, and still his hand never stops. He’s so precious when he’s absolutely terrified.

“Use your spit.”

Immediately he pulls his hand away from you, spits in it, and goes right back to jerking your length. He’s so bad at it, it hardly feels good.

You titter at how anxious he seems and he jumps at the sound.

“Princess…” You start, and he hums in response. “I’m still going to fuck you, you know that, right?”

His hand withdraws straight away, “Please, no.” His head rests against your chest as he pleads for mercy. “I can’t take it. I don’t like it.”

“It’s okay, you’ll learn to like it.” You feel him shake his head. “Now, lay down.” He goes without protest.

Kenma’s far away from this by now. In his head, he’s anywhere but here. Still, he feels everything happening to him and hears everything going on around him. He doesn’t miss the sensation of you sliding off those lace panties or miss your hands on his hips turning him over to lay on his stomach. He can feel your tongue gliding over his hole, but he can’t react to it. He doesn’t squirm like he usually would— just takes whatever you’re doing to him.

The first noise Kenma makes is when you slide a single spit soaked finger into him. He’ll never get used to that sensation, and it grounds him every time. You can hear him sniffle and whine just as you thought he had run out of tears or at least had given up crying for the night.

Your finger drags against the special bundle of nerves and his body convulses and he lets out a yelp, that’s when you think it’s time to put in two fingers.

Your assault on his prostate continues and he cums, but he doesn’t seem to register it all that much. His senses are clearly a bit dulled by some sort of trauma defense mechanism his brain has. It doesn’t matter to you, though. You pull your fingers out of him and lube up your length with spit before pressing into his hole.

That gets a reaction, an intense one. He’s yelling, his words are slurred, and he’s pushing back at your waist, using his hand to try to get you to get out of him. His face looks mortified, like he didn’t know this was going to happen.

You simply grab his arm and pin it behind his back. No matter how hard he fights against you, he’ll never win and will always give up.

He’s so tight, and he’s spasming around you trying to adjust.

“Ahhh- your cunt’s so perfect, just for me, huh?” You moan out.

“No! No! No!” His voice is hoarse, he’s yelling and kicking his legs. You just press your weight onto him more.

When you start to thrust, he starts to say sorry and calm down. He’s sure he did something wrong but he just doesn’t know what. He’s sure that if he apologizes this will all be over, like some horrific nightmare.

His complaints are drowned out by your moans; it's been that way every time you’ve done this.

“Fuck, baby,” You moan breathily into his ear. “You’re so tight. You were made for this.” Kenmas head falls into the wet couch cushion. “I love you so much.”

Kenma cums again, and he must feel it this time judging by the pained moan he lets out. His body jerks with the harshness of your thrusts. There’s a mixture of sounds but the most apparent are moans and the sound of skin meeting skin.

You let go of his arm opting to pull him up by his hair, when you do, he’s back to his dazed apologizing. He seems so broken, it's exhilarating. Your “I love you.” is only met with another bland “I’m sorry.” it's clear he won't remember most of this.

When you cum inside him, there’s no reaction from him. You get up, leave him limp on the couch and go take a shower. When you come back, he’s just like you left him, still breathing, but generally unresponsive. He’s a great wife.

[sushiburritonoms]

Untitled Library Din/Luke ficlet

@darkisrising asked for #25 on the AU short fic list and I wasn't short enough for the little Ask box reply thing. I have worked multiple positions in libraries public and private so this came really quickly to me. Sorry for the multiple inside jokes in here but I hope @sadiebwrites appreciates this!

--

Normally Luke enjoyed Wednesday mornings. The middle of the week was a quieter time for library staff; it was far enough away from the hell that was the weekend shifts that Luke could take a break and mentally prepare himself for Thursday’s Toddler Storytime and Friday’s afterschool crush.  There were usually only a few moms with small children hanging around the board books corner at this time and typically his page could handle their easy questions.  It was supposed to be a nice peaceful time for him.

“Heads up Luke, your DILF is back.”

Luke nearly dropped the stack of new picture books he was carrying out from tech services. “Geez Dak, careful with that cart! ….Wait my what now?”

The library page grinned as took the new books from Luke’s hands and put them on his cart. “Your DILF! He’s in Children’s with his kid. You know, the biker looking dude with the sweet ‘tash?”

“I’m sorry young Dak,” the reference librarian Obi-Wan said with his head still huddled over his Wednesday crossword puzzle, “but might I inquire what a ‘DILF’ is?”

“No you may not!” Luke moaned as he ran his hand over his face. “And please keep your voice down.”

“Sorry boss!” Chirped Dak, “but they’re the only two in the room right now, so you got him all to yourself!”

“Luke’s got who all to himself?” their archivist Tionne asked as she walked by with her empty coffee mug.

“The DILF from last week. He’s back with his toddler and it’s not even Thursday,” Dak reported breathlessly.

“Hmm, is this the dark haired patron with the 2 year old boy, just moved in from Nevada?” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully as he finally looked up. “The one you were all telling me about last week?”

Dak nodded. “The hot one, yeah!”

“Don’t you have books to shelve,” Luke hissed at his page.

“Oh that’s so sweet,” Tionne murmured, “you looked so smitten after they left last week too.”

“I did not!” Luke protested. “I looked like my usual non smitten, very busy self.”

“You spent a half hour with them and pulled every single amphibian book we had for the dad,” Dak reported, “the guy looked overwhelmed as he left.”

“I was doing my job,” Luke said through gritted teeth, “just like a certain somebody should be doing.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Dak smirked as he started to push his cart out into the public area.

“Wait a minute,” Luke said suddenly as he remembered something. He peered at Dak’s bookcart and pulled a green and pink picture book out. “I think I’m gonna need this.”

Dak frowned. “You better not try to reshelve that yourself, I need to take stats if you use it.”

“I’m fully capable of logging usage stats myself,” said Luke.

“Yes, but will you?” Tionne asked as she sipped her coffee.

“No.” Obi-Wan and Dak replied for Luke.

“Why do I put up with any of you,” Luke muttered to himself.  “I’m leaving this conversation now.”

“Hmm,” said Obi-Wan. “Have fun with the ...DILF.”

“Oh my God, please never say that again,” Luke begged his mentor as he almost but not quite ran from the back room. The sound of Tionne and Dak laughing followed him out.

Sure enough as Luke walked towards the Children’s Room he could see there were only two patrons inside. The tiny toddler Grogu was absorbed in yet another book about frogs and snuggled inside of one of Luke’s red bean bag chairs, while his father sat awkwardly in a child sized wooden chair.  For a moment, Luke thought he might be able to sneak back to the reference desk without being spotted but nope. Little Grogu looked up and squealed in a non library friendly pitch as he spotted him.

“Shhh, mijo,” his father said gently. “We’re in a library, remember? Inside voice.”

“It’s alright,” Luke said as he stepped towards them. “There’s hardly anyone here at the moment.”

The father was startled and looked up at Luke. Then he unfolded himself from the tiny chair and stood up, looking strangely nervous. “Ah...hello.”

Luke put on his best friendly and not at all flirty children’s librarian face. “Hello again and ¡Hola, Grogu! ¿Cómo estás?”

The toddler squeaked from the beanbag chair in almost incomprehensible Spanish.

“Bien,” his father translated. “¿Y Usted?”

Luke’s spanish was limited to grade school level so he just went with “Muy bien, ¡gracias!” Then switched back to English. “Did we finish all of those books from last week?  What a great reader, excellente!”

Grogu’s dad looked up with his gorgeous brown eyes and chuckled, his deep voice sending a small bolt of electricity down Luke’s spine. “He wouldn’t put them down, he’s been obsessed with them all week. Especially the bilingual ones, thank you Mr. Skywalker.”

“Call me Luke,” he said with a smile. “You got a real reader there, señor…” Luke waited.

“Oh!” The man said. “Sorry, I guess I forgot to introduce myself last week. Din Djarin.”

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Djarin.”

“Just Din is fine.” Din gave Luke a shy smile that sent more fluttering feelings throughout Luke’s cardigan covered chest.

“Din then.” He couldn’t help staring, fascinated by how the dingy lighting of their poorly funded library could still make Din’s eyes look amazing. Oh he had it bad--and for a patron! If the Head Librarian Jocasta Nu saw him, he’d get another damn lecture about professionalism and there would go his chances for the library to fund his trip to ALA in Chicago this year.

“¡Papi!” Grogu suddenly said. “¡Quiero libro!” He pointed to the picture book held in Luke’s arms.

Luke blinked. “Oh of course! Yes, this is for you.” He knelt down and handed Grogu the picture book. “This book is new, we just got it today and it’s about Frogs. It’s called ‘Kiki Kokí: La Leyenda Encantada del Coquí.” In English it was ‘The Legend of the Coquí Frog.’

Din looked down and gave Luke a huge smile. “Another bilingual book.”

“I try to order as many as I can,” Luke said solemnly. “I have some time, would you like for me to read it to him? It would be good to practice my Spanish in front of a more sympathetic audience.” The toddlers at Thursday’s Storytime were brutal critics.

“I--we--would love that,” Din said, giving Luke another amazing smile.

Oh god he loved Wednesday mornings, even if he was in so much trouble.

---

You can request a ficlet from the AU list here but I'll probably be slow in replying (I need to go do some actual work lol).

Edit: There's a part II here

[cal-kestis]

If I Could Never Give You Peace

(Javier Peña x Female Reader)

Gif by @pedropcl​ [original gifset]

Summary: Two years after resigning from the DEA, Javi finds himself in Los Angeles, haunted by glares of gunshots and blood-stained hands. He’d succumbed to the idea that he’d never have peace — doesn’t deserve it after everything he did in Colombia. Then, she moves in next door and maybe, he thinks, things could be different. “I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.” Word Count: 4,357 A/N: A Reader-insert one-shot with a nameless female reader. No “Y/N” or "you," but the reader can be anyone. Inspired heavily by Taylor Swift’s “Peace.” How many TS references can you find? Lol. Tags: Fluff, Angst (with a happy ending), Mentions of death (but no one dies, I promise), Alcohol, Cigarettes

[Read on AO3]

The rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me... All these people think love’s for show, but I would die for you in secret... Would it be enough, if I could never give you peace? — Taylor Swift, Peace —

When Javier Peña handed in his DEA badge and gun two years ago, he knew he couldn’t stay in Texas. Not forever.

Texas held too many familiar faces, old friends calling him a hero when he felt like a villain. It held too many ties to an old version of himself he’d rather not remember… muddied images of him with a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise. No, he couldn’t stay. Not even for his father.

So, Javier Peña and the unwelcomed overcast of his nightmares found a one-bedroom apartment in sunny Los Angeles.

In time, he realized he needed the city: constant motion, endless traffic, and hoards of busy people who would never remember his face. He could blend in. He could be alone.

He could have a clean slate.

But each night, glares of gunshots flashed behind his eyelids and invisible bloodstains marred his calloused palms as if to remind him:

He could never have peace.

Then, she moved in next door.

The first time he saw her, he only caught a glimpse. She and her boyfriend, he assumed, held towering stacks of brown boxes in front of their faces — sweating as they lugged the dusty weight into the empty space.

For a moment, he considered offering some neighborly help but decided against it — When have you ever cared about being a good neighbor, Javi? — closing himself in his quiet apartment with a glass of whiskey.

The second time he saw her, she came knocking on his door the next night.

“Hi, neighbor,” she smiled brilliantly. And for a split second, he swore he felt something foreign flutter in his stomach, but dismissed it as the after-effects of spoiled dinner. “I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself.”

He could not take his eyes off her. His gaze stayed glued to a small bead of sweat trailing a slow path down from her hairline, where she’d pulled it back with a makeshift scarf-headband. The droplet slipped down her cheekbone, over a smudge of dust that had settled in from her moving boxes. It drifted down the curve of her jaw, dipping into the slope of her neck until finally hiding away below her tank top. And by some miracle, she only needed to repeat her name for him once before he came out of the trance.

“Sorry.” He gulped, removing the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Javier.”

He extended his hand and she met him halfway. Soft. So soft.

“Good to meet you, Javier.” She smiled again. Flutter. “I’m sure you’re busy. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, she swiftly turned on her heel to walk the few steps back to her door, bare feet strutting off, flaunting her daisy dukes, and — God help him, he’s a man and she’s beautiful — he stared.

The nail in the coffin?

When she opened her door and gave him one last smile over her shoulder, she winked.

No, he could never have peace.

—

After that, he hardly ever sees her.

Part of him feels relieved, unduly wary of the strange flutter he’d feel just thinking of her name. The other part, the traitorously curious part, dreams of catching another glimpse of her glistening skin or a quarter note of her honeyed voice. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he finds himself often wondering if her boyfriend gets to enjoy her sun rays and melodies. Lucky bastard.

He blames his roaming thoughts on the fact that it’s… been a while.

This is what you wanted, he’d remind himself when he’d wake to an empty bed — a stark contrast to his time in Colombia. This is the way things should be.

Just when he starts to believe those words, he finds her crumpled on the floor in front of her apartment — the contents of her purse strewn across the hardwood beside her, palms pressed firmly against her eyes. One tiny sniffle and a tremble of her shoulders, and he melts into a puddle beneath her muddy sneakers.

“Hey,” he whispers tentatively, voice raspy with cigarette smoke.

She jolts at the sound, immediately wiping her face with her sleeves and plastering on a saccharine smile.

“Javier,” she tries to say, but her voice breaks on the vowels. “Sorry, I was just— rough day. And to top it off, I think I left my keys inside. I tried Jerry but no luck.”

“Jerry’s a shit landlord,” he sighs, earning a nod from her. He takes out an old, faded receipt from his pocket and kneels in front of her, finding a pen amongst her spilled belongings. “Try this number. He’s usually fast. Can get you back in your apartment tonight.”

He hands her the scribbled receipt and she takes it with a real smile, albeit small. “Thank you, Javier.”

He nods, a tiny dimple forming in one tanned cheek, before getting up to unlock his apartment. The door clicks but he stands there for a moment longer, listening to her waning sniffles as she throws her things back into her bag. His eyes screw shut tightly, a silent war waging behind his forehead, his fingertips feebly trying to rub it away.

He sighs long and heavy when he realizes which part of him has won.

“Would you... like to come inside my place while you wait?” He mutters, mainly to the floorboards. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Okay.” Her smile is warm like the sun, despite the cloud of tears still glazed over her eyes. “But you don’t strike me as a cream and sugar kind of guy.”

“No,” he admits with an amused smirk. “But I’ve got some old whiskey, older milk, and a phone you can use, toll-free.”

“Thanks, Javier,” she sniffles. “Coffee sounds nice. But hold the booze and tainted milk.”

And that’s how she ends up in his apartment, sitting at his small dining table, slowly sipping from his coffee mug, using his landline to call the locksmith.

Maybe it’s the caffeine or the three (stolen) pink packets of sugar she found in her purse (“It’s not stealing. Diners offer dozens of them in cute little boxes, I mean practically gift-wrapped, and I modestly accepted three.”), but coffee gets her talking the way alcohol coaxes even the darkest secrets from iron-barred lips. She just broke up with her boyfriend. Or he broke up with her — found some younger, hotter-than-her aspiring actress in Hollywood and left her in the dust of the boxes she’d just unpacked.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “You’ve been so nice. Really, Neighbor of the Year,” she laughs, but he thinks it sounds off. He wants to hear the real thing. “And here I am, taking up your space, drinking your coffee, and dumping all my problems on the table. Tell me if I’m talking too much, Javier. I tend to—”

“Javi,” he says, furrowing his brows as if mildly stunned by the two syllables he just spoke. She looks confused. “You can... call me Javi, for short. And I don’t mind listening.”

“Javi,” she tests the name on her tongue, smiles. His stomach flutters. “A good name for a good guy.”

The argument dies on his tongue the minute he thinks it, even though she’s horribly, terribly wrong.

Sometimes you gotta do bad things to catch bad people.

If she knew...

“I should be out of your hair in 20 minutes anyway,” she says, breaking him out of his dark reverie. “Locksmith’s on his way.”

When she finally gets back into her own apartment, Javi jostles her doorknob, double-checks the lock, and knocks on wood for good measure.

“Find your keys?”

“Got ‘em!” She chirps, jingling her lost keys. “I’m gonna have to memorize that number.”

“I’m next door, too, if you ever need anything.”

“Me too. I can lend you some sugar for your sad-man, bitter coffee,” she jokes. “Thanks again, Javi.”

He sends her a tight-lipped smile and a short nod, a familiar weight settling in his chest as he turns back to his lonely apartment.

“Would you like to come in for dinner?” She asks, quiet and suddenly timid. “I’m no chef, but I’ve never made a spaghetti I couldn’t tolerate.”

He opens his mouth to refuse but she beats him to the punch. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me out. Please?”

And it’s the way she asks that gets him. The way “please” seems to fall from her lips like an unanswered prayer. He wonders, maybe she’s just as lonely as him.

So, he walks into her apartment, she smiles, and his stomach flips.

—

Months pass by with this new routine. He joins her for dinner at least once a week, if their schedules allow. If not at the local diner where she infamously loots sugar, it’s usually at her place. For one thing, although it’s usually pasta, she tends to have more appetizing (read: edible) groceries stocked up than him. But if he’s being honest, something about her apartment just feels more like… a home.

Framed smiles of her and her loved ones line the walls. With each visit, he finds himself studying a new one, imagining the story behind each snapshot. (He noticed after their first dinner, she’d thrown out the photos of her ex, replacing them with Polaroids of the city.) Piles of pillows stack up neatly on her couch, vibrant hues and patterns decorating the space. He adores the soft waves of music always floating around her space. She plays a different record each time, but somehow, each one compliments the sweet tones of her voice perfectly.

Her place feels brighter than his too, and he’s not sure if it’s the east-facing windows or if it’s just her.

Soon, he doesn’t need to decode the photos on the walls anymore. She tells him more than she’s told anyone before — about her hometown, her family, what she studied in college, her travels, her favorite books, her irrational fears, her dreams.

He tells her considerably less, especially when it comes to his time in Colombia.

For now, she doesn’t mind. She likes the way he watches her when she talks — brown eyes soft and warm, brows pinched together as he takes in each word, the ghost of a grin tugging at one corner of his lips when she gestures dramatically.

He realizes, one night after dinner, he comes home smiling now. And he thinks the nightmares have started dwindling, ever since that first dinner.

Maybe, he lets himself imagine. Things could be different.

—

He calls for you over and over, shouting until his throat burns and the echo of his frantic voice pounds in his ears.  

“Where are you?” He screams.  

The narrow hallway is dark, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He crushes his body into the hard wall, arms sliding roughly against cold brick as he tries to keep himself concealed. The gun in his hand feels icy and impossibly heavy, and his arms tremble as they lift the weapon higher, rounding the corner.

“Llegas tarde, Peña,” a deep, gravelly voice sneers. “You’re too late.”

“Tómame!” Javier yells. “Tómame en su lugar.”

“You would die for her?” The voice chuckles. “Llegas tarde.”

The voice’s shadow moves, revealing a smaller shadow crumpled on the floor — lifeless.

“Javier! Javier!” A distant voice chants, accusing him. Boom! Blaming him. Boom!

“Javier!” Boom!

The pounding sound wakes him up with a jolt, and his sweat-slicked chest rapidly rises and falls as he reaches for the gun inside his bedside table.

Slowly, Javier creeps to the front door where the loud pounding started. But when he peers into the peephole, he only finds her — looking as tired and distressed as he feels. A wave of relief floods through his overheated body.

She’s wrapped up in a blanket, a worried look wrinkling her forehead.

He puts his gun down in a drawer and lets her in.

“What time is it?” He asks.

“Almost 4 in the morning.”

“What’s wrong?” He demands, suddenly worried about why she’d be waking him this early.

“You tell me,” she says, frown lines still etched by her eyes — mirroring his own tired marks. “I heard you yelling. I was worried, Javi.”

“It was...” he starts, squinting as the images flash in his mind again. “Just a dream.”

It only takes one glance into his eyes for her to reach out to him, pulling him in by his neck until he nuzzles into hers.

He breathes her in, holds her like he’s not sure she’s real, like she might be gone tomorrow. “It was just a dream,” he echoes, but he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

“It was just a dream,” she repeats after him.

She pulls him by his hand toward his couch, sitting down before patting the space beside her. And just this once, he allows himself to let his head rest in her lap, lets her drape her fuzzy blanket over him, lets her soft fingers draw slow circles in his hair, lets her lull him to sleep with mumbled whispers he can’t quite make out, and lets her ward off the lurking darkness like a nightlight.

He’s asleep before he can hear the quiet secret that spills from her lips.

“I hope this doesn’t scare you,” she whispers, her fingers still tracing shapes over his head. “But I care about you, Javi, a lot. I think I could fall in love with you someday...” She exhales, a quiet, shaky sound. “I think I’ve already started.”

She comes over to his apartment more frequently after that. Whether to bring him dinner or just sit on his couch in comfortable silence, she doesn’t like to leave him alone.

And maybe, she’d rather not be alone either.

—

He doesn’t remember how she convinced him, but here he is... sitting at a crowded bar drinking water, watching his tipsy neighbor bouncing alone on the small dance floor.

Every so often, some cocky drunk comes up to put his hands on her waist and tries to dance with her, but she plasters on a faux smile and shakes her head at them, muttering something while nodding in Javier’s direction. Each time, they sulk away and he chuckles.

Finally, she bounces over to him, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Dance with me, Javi. Please,” she draws out the word, an octave higher than normal.

And despite himself, he follows her voice like a sailor enthralled by a siren’s song.

She puts her arms around his neck, swaying her body against his. And then she shouts over the music, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

And the heart on his sleeve falls straight to the floor, clanging loudly in his ears like metal.

‘Friends’ is more than you deserve, he reminds himself.

But then she continues, resting her head against his chest, her index finger coming up to tap a tantalizingly slow beat over his collarbone. “Good friends,” she sighs, lifting her gaze until her chin digs into his heart, her lips just inches from his. “Really… good… friends.”

She’s kissing him before he can even process the feeling. And despite his better judgment, he lets her. She’s everything warm and soft and good, with just a hint of alcohol — and he’s what you get when you turn those words upside down, jumble the letters, and crumple the paper into a jagged ball. But he craves the way her curves somehow fit perfectly against his cold, shattered edges. And he knows he shouldn’t.

So, when he feels her tongue trace along the seam of his mouth, he gently pulls away, hands rubbing soothing circles on her shoulders.

“You’ve had too much to drink, cariño,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” she whispers, smiling with half-lidded eyes, drawing her finger across his mustache then below his ever-pouting lip.

She’s passed out in his car by the time they’re back home. When he unlocks her apartment door for her, she stays latched onto his arm as he turns to leave.

“Stay,” she whispers.

“I—”

“Please?” She asks, in that way he knows he can’t fight. “I don’t want to be alone.”

And just like that, the door closes behind him and he stays.

He finds her an oversized shirt to change into, helps her wipe the smudged mascara off her face, and holds her until the sun rises.

When she wakes, the space beside her is empty but warm and indented, the shape of his body lingering in the sheets. A full glass of water, ibuprofen, and the phantom taste of Javi’s lips are the only other traces of her really… good... friend.

—

He’s not avoiding her… per se. But it’s a long, lonely week later when he sees her again, on an uncharacteristically rainy Sunday outside their apartment building.

“I just got home,” she blurts after standing there dumbfounded for a good minute. She nods to the soaked brown paper bags in her arms. “Groceries. Uh, obviously. Were you...?”

“Forgot my umbrella,” he answers.

“Same,” she chuckles awkwardly, droplets hanging on her lashes and the ends of her hair, only partially covered by her hood. “Obviously.”

“Here, let me help you.” He takes the bags from her, keeping the door open with his foot as he waits for her to head inside.

“Thanks, Javi-er.”

He follows her upstairs silently, his wet, squeaking shoes punctuating each slow and heavy step.

“I can—”

“Let me just—”

They fumble and dance around each other in her doorway as he sets her bags in her apartment. And, as if to torture herself, she decides to stand under her door frame when he leaves to grab his umbrella, waiting the longest minute of her life for him with a forced smile.

He waves his umbrella at her after locking his door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.”

He nods and walks back down the stairs.

“Javier, wait.”

He pauses, his back still facing her, drenched shoes balanced on two different steps.

“Can we talk?” She hates the way her voice sounds when she asks, tinny and trembling. Clearing her throat, she clarifies, “About what happened... at the bar?”

He sighs, screwing his eyes shut tight and rubbing his forehead.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says, low and barely audible as the rain starts picking up outside. And he walks away.

She’s stunned still, watching as his figure shrinks with each step he takes away from her. He’s already out of the building by the time frustration fuels her feet to follow him into the rain.

“Like hell there’s nothing to talk about,” she yells over the downpour, hair quickly sticking flat to her face. “Javi, we kissed!”

“You were drunk,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear, still walking.

“I wasn’t drunk,” she argues to his back, remembering with perfect clarity exactly how his lips felt on hers. “Just a bit braver. Javi, stop! Look at me. Please.”

And like clockwork, he turns slowly but doesn’t move any closer.

So, she closes the distance to stand beside him under his umbrella, taking in his features without the obscurity of rain.

“What are you running from?” She wonders, reaching for his fidgeting hand. “I would never hurt you. I—”

The line between his brows looks deeper than usual, as if they’d been stuck in that pinched position for weeks. Shadows lay in rings beneath his eyes, accompanied by smaller lines that carry untold stories she hopes he’ll entrust her with someday. His mouth is parted just slightly, as if to say something he knows could change everything.

And it does.

“I have to go.”

Her hands are empty and wet when he leaves. And the rain buries his parting words into the pavement.

I don’t want to hurt you.

—

She doesn’t hear from him for two weeks. Doesn’t even catch a glimpse of him.

The rain sticks around longer than usual for Los Angeles, making her apartment feel cold and gloomy. But maybe, it’s just missing him as much as she is.

Then, while she’s folding her laundry one night, she hears his door rattle and practically bolts to her own. He’s there. Keys in hand, rolling luggage in the other, hair tousled like he’s been pulling at it with his fingers. He looks at her when she opens her door, just for a beat too long, before hiding away in his apartment.

She sighs, closing her door in defeat.

But just as she starts getting ready for bed, she hears two knocks at her door, heart beating rapidly as she slowly makes her way to open it.

“Hi, neighbor,” he greets her softly, and the sound of his voice after so long without it nearly brings her to tears.

“Where did you go?” She asks. But she really means, Why did you leave?

“Texas,” he says. “I... needed to see my dad.” But he really means, I was scared.

“Oh.”

“Can I...” he mutters. “Can I come in please?”

She hesitates for only a second before stepping aside and he looks around like he hasn’t seen the inside of her apartment hundreds of times already.

He stops near her bedroom, where a new picture hangs proudly: a goofy, blurry photo of him stashing three pink packets of sugar in his shirt pocket.

“It’s the only photo you’ve let me take of you,” she says quietly, standing next to him with a wistful smile on her face. “I miss our diner dates.” But she really means, I miss you.

He doesn’t respond, just silently walks to her couch and sits, fingers rubbing circles into his forehead.

Minutes roll by slowly as she watches him from the other side of the room, battling with some invisible hand covering his mouth, holding on until the end to keep the words locked up.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispers, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of... back in Colombia. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to tell you. I think a part of me is still there, fighting some unwinnable war. Hell, even before Colombia, I—”

Muddied images of a beautiful woman, an abandoned altar, and a shattered promise flash in his mind.

“Fuck. I can’t shake it,” he says, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes, waving the invisible iron shackles on his wrists to show her. “Any of it. The nightmares...” He recalls her shadowy body and a dark, menacing voice. “They’ve followed me for years. I—” he looks at her, eyes darting across her face. “I could never give you peace.”

His head hangs low and a wayward curl brushes against his forehead. Despite how much space he takes up on her couch, he looks so small, defeated —  the weight of his past crushing him into this tiny, torn, crumpled-up piece of paper covered in red-inked, scratched-out sentences.

“Javi,” she whispers, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. So, she crosses the room and kneels in front of him, her palms reaching for his cheeks and lifting his gaze to hers. “Javi, who said anything about peace?”

The wrinkles deepen between his brows as he studies her, tries to understand what she means in the cloudy orbs of her eyes.

“The past is the past. We’ve all done things we can’t speak of. And sometimes at night, we live it all again. God knows I’m far from perfect. But I know you’re a good man, Javi. I see you,” she tells him, stroking the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs.

“I’m not—”

“Do you trust me?” She interrupts his argument. He stares at her, blinks, before nodding once.

“Then trust what I’m saying. You’re not perfect. But you’re good.”

His eyes close as soon as she sees water beginning to pool behind his lashes.

“I’m not asking for peace. As long as I get to be with you, it would be enough.”

And then his lips are crashing into hers, pulling her into his lap until he’s covered in her. The sound he makes when they touch is devastatingly beautiful, like she’s a balm soothing his freshest wounds and healing his oldest scars. It feels like his entire body has exhaled — lungs deflated, bones liquified, mind released from a decades-old straitjacket. If not for gravity, he could float from the way his stomach is fluttering. His shoulders lower and he sighs as if he’d been holding his breath for his entire life until this moment.

He’s drowning in her, submerged to the top of his head. But he can finally breathe.

“I’m sorry I ran,” he whispers into her skin. “I’m sorry I left, cariño,” he kisses just below her ear. “My dad said I was the biggest asshole on the planet for leaving. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry,” he licks the seam of her lips.

“Mi alma, you have no idea,” he sighs when she parts her lips for him. “How much I love you.”

And she captures the words on her tongue, kissing him with a ferocity that says, Yes, I do.

“Want to know a secret?” She gasps when his lips trail down her neck. Her voice is barely a whisper, as feather-light as her fingertip skating across his shoulder.

He hums, a soft, lazy smile stretching his lips wide, so wide.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” she says, staring into his deep brown eyes. “That I’ll ever love anyone more than I love you, Javi.”

Her finger stops, retracted to shield herself after such a heavy confession. His eyes blink slowly, head lifting off the couch cushion.

He doesn’t say a word. He only stares at her, the softest smile on his face — his edges blurring into gentle curves in front of her very eyes.

“You’re it for me,” she finalizes.

And then they’re crashing into each other again and again and again.

End Notes: Look, it’s been almost 10 years since I sat in a Spanish class and watching Narcos only restored 3% of my limited vocabulary. Here’s what I got from Google Translate: “Llegas tarde.” = You’re too late. “Tómame!/ Tómame en su lugar.” = Take me!/ Take me instead. “Cariño” = Darling, honey “Mi alma” = My soul P.S. Please let me know if I missed any tags/triggers!

[akitokihojo]

Monster - Chapter 1

And, here we go. Chapter 1 of this monstrosity (no pun intended) is now up and running below, on AO3, and on FF.net.

I'm going to be completely and 100% honest with everyone before you start reading, so please heed this warning! This first chapter is rough in the sense where it contains a bit of brutality and the death of a child. So far, this is the only gruesome chapter, and while the gore is NOT detailed, I still want my more sensitive readers to be wary.

This is the most action-packed fic I've ever written, and also the most expansive world I've ever built (in my humble opinion). With that being said, while the setting is a bit more on the historical side, there are plenty of modern references. For instance, not in this chapter but in future ones, a bathroom is just a bathroom. I don't mention plumbing or the lack thereof. My attention and energy was on more important things and I just didn't care about those details, lol. Additionally, a lot of slang, jokes, and references are fairly modern. Don't @ me (but also do). All-in-all, what I'm trying to say is I built my own damn world where there is no historical accuracy, so don't go looking for it, lol.

Unless otherwise stated, I plan to post each new chapter every Friday. So, yeah... I think that's all I've got to say.... have fun! Enjoy! Thank you for reading! Ily! Bon Voyage! Don't hate me!

----------

The responsibility is ours.

Kagome gasped as her feet slid in the mud, the small decline of the path she and her younger brother hurried down gradually becoming more slippery as the rain began to pour harder. Through the noise of the droplets and the sloshing of their boots, she heard a slight commotion; horses’ huffs, heavy feet, and boisterous men barking orders. Initially, she’d figured it was the village men ushering their families indoors, their livestock into barns, their carts and tools under shelter, and their firewood into a dry place as the storm reared its ugly head. The sunset sky was shadowed in gloom, thunder making it’s entrance in the far distance as it was bound to be banging on their doors and windows in no time. But, at the tug of her arm by her sibling, her attention was shifted to the actual cause of it all: Naraku’s henchmen.

“Again?” She shuddered resentfully.

“Third time this month.” Sota confirmed, clenching his jaw as he slightly tugged his sister behind his smaller frame. He was perfectly aware that he was only twelve, well in the know that he stood no taller than her shoulders, but he’d be damned if he did nothing because of it.

This time, there wasn’t a hoard of them. No, there were merely four, all of which were already off of their horses on the main path through their little village, making demands and threatening anyone who got in the way of their objective.

Throughout the last four and a half years since Naraku rose as a fearsome demon that easily brought down peaceful powers and attempted to control the world Kagome knew, she’d become more than familiar with this procedure. It wasn’t until just recently that they’d started coming more often than a monthly visit, though. And, it was no secret what, or who, they were after.

Her.

Anyone of her kind, really.

She was different. She was hunted. Those like her were supposedly powerful, but matters being what they were had caused anyone who shared a similar fate to subdue their abilities to the point of total lack of recognition of their true potential. At least, that’s how it was in most cases. Because, if they were found out, they were killed on sight. The reason for it was entirely unknown. Naraku didn’t just target them, though; he made everyone’s lives hell, especially if they stood out in a supernatural manner. So, while she figured there had to be a yet-to-be-identified reason, she felt it was safe to assume it was also just because he could. Maybe he didn’t like the threat of other, similar forces that could collide against him. Maybe he was egotistical enough to think he was the only deserving being. Whatever the case, he was cruel.

Kagome’s kind had several names through the decades - so many, she hardly knew the correct term for herself. At one point, ages ago, they were called banshees. The title didn’t make sense whatsoever, given their powers and what a banshee actually was, and the story was so old that she didn’t know where the justification even stemmed from, but it caused them to be feared, and for that, she honestly wouldn’t have totally minded if the name stuck around. They were called priestesses, but then it sounded too peaceful, too practiced, and it painted them as “good.” They were called witches, mages, sorceresses, but they committed no typical magic of that sort. Kagome didn’t know a single spell, nor did she have nearly enough time in the day to pack an array of herbs, spices, and what have you into jars that were sealed with candle wax - though she had caught wind that there were some older women of her kind with the ability to curse. Now, they were called conjurers. Their abilities were that of the spirit, aiding with protection, purifying dark forces - passively or forcefully, bringing forth light, and more she was sure.

In Kagome’s unpopular opinion, given what they could do and what they supposedly stood for, priestess was more suitable a term, but she also understood that there was nothing holy about the world they lived in.

There was no birthmark of the conjurer. There was no dead giveaway of their kind. The powers were gifted at random, as far as she knew, not passed down through lineage. The only thing Naraku and his followers seemingly had to go off of was that conjurers were born female.

Sometimes, they’d conduct their mission by way of senseless inspections. They’d rip apart the insides of homes looking for all the wrong things in all the wrong places. Truthfully, with how absurd they carried themselves, it was obvious they didn’t know the telltale signs they were looking for and were wasting their time. Which was what made it clear that for them to be so clueless, even Naraku didn’t know all there was that made up a conjurer. They were ignorant and they were blind, but they were also relentless and ruthless.

The days where they singled women out were the worst. Kagome, so far, was spared that cruelty, but that didn’t make it any better. It was usually the more mature, the elderly, that received the short end of the stick.

More often than anything, they’d line up every woman and girl in town and go down the rows one-by-one, stimulating their nerves in one way or another to see if they could get a “conjurer’s reaction.” Kagome could only guess that meant a sudden surge of purification power. It was the main trait conjurers were known for; but they were going about it wrong. Screaming in their faces, threatening everyone, or jostling them around a bit wasn’t going to get the demons purified, no matter how much she wanted to toss something their way. Of course, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell them that.

Every so often, they’d come in a pack and create havoc with violence. They said it was their way to pressure people into giving up any information they might have, but in all honesty, the smiles some of the brute demons wore said they were bored and simply wanted a little entertainment. Apparently, screaming and pleading were equivalent to a musical number in their bloodlust eyes.

Their own little group of demon slayers that resided in the village helped prevent this from happening when they could, which was why the henchmen came in numbers. The demon slayers fought for a sense of control, not to kill. They would only allow so much, but belligerent violence was not an option. It was obvious that, as of late, their village was a targeted spot, one that got a little more attention than neighboring towns, and for what reason, no one knew. They didn’t have the fighting power to win that sort of fight, though, and the leader of the group of slayers was sensible enough to understand this and explain it to the masses that questioned them. They were made up of a handful of men with rigorous combat skills they didn’t learn from home, refused to take recruits below a certain age, and could only train so many at a time. As much as they’d all love to retaliate and end things for good, intuition was telling them not to in that manner. Even Kagome felt that. Deep in her gut, she knew that even if they could, killing them would only put the people of the village in a worse position. This wasn’t something that would stop by taking out the underlings. Not at all. Far from it. Anyone who was paying attention could see that they’d need to exterminate the head honcho in order for any positive difference to be made.

Unfortunately for them this time around, their little pack of demon slayers had left on a request to take care of a troublesome demon a little ways off just that morning. And, listening to the henchmen now, seeing them in their dark leather, their cloaks, feeling their dangerous energies wafting through the streets of their little town, Kagome could tell that they were going to do whatever they wanted tonight, despite the fact that it was just the four of them. It wouldn’t be horrible, and would most likely be a lineup, but they were definitely going to take their sweet time and see who they could break.

“There’s still time. They haven’t noticed you. We can hide you.” Her younger brother said, his tone more on the convicted side as opposed to suggestive. He should have known she wouldn’t have gone for it, though. So long as every other woman and girl had to stand in front of their villainous promises and vile breath, so long as her mother had to keep a straight face, Kagome would always stand there with them. She’d made a promise to her brother, her older cousin, and especially her mom that she’d never willingly out herself for no reason, but she just couldn’t bring herself to hide when everyone else had to stand through their harassment. She swore that if the demons were ever convinced an innocent was a conjurer, that was the reason to give herself over.

Never would Kagome allow another to mistakenly go down in her stead.

No one but her family knew of her powers, and until necessary, it would stay that way. According to her cousin, the more people that knew, the increased danger she was in.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She shook her head, minding her steps through the small slope of mud as she gently pulled her arm out of Sota’s grip.

“Miroku would say the same thing if he were with us.” He argued.

“Yeah, well he’s not. In fact, he’s probably getting himself into trouble by picking a fight with one of those goons.”

“Kagome, I have a bad feeling about this. Come on, just listen for once.”

“Okay,” She stopped, turning around to challenge his look. “Say something bad is going to happen. Knowing these assholes, you really think my absence will stop that?”

“No, but -“

“Right. They’re going to do something no matter what, correct?”

“Kagome -“

“And then what?”

“And then they’re wrong, but they didn’t get you.”

“How is that fair to the person they might hurt?”

“That person isn’t my sister.”

“What if it’s mom?”

Sota’s eyes slighted to the side, a heated huff leaving his lips just before he begrudgingly sealed them. His jaw clenched minutely as his head gave a little shake, brown eyes once more meeting his sibling’s. “Miroku and I will protect her.”

Kagome gave a fed up smile, sighing, rolling her eyes, and turning back on her heel to continue toward the main path. Families came out of their homes dressed in cloaks as they prepared to, once more, be harassed until Naraku’s men exhausted themselves, husbands and male relatives holding resentful expressions as they guarded their female family members until they couldn’t any longer.

“Kagome!”

“Sota, quit it. The louder you are, the more suspicious we become.” She quietly warned. Kagome heard her brother’s aggravated grumble before he jogged forward to catch up, his demeanor holding much like every other male in the village.

No one’s feet rushed toward the excitement. The tension of the town was up so dramatically that Kagome could physically feel the crushing weight of it all, the anxiety as they made their way closer to their disgusting visitors was causing her stomach to bubble and waver, and her throat constricted nervously as she and Sota finally met up with the crowd, her brown eyes scouring over shoulders to scout out her family. Sota’s hand encircled her wrist firmly, tugging her to the right as he found them and guided her over. Miroku stood tall in front of their mother, brows noticeably creased and indigo eyes straight ahead until he’d caught their movement in his peripheral vision. Immediately, his posture squared further, as if enlarging his shoulders so that he’d be able to successfully hide both Kagome and his aunt behind his frame. Her mother held out her hand for Kagome to take as soon as they were close enough, a peaceful smile unsurprisingly gracing her lips while she pulled her in, shoulder-to-shoulder. Somehow, no matter the circumstances, she always did her best to calm Kagome’s nerves with the simplest of sweet gestures. Sota took his spot before them, influenced by Miroku’s stature as he replicated it.

Allowing herself a brief moment, Kagome bowed her head further, bracing it on her older cousin’s shoulder. She shut her eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply, attempting to release her trepidation with a long and heated exhale before composing herself and straightening out.

“- But this is too much! Why the hell are you back again!? There’s no conjurer in our village! Don’t you fucking get that by now!?” A man shouted, livid, and it was evident she and her brother had missed the beginning of the argument playing out in the center of the uneven circle created by people.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” One of Naraku’s men yelled back.

“Not until you tell us why you’re back for the third time!”

“Would you rather we made ourselves at home!?” Silence from the opposing man answered his question clearly. “That’s what I fucking thought.” He spewed, and Kagome could hear the spittle fly out as he cursed. His attention returned to the general public, his tone shifting from vicious to gruff as he made his command. “Only girls ranging from ages five to twenty, line up! Now!”

Increased unsettlement coursed through the crowd, mothers and fathers clinging to their young daughters, little girls’ fearful whimpers polluting the air as they hid their faces in their parents’ legs, and even Kagome’s own mother’s hand tightened her grip as a breathy gasp left her lips - understanding that this meant her eighteen year old daughter was being sent into the fire without her. They were narrowing down, slimming the numbers, and the small smiles on the villains’ faces made Kagome assume that something last time may have tipped them off to lessen the demographic.

“What do I do?” Kagome whispered to her cousin, failing in her attempt to hide the sudden panic striking her.

“Nothing. You do nothing.” He urged quietly, shifting his head to look into his younger relative’s eyes. “Listen, Kagome, treat this like routine -“

“This isn’t routine.”

“Treat it like it is. Keep your head down.”

“If they -“

“No.”

“But, they’ll -“

“Kagome, no. You made us a promise.” Miroku reminded firmly, knowing exactly where her mind was traveling. In the case of an incident, which there seemed to be a higher chance of this time around, she may need to intercede.

She took a deep breath, straightening her face as much as possible so Naraku’s men wouldn’t grow suspicious as they impatiently yelled again for the girls to gather before them. “If this means they suspect something -“

“It may just be a tactic they’re using. For all we know, they have nothing and could leave here with the same. So, treat it like routine. Okay?”

“Promise.” Sota insisted during Kagome’s silence. The mens’ barking got louder, more demanding, as did the crying of little girls being pulled away from their parents. With the building weight in her chest, like a liquid filling her lungs quickly, the density making it almost impossible to take full breaths of air or move without falling forward, all she could muster was a meager nod before forcing herself to walk out. Miroku and Sota both leaned to opposite sides to part their shoulders for her to move through, her mother’s soft hand still lightly holding her own until she was far enough for their fingers to slide away from each other’s.

At most, there were about twenty girls in that age range to offer, and Kagome’s brown eyes drifted over the uneven row of heads as she approached, finding her friend in the mix trying to calm the little girl beside her. Sango glanced her way, as if feeling Kagome’s eyes on her, giving an apprehensive grin and waving her over.

“Ready?” Kagome asked, though it was completely rhetorical. It was just habit for these things. It was unavoidable, unexpected, and overall, impossible to be ready for. But, when they bounced the question off of each other, it was like one final reminder to stone.

Sango knew. Sango and her family were the one exception to the familial rule. She was Kagome’s closest friend and Miroku’s significant other. She was more than trustworthy. And, more importantly, had known since Kagome accidentally found out, herself, as a kid. Because, that’s how it was being a conjurer. You weren’t born knowing. You didn’t have an outward appearance that proclaimed your status much like demons did. It was always an accidental happenstance; in her case where she put a little too much oomph into her bow and arrow lessons and purified the evil - and life - right out of a passing crow demon after missing her target.

She remembered the feeling of total surprise, then tremendous fear because she thought she’d be in a lot of trouble. Kagome had literally thrown her bow to the ground like the thing, itself, was the culprit of the power. Miroku was gawking, Sango was covering her mouth with both hands, and their dad’s shared an identical, tight-lipped expression. Her papa was motionless for an overwhelmingly-tense sixty seconds before shifting his wide, curious eyes to her.

“Did you know you could do that?” He’d asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy.” Kagome innocently answered, but she could feel the red, hot heat in her face from her lie. She was awful at those when it came to the people she was close to. Still was to this day. Give her a stranger and she could keep it straight, but in the face of friends and family, she cracked almost too easily. It was a guilt thing.

But then he’d laughed, ruffling his little girl’s hair before reassuring her that it was okay. He said they’d just have to go about her training a little differently from that point on to make sure accidents like that didn’t keep happening, and it was only because of him, his adventurism, his accessibility to knowledge from his travels, that she even discovered what she was in the first place.

Back then, though it wasn’t quite as dangerous to exist as a conjurer, her papa had still suggested they keep her abilities under wraps. She distinctly remembered binding that with a pinky promise after Sango’s dad had a private discussion with her own. Maybe it was because Sango’s dad was even more educated with the world, and knew the potential hardships that could come her way, being the leader of the demon slayers that he was - and still is. Honestly, the reasoning was hard to determine now because she didn’t put much thought into it when she could and should have. Being the young, spunky, loyal girl that she was, if her dad wanted her to keep a secret and held out his pinky to her, that was all the reason Kagome needed, and nothing pleased her more than making her papa proud. And, when he and her uncle were fatally wounded in a demon attack on their village, even though Naraku’s name had never once yet been muttered near her ears, he still made her do one final pinky promise to him saying, “Protect yourself for me, my little bird. Keep it in its cage. I love you so much, Kagome.”

She wasn’t even a teenager when that had happened. There was a part of her that wondered here and there if he was secretly clairvoyant, or if he merely studied the patterns throughout history of people of her kind and wanted nothing more than to keep her safe and make her life as easy as possible, given the reputation they had, their ever-changing titles, and the ignorance others had of their nature. If only he knew where she was now. Would he still ask his little bird to stay in the cage while the door was wide open?

“Ready. You?” Sango returned, standing straight and allowing the little girl to cling to her leg.

“Ready.” Kagome breathed.

Those not lined up hesitantly backed away, creating space and growing agonizingly silent as they seemingly held their breaths for those that were chosen. Kagome hated when they did that. It was like she could physically feel the onlookers’ anxiety, and it was the last thing she needed on top of that of those actually subjected and her own.

The four men walked back and forth, up and down the two rows of girls, criminal eyes taunting them with silent threats and menacing grins. It was creepy, but no longer was it fear-inducing. Kagome had a bad habit of not shying away anymore. Sure, she was nervous beyond belief, but the last thing she was afraid of were their snarls, scarred and dirty flesh, and crooked teeth. That, of all things, was the least intimidating factor for those who were calloused to the routine.

But, when an abrupt instruction was given by the leader, her already-loose expectations of “routine” fell apart completely.

“Hold out your left hands, palms up!”

Confusion soared through every individual, and Kagome met Sango’s brief side glance, minutely comforted by the fact that she wasn’t the only one without a clue as to what was going on. Questions weren’t allowed though, and even the little ones were well aware of that, so as the small group of men demanded everyone shut up and do it, all outward bafflement dissipated.

Slowly, Kagome raised her left palm, her arm outstretched, swallowing as she willed the slight trembling to cease. Brown eyes searched quickly as she waited for whatever to begin, weeding through the crowd and finding Miroku already pinning her with a stare. It was wary, but hard, his jaw visibly tense.

The sound of an unsheathing blade was unmistakable, and immediately Kagome’s attention bounced to her left where the leader danced the grip of a knife in his fingers, his lips curved downward into a permanent frown. The first girl in line couldn’t have been any older than fifteen, noticeably shaking as her anxious stare bounced from the man to the blade.

A man in the crowd began shouting, stirring, pushing forward through the heap of villagers to reach the forefront, “Hey! No! What are you going to do!? That’s my daughter; what are you going to do!? Don’t you dare touch -“ Abruptly silenced by a defensive elbow to the diaphragm, gifted by an all-too-fast demon.

The young teenager shuddered, not sure what to worry about first as the leader gave her no moment to react, grabbed her hand, extended it further, and gave a small slice with the tip of his knife to the center of her palm. She winced, a whimper easily escaping her mouth from the sharp pain, tears leaking from her eyes quicker than the blood that seeped from her laceration. And then he grabbed her hand in his, sealing their palms together as he stared her in the eyes for a moment. She was utterly terrified, wanting to pull away while knowing she shouldn’t, but as nothing else happened, the man released her, murmuring to stay in line as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his blade, his hand, then moved onto the next.

Kagome’s attention snapped back to Miroku as it dawned on her, his eyes holding the same idea as he gave a steady but stern shake of his head in retort. They were looking for the untrained conjurers. The conjurers who weren’t skilled in holding back. Everyone was already scared, and the wound inflicted a heightened sense of fight-or-flight. Then their hands gripping the victims’ - their demon hands against the victims’… they were working to spark a purification reaction, and they were going about it right this time. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them, nothing that small or unsuspecting would be, but it would hurt - much like the notorious fairytale of a vampire taking a quick step into the sunlight before swiftly turning around and heading back inside. And, that was all they needed.

Unbeknownst to everyone but Sango and Miroku, Kagome wasn’t completely helpless. Not only was she well-versed in subduing her powers, but alternatively speaking, she could knock a guy completely on his ass. She’d practiced. She’d practiced for hours at a time for several years now to see what she could do, what sort of strength she possessed, all on the far outskirts of the village, hiding near caves with only her friend and cousin who'd agreed, despite promises and secrets, that they all should try to be prepared for anything. By no means was she an expert, but she could handle her own for the most part and a situation like this was something she’d been well-conditioned for, for quite some time now.

Especially since she’d first received that message in a dream.

The responsibility is ours.

Whatever it meant, no matter how bleak it felt, it was a no-brainer that Kagome couldn’t go on without some sort of knowledge of her own potential.

She took a shallow breath, diverting her gaze to the goon before her as he happily took out his own blade, the other two following suit as they set out to narrow the time this was going to take. He stepped forward, grasping the wrist of the frightened and resistant girl beside Sango, who Sango had to hush into calming, telling her it would be done quickly. When nothing gratifying came from the occurrence, the man moved on to Sango, pinning her with a glare that she challenged right back. She hardly flinched at the slice of her skin, brown eyes never leaving the demonic ones of her assailant. When she shrugged a brow as he clasped their hands together, Kagome could practically see the heat rising in the man’s body language, quickly fuming from how audacious Sango was acting - which Kagome couldn’t help but respect, not knowing if the chuckle she forcefully swallowed was one of matched humor or nervousness.

The man threw Sango’s hand to the side, merely wiping her blood from his palm and blade on his pants before vehemently grabbing Kagome’s and extending her arm completely, bringing an inadvertent gasp to escape her throat. As the tip of his knife pierced her palm, dragging slowly to create a burning gash - one larger than Sango’s, so she suspected her nonchalant pass of amusement wasn’t as admissible as she’d thought - Kagome couldn’t stop the hiss that slid off her tongue, her brows creasing and jaw dropping as crimson dripped from her hand to the mud. With a clap, he pressed his palm to hers, fingers squeezing her small hand with unmitigated pressure. She felt a flurry in her abdomen, her diaphragm, her chest, warmth that drove her power, and that was her cue to hold her breath, to pretend everything was fine, to tell herself she was safe and trick her mind when she really wasn’t. She pretended she was holding Sota’s hand - the first person that came to mind, and the least intimidating one that she knew. Sota as an adult whose hand was finally bigger than hers. She couldn’t help but feel this was a huge insult to her younger brother, so she subconsciously apologized as she continued her visualization. It was like a lump built in her throat, the kind that grew too difficult to swallow, but she also felt completely in control, returning the man’s stare before he dropped her hand and moved onto the girl beside her.

“Shh,” Sango gently hushed the small child. “Everything’s fine now, but you have to stay quiet. Give me your hand.”

Kagome slowly let out her captive breath, the air she sucked in to replace it cold and not the least bit comforting despite the danger she’d evaded. She kept her palm face up but closer to her heart, cradling it for a moment as she tried to ignore the searing pain, diverting her attention to Sango and the kid. Her best friend was already looking up at her, using the long sleeve of her shirt to clean the blood from the girl’s hand and apply pressure so it’d stop bleeding, never minding the bleeding of her own palm. Thankfully, it only looked to be a little knick, and Kagome wondered if the creep of a demon that had handled them secretly had a soft spot for children.

“You okay?” Sango silently mouthed to Kagome. She nodded in reply, picking up the bottom hem of her own shirt and pressing it to her wound.

A sudden, deep, and broken yell punched through the air as one of the demons stumbled away, his hand yanked back, fingers furled in offense, and face twisted in rage. A little girl shrieked as he lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her cloak and pulling her out of the line, her feet stumbling to keep up as she cried apology after apology.

No. Conjurers weren’t common; now more than ever. How could there be two in one village? Especially one as small as theirs? How could there be more than one not even miles apart? How did Kagome not know? Didn’t conjurers have the ability to sense one another? She’d only assumed that was the case because of the seemingly-prophetic dreams she’d been having; because of the woman that had been coming to her in those very dreams. It was a weak hypothesis to go off of, but it was the only answer that made sense to Kagome. But, now there was a child being dragged into the center of where the town congregated, begging and pleading for her life while her mother screamed from the sidelines where she was being held at bay, and Kagome was none the wiser to her existence.

She wanted to yell that they were wrong, but how could they have been? It was a physical test. The accidental reaction of her powers was a dead giveaway. They couldn’t even lie their way out of this, or pretend the allegation was false. She was a conjurer. And they were about to kill her.

Kagome’s heart twisted and bunched painfully, that hard lump once more building in her throat, a murmured, “no,” barely leaving her parted lips, and her brown eyes caught a pleased grin on the approaching leader’s face that, just moments ago, seemed stuck in a scowl. He twirled his dagger in his fingers before kneeling down in front of the weeping girl.

“Found you.” He snickered, plunging the blade into her abdomen.

“No!” Kagome gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth in shock. The village was alight with terror, screams, cries, the rumble of defeat, the wailing of a grieving mother striking over all other sounds. Still, she was withheld from her little girl, reaching for her over the shoulder of the unforgiving demon who kept her away.

The knife was yanked free of the girl’s gut and she fell to her knees, her hands braced before her stomach as crimson crawled out, staining the front of her rain-soaked dress. Small hands weakly pressed into her abdomen, the wide look of horror, of pain, of fear etched into every inch of her expression as she gasped tremblingly. All too easily, the leader stood and walked away, not an ounce of remorse displayed.

“She was… she was just a kid.” A sympathetic village man stated morosely. “She wasn’t even ten yet.”

“She wasn’t dangerous!” Another testified.

“Would you like to be next?” A demon threatened, thinking his raised voice would retain order.

Kagome could hardly breathe, tears burning and brimming at her lower lid. All she could think to do was try to stop the bleeding, try to save the child, her feet moving on their own accord as she rushed out of line. Beyond the anger building in the crowd, the yelling growing louder, and the intense disturbance increasing rapidly and overwhelmingly, Kagome heard her name called multiple times. But, she couldn’t bring herself to listen, to stop, as she skidded to her knees in the mud, her arms catching the little girl as she fell forward. Her mother was finally freed, racing over and falling to the ground at her child’s side, helping through her weeping to lay her on her back.

“It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.” She soothed as best as she could, hovering over her daughter's face so the rain wouldn’t hit it, shaking fingers pushing sopping hair from her cheeks.

Kagome grabbed the length from the girl’s cloak that stuck out on her side, bunching it and pressing firmly into the wound. The choked gasp that came from the kid was agonizing, and Kagome apologized profusely, blinking away her own tears as she whipped her head around to take in the rousing group of people, fury evident in their tones, in their bodies, as they returned threats with the offending demons.

“Where’s the doctor!?” Kagome asked as loudly as she could, her soaked, dark hair whipping her in the face as she spun her head around to try and find their town's self-proclaimed physician. “Help! We need help!”

“He isn’t here; he left for herbs yesterday.” Sango informed as she dropped down beside Kagome.

“And he still isn’t back!?”

“The storm must have delayed him.” Sango shook her head in response, her brows creased together as she glanced over her shoulder to quickly mind the budding commotion before turning her worried expression back toward the crying child. “What can I do? How can I help?”

“I don’t - I don’t know.” Kagome stammered, her breathing growing heavier as she panicked, noticing the blood was barely halting, the stain in the girl’s dress expanding and absorbing through the cloth she pressed against the wound.

“Apply pressure!” Miroku instructed when he slid to his knees in the mud on their opposite side, careful of the girl’s mother.

“I am!” Kagome cried.

“Stay with me, baby! Stay with me! I’m right here, look at me!” The woman coo’d, sniffling and gasping with her tremors while the comforting smile never left her lips.

“Hey! Leave her! Let her die, or we’ll kill you too!” One of the vile men demanded, though his shouts went ignored, easily drowned out by the encroaching, enraged men who finally appeared fueled enough to physically challenge them. Kagome could only hope they’d hold the demons back so they’d have the chance to save her.

“Here, let me see!” Miroku pushed Kagome’s shaking hands away, pulling aside the cloth of the cloak to take a peek at the wound in her stomach. Kagome had to look away then, the sight of the thick blood seeping through too much to handle. Instead, she focused her attention on the little girl, crawling up to hold her cold, bleeding hand.

Scared, pained, blue eyes focused on Kagome as she took shuddering breaths, her chest convulsing slightly as her small voice broke with her cries. Little fingers softly gripped her hand in return, and the tiniest of smiles curved her lips upward, light beginning to dim from her irises.

“Miroku!” Kagome urged. She glanced back at him and noticed the hopeless expression on his face. One that claimed there was nothing anyone could do. Her heart dropped, a nauseating weight filling her stomach. Quickly, she turned back to the little girl, leaning an inch closer. “Kikyo and the other conjurers, they’re gonna win, okay? We’re gonna win. I promise.”

“Who’s…”

“You! What did you just say!?” Heavy steps sloshed in the mud toward them, his voice low, growling, dangerous.

Kagome had spoken up to be sure the girl had heard her over the yelling, but she hadn’t realized that it could have been heard by anyone else. She didn’t think about the ramifications. She didn’t think. She’d just wanted to fill the child with some form of final hope. What was wrong with that? Was it the fact that she’d said Naraku would fall?

She’d hardly had enough time to turn and react before she was grabbed by the hair and lifted to her feet, yelping as she was dragged back and away.

“You mentioned Kikyo!” He exclaimed, giving a forceful yank as Kagome loudly gasped from her constant stumbling, the pain on her scalp, the fear racing through her. In the thick of it, she’d forgotten Kikyo wasn’t a person who was widely known. She’d forgotten Kikyo was a secret beacon of hope to the surviving conjurers, who appeared in dreams and spoke in riddles.

“No!” Was all she could manage to reply, screamed brokenly, heard clearly throughout the number of villagers around as the action died down and all attention was on them.

“How do you know her!?”

She yelped again, forcefully pulled backward and released to only trip and fall over some tools.

“Tell me, wench!” He demanded, picking Kagome up by her throat and slamming her back against the wall of a home.

“I don’t!” She adamantly swore, still able to speak. His grip was there, but not choking.

“Liar!” He said, slapping her hard across the face. “How do you know Kikyo!?”

“I heard of her in passing!” Kagome cried, wincing from the sting before she was forced to look at him again.

“I find that hard to believe.” He growled, inching closer to her face. His hold on her throat tightened, cutting off air, thick fingers pinching painfully into the sides of her neck. “Where is she?”

“I - I don’t know.” She sputtered, wheezed, her tears hot as they glided down her face. The rain was nothing but a drizzle now, though the distant sound of thunder roared angrily. She was both cold and hot, her lungs begging for air as his hand pushed further against her windpipe.

“Stop it! Let her go!” Miroku barked, and his presence was just enough to distract Naraku’s henchman and cause him to release some tension from her throat. Kagome greedily sucked in as much air as she could, though he still constricted his fingers against her. It was like breathing through a straw.

Her cousin stood there, dark hair sticking to his temples, bloodied hands braced before him as if to reason. “She doesn’t know anything; she just told you!”

“Oh, another tough guy?” A demon behind him chuckled. “A little scrawny for that, don’t you think?”

“You have me wrong, I don’t want to fight. Release my cousin, and we’ll back away peacefully. She meant no harm.”

“The harm was done when she stepped out of place to save the girl!”

“She was a child!”

“She’s a conjurer! She has no place in this world!”

“She did! She did have a place in this world, and we all know it!”

“You best shut the fuck up, boy.” The leader said from the sidelines. “Word may carry that you’re on their side. Now, you wouldn’t want that. Would you?”

“Tell him to let go of her.” Miroku sternly ordered.

“Back off.”

“Let her go!”

“Suit yourself. Have some fun.” Their leader flicked a finger at the two other demons, allowing them to do as they pleased.

Miroku hissed a low, “Fuck,” before dodging a hit from one of the two demons enclosing in on him. He was able to throw one of his own, nailing an ugly bastard in the face before he was grabbed from behind, bulky arms wrapping under and over his shoulders to hold him in place. The other demon was eager while he arrogantly approached in front of him, smiling as he punched Miroku in the stomach.

“Stop! Miroku!” Kagome squirmed against her own offender’s grasp, her instincts beginning to kick in as she felt a wild sensation build in her veins. Something righteous whispered the power she held in her ear, told her to use her abilities to save her cousin, further fueling the heat that made her forget about the nip in the air.

“Kagome, don’t!” Miroku coughed, pinning her with his indigo gaze before his eyes pinched shut from a swift hit to his diaphragm, blood dribbling over his bottom lip and down his chin.

Control sucked Kagome back to the present, the earnest crackle of Miroku’s voice ringing in her ears and overpowering the one that told her to fight. The grip against her throat tightened again, closing off her air passage as red eyes turned back to her, the lines of his frown deep.

“Don’t, what?”

Kagome wasn’t sure if he actually expected an answer or not, but he’d made it physically impossible. She clawed her nails along the thick skin of his large hand, trying to pry him away so she could breathe. It was dire that she didn’t use her powers; she understood this. But, as the adrenaline raced violently through her body, it was growing increasingly harder to keep it subdued. She’d be killed in a heartbeat; she’d already witnessed their unforgiving lack of hesitation. Her mother and younger brother would have to watch. Her cousin, too. She’d promised everyone she would protect herself, and she'd promised herself that she would protect them. Above all that, a different, deeper, more rational voice spoke to her, drowning out the one that told her to take action just a moment ago, telling her that her fight was meant for somewhere else. Something bigger. She could practically feel the breath hitting her ear, urging her of the importance. It told her to swallow it, hold it at bay, keep it buried no matter how badly it burned for release at the underside of her flesh. Keep it in its cage.

Finally, the demon released his tight hold on her neck, opting to firmly grip the front of her shirt. His upper lip twitched in disdain while Kagome sputtered, and coughed, and gasped for air to fill her lungs.

“Don’t, what?” Naraku’s henchman repeated, this time a little lighter, and it was impossible to miss that he was visibly analyzing for any sort of body language that could tip him off.

“Fight.” Kagome attempted to say, though her voice came out incredibly raspy and broken.

“Like I’d be worried about what a girl as small as you could possibly do to me. Unless,” He cocked a brow. “I’d have a reason to worry. Unless, you’re a conjurer.”

She shook her head, scared to look away from him, hyperaware of any movement she made in that moment. She was absolutely terrified of letting him know she was lying, but what if her stiffness was what told him the truth? What if the vehemence behind her objection was exactly what he needed to convict her? Where was the happy medium? Was there one? Kagome’s bottom lip quivered, resisting the impulse to glance Miroku’s way when he continuously coughed, the sound slightly gurgled, scared the shift in her eyes would be mistaken for something else.

“How else would you know who Kikyo is?”

“I - I h-heard of her in p-passing.” Kagome said, still unable to use her voice, and she wondered if the strangulation was enough to damage her vocal cords or if her anxiety was the cause of it. “I-In a nearby town. By - by the r-river.”

The demon yanked her forward and slammed her back against the wall, the back of her head smacking the wood painfully. “Are you a fucking conjurer, wench!?”

“No!” Kagome wheezed, releasing her own hold on his fist to emphatically present the blunt cut on her palm to him before she repeatedly smacked it against his forearm, smearing hers and the little girl’s blood, showing him the exact reaction - or lack thereof - they were looking for in coming today in the first place.

“Let - let her go.” Miroku was on his knees, breathing impaired, holding his side with one hand while the other braced his weight in the mud. “She’s not a conjurer. She’s not. She can hardly even hunt. I have to take her everywhere. There’s no way anyone that knows her would believe she’s one of them.”

“Being a conjurer doesn’t have anything to do with hunting, boy!” One of them spit.

“Well, how the hell would anyone know!?” Sango shouted from the side, still seated on her knees beside the child. Her cheeks were flushed furiously, and her hands were held out inches from her chest, palms up, covered in blood that she was afraid would never wash off. Their attempts were in vain and the mother wept, clinging to her little girl, her face buried in her daughter’s still chest. “Conjurers are practically going extinct; you’re all winning! We don’t know what they can do! They probably don’t know what they can do! Conjurers either have to hide to save their lives, or they don’t even know they are one yet!”

For a brief second, Kagome allowed herself to glance beyond Sango’s head, finding her family. Her mother’s hands were cupped in front of her mouth, trembling as she never removed her eyes from her daughter. Her brow was creased deeply, concern etched so thick you’d think an artist may have been too heavy with their pen. Kagome couldn’t tell if her mom was breathing slowly, or if she was holding her breath. She couldn’t tell if her mom was saying a silent prayer, or if words could barely form in her mind as she had no choice but to watch the scene unfold. Her mother had to witness a daughter torn away from another; a daughter who held the same, supernatural fate as her own. Kagome could only imagine the stress that currently laced her mom’s system.

Before her stood both her brother and Sango’s, Sota bearing a wide expression, neck tense and lips parted uncertainly, and Kohaku wearing a more cautious grimace, watching apprehensively. Knowing her onlookers were nervous, worried, should have been the very thing to cause Kagome to proceed carefully, but instead it served as the switch that flicked on in her head. She was tired of living like this, done with the dreadful thought that this was their normal. This wasn’t going to continue.

She’d been waiting for a sign, waiting for her cue. Bags were packed and weapons were stored in a hiding place where they’d been training outside of the village. Miroku, Sango, and she had discussed a while ago that they were going to eventually leave together and find the called-upon conjurers, and join Kikyo to fight against Naraku. It was their - the conjurers’ - responsibility. As much as she wanted to know why, pleaded with the apparition of this seemingly all-powerful conjurer time and time again for an answer, at this point it was no longer deemed necessary. Not anymore. Kagome figured she’d hear this magical invitation telling her when and where - which was farfetched but a fair assumption given she barely had anything to go off of. She even thought she might have to wait a while longer until she was stronger, more trained in her capabilities, before Kikyo gave her some form of clear signal instead of these ominous, detail-lacking prophecies in her subconscience that she was currently getting every other night. But now a tick in her core, an itch in her chest, a steady deepening in her resolve told her the time was now. Screw waiting, screw messages, screw rolling over, screw self-pity, and screw Naraku. If he wanted a fight, if this was his initiation all along, his declaration of war, then he was finally going to get one.

“If that’s the case, bitch, then what were you telling the girl?” The demon holding her collar jerked her slightly to demand her attention, receiving it with vexation.

“I,” Kagome took as stable a breath as she could, her throat aching and voice pathetically weak, clearly evident now that it was due to the ruthless strangling she’d received. “I told her Kikyo would kill Naraku.”

“And, why the fuck would you say that?” He asked, almost surprised at her bold statement.

“I wanted her to go with hope, not fear.”

He guffawed, his chest pumping. “You don’t actually believe that!”

Without hesitation, as straight as she could manage while she halted his laughter, Kagome replied, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

His smile faded quickly, humor replaced with anger as his fists bunched tighter and he heatedly pulled Kagome away from the wall and threw her to the floor. Kagome landed on her front, quickly pressing herself to her hands and knees just before he pushed her belly down, her wrists sliding and giving out so the side of her face planted in the mud.

“Kagome -“ Her cousin called, stumblingly crawling her way before another demon kicked him in the side he’d been clutching, a tiny crunch being heard just as Miroku choked in pain.

“Miroku, stop! I’m fine!” She attempted to say clearly, a foot braced on her back.

“Enough.” The leader stated. “Everyone back in line. We haven’t finished yet.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” A man asked disbelievingly. “You don’t think you’ve done enough damage already!? Get the fuck out!”

“Yeah, get out of here!” Other villagers began to call out, joining in. “You aren’t welcome here! You’re only taking advantage because our demon slayers are gone!”

“You think that matters?” The leader chuckled. “Go ahead. Revolt. Fight back. Make us leave. See how quickly your entire village will be wasted the next time around. You see four of us and think you stand a chance. You see a large group of us and think you’re safe because you’ve got a little pack of demon slayers protecting you. Funny, that’s never stopped our inspections before, so I don’t see why you think that’d stop us now. Either way, not a single one of you would be left alive if we brought a fraction of the wild demons under Naraku’s control, and he wouldn’t bat an eye if we borrowed them to kill you all. In fact, that’s already in the plan if we don’t check in. You kill us all, congratulations, but you’ll be worse off. Compared to him, we’re the most compassionate monsters you’ll ever meet, and I suggest you learn to appreciate that. Now, get your girls back in line.”

“It’s okay, papa.” An older girl spoke. Kagome couldn’t see from where she lay, but she recognized the seventeen year-old’s voice. Ayumi. She was soft-spoken normally, but also fairly brave and kind. The only child of a widowed father, and a girl, like the rest of them, forced to grow up too soon.

Ayumi walked forward, having backed away from the rowdiness with the majority of the girls who hadn’t run back to the safety of their parents. Notching her chin upward, she raised her left palm, “Let them finish. They won’t seem so big forever.”

“Bold girl.” The demon complimented.

“Yeah. The more I find myself hoping the conjurers win, the bolder I feel.”

“Careful, now. You’ll wind up getting yourself killed.”

“Looks like being female might just get me killed, anyway. So, I might as well go down confident that Naraku is the true evil here, and evil never wins.”

“What a disgusting cliche.” He groaned. “Grow a brain and come up with something original before you spew that sort of shit. It’s embarrassing. Look, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but as the chick over there stated, we already are. We’re winning. Now, I won’t argue that we’re the bad guys here, but at this point in time, that doesn’t really matter.”

Ayumi swallowed thickly, eyes faltering downward for the smallest moment before she rose them to meet the red eyes of Naraku’s henchman. As sickeningly as that notion sat in her esophagus, Ayumi felt it would be worse if she’d sunken her shoulders at the validity of their power. By no means was she strong, and by no means was she actually all that courageous. Ayumi, true to heart, was a daydreamer, was a fantasy-enthusiast, was a soft, sweet, and hopeful wisher, was tired, was passive. So, while she could admit her stare wasn’t striking, her irises would never be vivid with the passionate heroism she dreamed about, her lips would never curve with a compelling and threatening snarl, she could also admit that just the act of matching his gaze was all she needed to do to defy defeat. With chapped lips parting, not a waver traveling over her tongue, she spoke. “Yes, it does.”

“Yes, it does.” Another girl agreed, approaching to stand beside Ayumi.

“The world hasn’t always been this way. Naraku only grew large less than five years ago.” A woman said, a mother, holding her fearful daughter in her arms. Several more girls got back in line, their shoulders a little more broadened than before. “I find it appalling how arrogant you all have gotten in such a short time. I assure you, conjurer, demon, human, or anything in between, I’d give them my trust sooner than I’d yield to the idea of life staying like this. Good and evil, the difference will always matter. So, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Inspirational.” One of Naraku’s demons remarked sarcastically, cringing.

“Hey, whatever blows your skirt up, lady.” The leader shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want. No sweat off my back. Funny enough, I’d put down all the money in my pockets right now to bet not a single one of them would return that trust, nor would they risk their lives to save you. I mean, not to play devil’s advocate or anything, but look at the twisted circumstances. What the fuck have you done to help them? Human’s are selfish; only looking out for themselves. You hate us showing up because you don’t want us to hurt you. It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with us hunting down conjurers, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with that little girl on the ground over there. If it did, you would have never watched it happen. If it did and it was just the ‘shock factor’ holding you back, you still would have done a little more than yell at us about how unfair it was. Oh, cry me a fucking river.” He grinned, stepping over to the first girl in the newly-formed line. There were less than half left that hadn’t been tested, and he got straight to work, unforgivingly slashing at the pre-teen’s palm and slapping his own to hers as he continued his heartless speech. “Even better, there’s two of your own on the floor, both of them getting quite the beating, and not a single fucking one of you did a damn thing to help. I understand the lad; that’s his - er - sister? Cousin? And, I mean, at least the chick tried to help the conjurer survive. I’ll give them kudos, but I think I speak for all of us non-humans when I say fuck the rest of you egotistical pricks. Oh no, my child might have a scar on her hand. Oh no, more trauma.” The leader mocked, his tone high and whiney. “Yeah, well, at least they’re not dead in the mud like little Suzie over there.”

There was a collective gasp from the audience at the harsh and morbid insensitivity. Still, no one challenged him. Someone should have, and no one said a thing.

Kagome tasted bile on the back of her tongue from the disgusting sentiments plaguing the thick, electric air. How cruel. She wanted to open her mouth and beg him to stop and just finish his job already, force her broken voice out to demolish his train of thought and hope he doesn’t mention the death for the remainder of his stay. The only thing stopping her was Miroku’s steady stare on her. It held more power than an order from his mouth to stay quiet ever could. With a foot on her back as a warning for more damage, the impending threat that he would easily be hurt again, and the fact that she’d said enough as it was, no matter how bold she felt in the face of this evil, she knew she was meant to face the source. She could only do that alive. So, begrudgingly, she obliged to his logical demand.

If they wanted them to finish, they needed to stop fighting. They needed to shut up. A double-edged sword. Like bowing their heads to the abuse. Enabling it. Allowing it so it ends quicker.

Kagome could feel her palms burning in the mud, a sense of humiliating defeat flooding her chest, making her feel sick to her stomach. She kept her eyes on Miroku, he kept his eyes on her. She tried to raise the volume of her thoughts, no matter how negative they were, to tune out the gasps and muffled cries of the young girls as they received the cut to their palms for testing.

How could she hold any form of power, yet still feel so powerless? How could she have the privilege of a voice, but feel so irrevocably silenced? She wanted to believe she could save everyone there if she just untied the knots concealing her abilities, but it physically pained her to understand that it was the wrong thing to do. It would be counterintuitive. It would wind up getting them all killed later. She could fight, but she also couldn’t.

“And, there you have it.” The leader finished by wiping his knife clean and slipping it back into the little holster on his hip, the hint of pride and sarcasm on his tongue. “Thank you so much for your cooperation and understanding. We’ll be seeing you.”

The demon holding Kagome down applied a small kick of pressure as he lifted off of her, chuckling as his dirty boots stuck in the mud with each step away.

There was an eerie silence, one that grew more deafening as the henchmen took their horses and disappeared from the village. It was heavy, thick, like sludge. Weighted with failure and death. Even the cries from the mother were muted. For a moment, Kagome thought that instead of drowning out the pained noises with her own thoughts, her brain had responded late to her distress by completely disabling her sense of hearing instead. But, she could hear the stickiness of the mud as she peeled herself from the ground to sit on her knees. She could hear feet slowly walking - most likely children rejoining their families. She could hear the thunder threatening them of the next onslaught of rain to come. The silence that captivated them was one that couldn’t be lifted with a simple, “Thank god that’s over.” No one could make it dissipate by asking if everyone was okay. Because, it didn’t matter.

And, that was something everyone, even the young, could recognize.

The small talk that would eventually come when everyone was back in their homes, the whispers, the crying, and maybe even tiny chuckles from people trying to find the little joys to get them through this, they would all be irrelevant. Because, outside there would be a blanket of despair thicker than the friction-inducing clouds hanging over them at this very moment, and it promised them there that it would stick around as long as it needed to.

“Hey,” A soft voice spoke in Kagome’s ear, a gentle, cold hand brushing her arm, and it was only when she gasped and jerked upright that she realized she’d been hanging her head, sights stuck on her hands on her thighs. “Sh, sh. It’s just me.” Her mother reassured, kneeling beside her and using her sleeve to try and wipe her face clean of some clumpy mud. “Are you alright, honey?”

Out of sheer reaction, she gave a meager nod.

“Look at me, Kagome. Look at me. Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” Kagome said as convincingly as possible. When Miroku groaned, catching her mother’s attention and even her own, she was happy to have the focus off of her. Kohaku and Sango were beside him, trying to sit him up, freezing as he struggled.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.” A couple, larger village men came over, better suited to help. One of them firmly clasped his hand in Miroku’s, quickly pulling him up to his feet so the pain wouldn’t be dragged out. Her cousin hissed at the shock, clenching his throat to try and swallow his grumble, and the two men supported him by pulling his arms over their shoulders.

“Can you stand?” Kagome’s mother asked.

“Yeah.” She whispered, not wanting to irritate her throat further and finding no real need to speak up right now. “I’m fine, mama. Don’t worry about me. Miroku needs your attention more.”

“Even if that were true, he’s kind of surrounded. I don’t think I’m needed there, love.” She replied, grabbing her by her elbow to support her as they stood together. “Sota, take her other side, please. Just in case.”

“Wait.” A broken voice called to them, trembling but by no means weak.

They all stopped just two steps in, looking over to the mother on the ground. Her daughter’s body, from head to toe, was covered by a long cloak belonging to one of the villagers beside her now, attempting to give comfort.

“Kikyo? Is that what you’d said? Kikyo?” She asked Kagome.

As clearly as she could, with a little nod of her head as she processed the question, Kagome said, “Yes.”

“Who is that?”

Kagome could feel the tension in her brow falter as the sympathetic, concerned curve in them wilted away to change more into dubiousness. “You - you don’t…” She didn’t know who Kikyo was. Even her own mother knew who Kikyo was. Her mom was the first to hear about her dreams before she started discussing them with the rest of her family. Had her daughter not had the same messages coming to her? Or, was she so confused, so distraught from them all, that she chose secrecy over being seen as insane?

“She’s a conjurer.” Kagome answered.

“Is she - is she a strong conjurer?”

“I think so.”

“I’m sorry, did your daughter never mention anything about Kikyo?” Sango carefully asked.

“N-no. Why would she?”

“We were just under the impression that she may have been sending survivors telepathic signals of sorts.” She said.

“That’s preposterous.” A man scoffed.

“Maybe. We heard it in passing. From an old man, no less.” Miroku said, discomfort laced in his tone.

“What - what could she possibly have had to say to a little girl?” The mother asked, her bottom lip quivering while her hand rested on her daughter’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I wish I knew.” The words were painful to speak. Not from her throat, but from the fact that she had to lie to a woman who’d had her everything stolen from her. A woman who, more than anyone, deserved the truth.

When she’d said what she’d said about Kikyo before, the little girl had muttered something in return before the demon tore Kagome away. It seemed like she was about to ask who Kikyo was. Kagome was sure now that the kid didn’t know. She hadn’t had the dreams, the premonitions, the one-sided conversations, nothing. She hadn’t had any communication with Kikyo, whatsoever. Maybe Kikyo was kind to exclude the young, and only spoke to the older, potentially more conditioned conjurers.

Or, maybe there was a possibility that Kagome was the only one.

And, it terrified her.

“Will she win? Kikyo? Will she defeat Naraku?” The crying mother asked.

Kagome was finding it hard to reply, to communicate. Her throat was tightening up as she watched the woman’s body begin to crumble once more toward her little girl’s; like she needed to be connected with her to prevent her from going cold. She could feel her eyes stinging, tears brimming, her fingers quaking and legs growing weak. Her cheeks felt hot and her chest wouldn’t allow a full breath of air - only unsteady, unmatched, quick puffs that burned. A hot hand slid into her right, her brother’s fingers tightening their grip, but she couldn’t control her body enough to grab it back.

“I refuse to believe otherwise.” Sango answered confidently.

The mother now sobbed, nodding in acknowledgment as she weeped over the covered body of her daughter. “Thank you.”

Kagome wanted to apologize profusely. For failing to protect her. For failing to try to protect her. For her loss. For the chance she was never given to learn to defend herself. For the silence she had to keep. The guilt was so heavy on her shoulders, she was ready to give in in front of them all, but the hand in hers pulled her back, made her move.

More villagers were moving toward the mother and child to help comfort while they removed the body, and that was the prime opportunity to get Kagome out of there. Sota could tell from the moment it started that she was going to break down, maybe even panic. He knew his sister, he knew the signs, he understood the stress she was under, and he wanted nothing more than to get her away and help her as best as he could. So, he disregarded everyone else and began pulling Kagome ahead. Miroku would have to move at a slower pace, Sango and Kohaku would stick by him and the men that helped, and he figured their mom would respect that they needed a moment of peace where they weren’t under more eyes than necessary.

Sota ignored the broken utterances of his name that came from his sister, he ignored the threatening weather, and he ignored anything that could potentially get in his way. He directed Kagome around their house, to the back, and toward the tree line of the woods. Three trees in past the shrubbery bush, on the opposite side of the trunk, Sota found the rope ladder to the treehouse their dad had built them hanging. Holding it steady, he released Kagome’s hand.

“Come on. Climb.”

-> | next chapter |

[lunarliza]

JJ Maybank Must Die | Chapter 1: Popsicles

fuckboy!JJ x Reader 

series masterlist

JJ Maybank is the island’s most infamous fuckboy- not that you ever cared. But when a group of tourist girls come to your surf shop crying to you about him, you agree to help them plot revenge. Sabotage is all fun and games, until you find that the playboy you were sworn to ruin happens to be falling head over heels for you.

Yes, this is based on John Tucker Must Die lol

note: so this is my second JJ fic! I’m so excited for ya’ll to read it. it’ll be more light-hearted and shorter than DLS :) 

“Come on... come on! This one right here let’s go!” you yelped. The crowd behind you was practically chattering on their fingernails. 

The seven year old boy in the water paddled as hard as his lanky arms could take him towards the daunting wave. 

“Now Gavin now! Stand up!” you shrieked as the boy hurriedly went through your instructed steps, tucking his knee, and thrusting upwards as the wave got close. Then, before he even realized, he glided rigidly along the wave as the board carried him across the water. 

“Hooray! Awesome job Gavin!” The flock cheered and rushed to pat the boy on the back, his dad lifting him up in his arms. 

The child scuttled towards you and threw his arms around your neck. You chuckled delightedly. “Alright everyone! That’s it for our surf lesson today. Be sure to check out the gift shop on your way out!” 

You waved bye to the guests as they made way to return their boards to the hut, some handing you rolled up cash, with thankful smiles. 

Once the coast was clear, you jogged back to the hut only to find Sophia, your best friend and lazy co-worker, lounging with her legs stretched on the checkout counter of the tiny surf shack. She hung a lollipop in her mouth while her eyes glued to her phone screen. 

“You know, when you asked me to find you a job, I actually thought you meant one where you actually work.” 

Sophia popped out the sucker and threw you a glare. “I did work! See!” she pointed her hand at the sign hanging beside the door that read ‘OBX Surf and Sports’, “I put that sign up this morning.” 

“It’s crooked.” 

“Bleh, bleh, bleh,” she mocked, “Nothing I ever do is good enough.” You chuckled and shook your head at her. 

You peered out the giant window at the front of the store, surveying the empty beach. This was going to be the rest of your summer. At sixteen years old, you were one of the Outer Banks’ surfing all-stars and spent your days working as an instructor for the second year in a row. 

Customers loved you and your ability to work with all ages rendering you the title of ‘Top Instructor’ at the shack- which didn’t mean much seeing as 90% of the employees were amateur teenagers. 

Nevertheless, you were determined to keep that title, as whoever brought in the most satisfied customers by the end of the summer wins a $5,000 scholarship. And you needed that money bad in order to attend your dream school: UVA. 

Along the beach, you caught a glimpse of your competition, Cody, and instinctly groaned. 

On any other occasion, you really didn’t care about what people did with their lives, but something about your arrogant, sleazy, five-foot-seven co-worker grinded your gears. 

He was always man-splaining to you and the other girls at the shack or kissing ass to your boss. And you knew well he was after the scholarship too- your scholarship. 

“Look at him,” you sneered to Sophia as she joined you at the window to death-glare the boy. He was prepping his group on the sand for their session and looked absolutely despicable in his shorts that were inches away from exposing his little one. Emphasis on the little. 

“Ugh, he’s making them do jumping jacks again,” Sophia pointed out, crinkling her nose, “God that poor old lady. Can he be any more extra?” 

“I need to look away, I think I might vomit if he ever flashed me.” 

Your best friend snickered at your hatred as you waxed down your board for your next lesson. “Did the group of girls check in yet?” you asked. 

“Yeah, they’re sitting and waiting at Eye Sickles,” she informed, referring to the popsicle food-truck next door. “I can’t believe they really signed up for the month-long surfing program. I didn’t know people actually paid for that.” 

“You’d be surprised. These tourists will buy into anything, trust me,” you said before heading out the door. 

You walked up to three tourist girls lounging on the fold-out tables and chairs at the food-truck. They were mindlessly typing away on their phones, looking as bored as ever. 

“Alright, do I have Annalise, Maia, and Arabella?” you announced with your work-smile on. They peered up from their phones and nodded with blank faces.

“Awesome,” you continued, trying to maintain your enthusiasm, “I’m y/n, I’ll be your instructor! I see you guys signed up for the month-long pro-boarding program which is great. Have you guys ever surfed before?” 

“Nope,” a blonde girl replied, “Our parents found this online and said it’d be good for us to learn while we’re here. We’re from Richmond, Virginia.” 

“Oh cool!” you jeered, the fake zeal was oozing at that point. “Well, I’m happy to be spending the summer with you guys. I’m going to have you guys grab a board and we’ll head down to the sand to go over the basic motions.” 

The trio followed you into the hut and picked out a board from the beginners section. You noticed the blonde one giggling with Sophia at the stand for a bit before joining you on the sand. She had a leader-like quality to her while the two other remained quiet but friendly. 

“Alright so, just for formalities, who’s who? That way I can identify you better,” you asked as the girls situated their boards along the shore.  

Not shockingly, the blonde extended her hand to you first. “I’m Annalise,” she greeted a little sullenly. You shrugged off her attitude, attributing it to her being a bougie tourist. 

“I’m Maia,” a tall, jet-black haired girl said next. She had a very athletic body and came off as the quietest one of the group. 

“And I’m Arabella,” the last one chimed in. Her hair was a fiery orange and she had piercings run along her ears and nose. 

“Alright cool! So now, we’ll start off with the movements you’ll go through once you hit the water. You want to start off flat on your stomach and paddle towards the waves. Make sure you have full control of your board at all times,” you began as the girls copied your demonstration on their own boards. 

You heard sniffles come from the group, but ignored it to continue your spiel. You could hardly read any of their expressions through their giant, bug-eyed sunglasses. 

Just as you were about to explain the importance of balance- you favorite part of the lesson- you saw the blonde sit up on her board in irritation and start sobbing through her glasses. 

“Annalise come on, it’s not worth it,” the tall one, Maia, reasoned as the Annalise shook her head furiously. 

“I can’t do this right now,” she cried before bolting back towards the shack. 

You watched her in utter confusion. “Was it something I said?” you asked the remaining two. 

The orange one shook her head and gave you a sincere look through her glasses. “No, she’s just really upset about this guy,” she turned to her friend, “Come on, let’s go check on her.” 

At that point, you had no choice but to follow the group towards their distressed friend. This was definitely coming out of their session time. 

The three of you plowed up the sand to find the girl, Annalise, sprawled on Sophia’s shoulder at the tables as she cooed her like a baby. You wanted to cringe. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a piece of shit anyways! Trust me, he did the same to me too,” your best friend comforted and petted the stranger’s yellow hair. 

“What’s going on?” you questioned at the scene. Sophia glanced up at you with a pleading look. 

“It’s JJ.” 

Oh brother. This dude again. JJ Maybank was the Outer Bank’s most infamous fuck boy. Him and his friends threw parties all the time at the Boneyard- ones you have yet to attend- and he effortlessly earned his reputation by sleeping with any girl he could get his grubby hands on. 

By this point, he’s broken half the hearts on the island with girls moaning and groaning about him left and right- Sophia included. You remembered her wailing the day he ghosted her after they did the nasty. It wasn’t a pretty day... or week for the matter. 

You didn’t understand what the big deal was with the guy. You’d gone to school with him since the first grade and he’d always been that guy that rolls in the mud during playtime in elementary school. And he still was that guy to this day.

You heard all the cringey lines he’d pull on girls at school that would get them swooning and you swore he was running a voodoo business because no one in their right mind could fall for that. 

But everyone did. Except for you. 

“What? Did he ghost you too?” you gestured towards the wrecked weeping girl.

She nodded and blew her boogers into the tissues Sophia brought out. 

“I-I, well, we met him at a party this weekend and he took me to this little hideout on the beach. He told me that he never met anyone like me before and said all this other shit. Then we had sex there, which I never do in public, and he said he couldn’t wait to see me again. And he never called me after!” 

Though you thought her public display was a little too... public, you did feel sorry for her. The guy was a tool, and these tourist girls, especially, didn’t know any better. 

“Don’t worry,” Sophia assured, resting a hand atop hers, “he did it to me and everyone at school. We all fell for the trap.” 

Maia and Arabella joined the sitting girls in a piled group hug as the ones in the center sputtered in tears together. You couldn’t bear to watch, but for Sophia, you awkwardly joined in anyways. 

The rest of the surfing session consisted of the girls pulling up their own chairs and  bad-mouthing JJ, along with all other men, as everyone licked their popsicles. 

You sucked on your mango one, not minding the little break as it was the easiest $150 you ever made. The girls weren’t as hoity-toity as you first thought. They apologized for wasting your time and promised to leave five-star reviews about you. Even better. 

As evening rolled in, you found yourself laughing and joking around with your new-found friends. They told you wild stories of their private school shenanigans back in Richmond while you and Sophia filled them in on life at the OBX. 

“This day was incredible,” Annalise beamed, dazed after her fourth popsicle. “Can’t believe we all bonded like this over a guy,” she chuckled, “I just... gah, I wish we could get him back somehow. Make him feel how we feel!” 

“You should,” you agreed, “Why don’t one of you guys go to the parties and try to seduce him and then leave him hanging? The trick with men is to withhold sex from them and they’ll be helpless.” 

Everyone’s face lit up in excitement at your idea. “No, totally! We could definitely do that!” Sophia exclaimed with wide eyes. “So who will it be? Who’s our hamster?” 

“Not me,” Maia objected almost instantly, “I have a boyfriend back home so no seducing will be done on my part.” 

“Arabella then,” Annalise suggested, nudging the girl beside her. 

“Alright...” she agreed, fiddling with the string of her bathing suit, “I guess I could take one for the team.” 

“There we go!” you cheered, “You just march straight into that party, grind on him a bit to leave him hanging, then proceed to embarrass the shit out of him! Problem solved!” 

-----------------------------

note: do not worry! more drama to come 

chapter 2

[crispyjenkins]

Thot obiwan... just him being a thot and happy (it’s what he deserves) pls no obitine lol

(went a poly route with this cause i wasn't sure how to write thot!obi without making myself uncomfortable, so instead have poly obi and his seven partners! it’s like scott pilgrim except obi’s still dating them all. a mix of triads and Vs here! because i’m soft for big polycules

couldn’t get to more detail in such a short fill, but all ships are tagged if there’s any confusion! (ノ*´◡`) i will absolutely be returning to poly!Obi in the future.)  

Rex promptly, and calmly, chokes on his first sip of tea.

  Cody sighs, because he isn't exactly clear on the details either. "Yes, all of them. "

  "Is that... Is that... allowed?"

  "High General Ti is also on the council, it must be." The last twenty five hours since rescuing his general and the rest of Ghost Company from Ventress’ latest plot have been rather confusing for Cody, from Obi-Wan’s debrief to the holocall with the council, to Obi-Wan’s four other holocalls that Cody isn't entirely sure he was meant to see. He supposes he should feel grateful that Senator Organa had recently returned to Alderaan, or it could have been more. 

  Rex's eyes go distant as he does the math, a couple of brothers ducking around them where they've stopped in the middle of the hall. "That's... five people, Cody."

  "Yes, Rex, I can count." He grabs Rex's elbow to start steering him towards the hangar again, where they’re supposed to be greeting some new Shinies in less than five minutes. 

  "But what about Ventress? And isn't General Fisto—"

  "With Bly and General Secura? Yes. As for Ventress, as far as I can tell, the General... is simply like that with everyone he fights." It certainly calls into question quite a few "interactions" Cody has witnessed in his two years at Obi-Wan’s side, anyways. Fett's left sheb, does he have to worry about Ohnaka?

  For all that Rex had been CC track just by being smart, he doesn't seem any more sure of the situation than Cody is. "Fett's left sheb," he agrees, bewilderedly tossing his flimsi cup of tea into a waste receptacle without actually having drunk any. "Bly never said anything."

  Cody grunts and thumbs the edge of the helmet in his hands. "He isn't involved with General Kenobi."

  "Cody, brother, that doesn't make sense." He punctuates the notion with a wild swing of his hand, narrowly missing a tech clone, who takes one look at the two of them and decides he isn't going to try and go toe-to-toe with two war heroes. "Where did you hear this? If it was Fives, you should know by now–”

  “The General told me himself.” Sort of, anyways — Obi-Wan is rarely blind to his surroundings, and he had not dismissed Cody after the debrief with the council, so he must have meant for him to see. Why he had been meant to see is still up for debate, especially when Cody had waited all of four hours before telling Rex; no secrets among brothers, or what have you.

  “I suppose what the generals do in their spare time is their business,” Rex mutters. “And it’s not as if the Jedi are anything the longnecks said they were, anyways. But Kote...”

  He could do without the pitying look Rex gives him. “As you said: it’s their business. It wasn’t, and isn’t, any of mine what the General does off the field.”

  “If you say so, brother.” He pats Cody’s shoulder, far gentler than the situation perhaps warrants. “What a way to find out, though; I don’t know what I’d do if I knew Skywalker was romancing around with half the council.”

  Cody sort of wishes Waxer hadn’t tossed out the rotgut Wooley’s had cooked up the last time they were planetside. “I won’t tell you about Senator Amidala and Senator Mothma, then,” he sighs, just to see Rex turn as white as Shiny armour.

-

  Senator Organa breaks away from the little party that had greeted The Negotiator in the Temple hangar and approaches Cody with a smile perhaps even kinder than his general’s. 

  “Welcome back to Coruscant, Commander,” he says pleasantly, folding his arms behind his back and settling next to Cody to observe General Ti fuss over Obi-Wan’s injuries.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I think I can speak for everyone,” Organa nods to Obi-Wan’s entourage, “when I say we are indebted to you yet again.”

  Cody blinks at him, thankful he can hide his incredulity inside his bucket. “Sir?”

  Turning his smile back to Cody, Organa puts a hand on his shoulder not unlike a brother would. “None of our positions allow us to watch his back, and certainly not as well as you do. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

  “I suppose so, sir,” Cody says carefully, not convinced that Organa isn’t trying to catch him up in a lie. “If I may, sir,” Organa waves for him to continue, “I’m not entirely sure I know what we’re talking about.”

  “Hm, perhaps that’s fair,” Organa chuckles. “I apologise for having to speak so mysteriously, but one can never be too careful. I merely meant to thank you, and to encourage you to talk to him; for all that the Jedi are not hierarchical, he worries about his position above you. And Obi-Wan is no blushing Alqull, but he would not impose himself on you.”

  “... Sir.”

  “Yes, yes, more mystery. Just talk to him.” Organa leaves him with one last smile and a pat on the shoulder, and Cody wonders if Waxer had spiked his caf that morning. 

-

  The 212th had lost enough brothers in their last entanglement with Ventress that they return to Kamino immediately after Coruscant, General Ti all too happy to join them aboard The Negotiator; the brothers are delighted to learn she prefers to stand against their general’s back, lekku and arms absolutely dwarfing him, and Obi-Wan lets her. 

  They keep separate quarters, though Cody isn’t sure how much of it is for keeping up appearances. 

  As high strung as he is after his conversation with Senator Organa, Cody is relieved when they finally dock in Tipoca City and he can hand babysitting the 212th over to Waxer. He loves his men, truly, but being cooped up with them for a tenday in hyperspace is far from his favourite pastime.

  When Cody joins Obi-Wan for their trek to the training levels, Obi-Wan takes one look at his harried expression and laughs — Cody would like to believe it’s because he knows what Cody’s thinking, rather than any sort of Jedi-mind-reading-nonsense.

  Taun We meets them on the way, prattling about the “improvements” they’ve made since the last batch, and Cody pays attention because he has to, but the general’s little smile aimed in Cody’s direction does nothing to help him concentrate.

  Alpha-17 greets them as soon as Taun We opens the door to one of the training rooms, and Cody finds he’d actually missed the old hardass; it isn’t every brother that can call High General Yoda a toad to his face and get away with it, just by virtue of being Alpha-17.

  And then Alpha sees Obi-Wan and actually smiles, and Cody updates his mental counter to six. He had forgotten how much time Alpha had spent with the 212th before Cody was assigned, forgotten that it was Alpha with Obi-Wan when Ventress first kidnapped him; perhaps the holodramas are right, that shared trauma is a simple step away from romance.

  Kriff, he could have gone his whole life not picturing Alpha trying to romance absolutely anyone.

-

  “You haven’t asked,” Obi-Wan observes, hands folded under his chin across the desk from Cody. The teapot between them steams gently, filling Obi-Wan’s quarters with a haze of shiso and ginger that settles Cody’s nerves rather than stokes them.

  “Sir?”

  “Come now, Cody: we’ve worked together far too long for that.”

  And Cody snorts a laugh, even as he turns back to the datapad in his hands. “I did not think it my business, sir.”

  “Hm, and your conversation with Bail?”

  Cody glances up. “Are you laughing at me, sir?”

  The soft smile from Kamino is back on his general’s lips, making Cody all too aware of his helmet on the other side of the room. “Perhaps a little, Commander – your play for stoicism is as amusing as always.

  “I don’t know what you refer to, General, I did not lie: I have not asked because it is not my business, and if there was more to discuss, I knew you would bring it up again.” With an inhaled sigh, Cody sets his datapad back on the desk and faces Obi-Wan properly, because he isn’t a cadet, and he isn’t what-are-emotions-what-is-responsibility Skywalker. “Clearly you have more to discuss.”

  “Bah, you make it sound like a chore, Kote.”

  He raises a brow. “When I was assigned to the 212th, General Vos warned me of your politician-speak, sir. Any conversation with you is a chore.”

  Obi-Wan startles out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as if just to remind him that there are lines on his face from more than just war. “Captain Rex tells me you get that snark from Alpha, but I must say I think it is a family trait.” Smiling behind his fingers, Obi-Wan tilts his head as if Cody were an especially endearing puzzle. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know how to navigate this conversation, my friend: I don’t believe I was the instigator of any in the past.”

  “More politician-speak,” Cody chides without heat, but knows what he means anyways. “And you thought I would instigate, if you left it long enough?”

  “Well, I hope I’ve created an environment where you and your brothers may speak your minds–”

  “General,” Cody interrupts boldly, and Obi-Wan just keeps smiling at him, “I have it on good authority that none of my brothers have been the one to broach this subject first.”

  “Mhm,” he chuckles, “Yes, I did hear about Commander Bly and Kit, and about Commander Choke with the 202nd.” Poor Shiny, Cody thinks, fresh out of ARC training when she met her general for the first time; the other battalions hadn’t stopped laughing about it for months.

  “Sir, the freedom the Jedi have given us undermined nearly everything the longnecks brought us up to believe; if you are unsure of what to say, I’m hardly going to be more prepared.”

  “Hm, perhaps we ought to be blunt with each other, then? Avoid the politician-speak entirely?”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be better, sir.”

  “Then, Kote, I would very much like to kiss you.”

  “Only if you’ve brushed your teeth since you kissed Alpha.”

  Obi-Wan throws his head back and laughs.

[ryttu3k]

could you post the ending where you side with the SI and Julian gets pissed off by your decision? I also noticed that Julian never really introduces himself to anyone or says a simple goodbye to the courier, like, ever. I mean even after ten years or so he just resumes the conversation as if nothing happened. Not even the courier calls him out on this. I wonder why that is lol

Heh, regarding Julian’s conversational patterns, there’s a really interesting post here on friendship degradation mechanisms with ADHD! And Julian absolutely has ADHD.

And for the SI ending, ooh, I haven't got that one written down. I do want it handy for reference, so time for a speedrun with my SI-affiliated Toreador! Here's all the dialogue from the SI attack onwards.

Before you can speak, Lettow jumps up.

"What?" Julian says.

Your phone chimes. You run, throwing yourself out the door just as the missile hits.

Fragments of stone and metal fly over your head. You get clear, reaching your Escalade, and look back at the blown-apart warehouse.

Flames are everywhere. Your Beast screams in wild terror and only the greatest exercise of Willpower keeps you under control, but your body shakes uncontrollably. You have only one clear thought—run! Still, you grit your teeth and force yourself to look around.

Only the vampires survived the blast, and they look badly hurt. Prince Lettow took a direct hit; his clothes hang in tatters, like a shroud, and his skin is blackened. Julian and his helmeted assistant, Z, are burned and stunned. Julian's servants are gone.

Hunters are inbound. You see Bearcats and Humvees, police cruisers and Buick Avenirs. The floodlights turn on, illuminating the burning warehouse and hiding almost a hundred hunters in the glare as they advance.

A bullet zips past your head as a hunter in militia gear opens fire. An FBI agent waves for him to stop—it looks like there are orders for you not to be harmed—but that's hardly a perfect defense. You duck behind the Sprinter van. It might be time to get out of here.

There's just one problem: Julian is standing between you and your Escalade, a karambit in both hands. He spins the little blades.

"You did this," he says. "You betrayed us all."

[The sight of so much fire means that you are now in a fear frenzy and cannot think clearly unless you focus your Willpower or escape.]

> "I tried to warn you! I told you we were monsters, and I told you I would stop you."

Another explosion obliterates the computer shop. Bricks and pieces of rebar rain down.

Julian screams and rushes you, quick as the wind. Then he breaks away before he gets into karambit range. Even as he moves, his silhouette breaks up, becoming a pixelated gray blur as he fades from sight and circles you, looking for a chance to strike.

> I need to talk him down. "You can still escape, Julian. Don't let them kill you here." [CHA/MAN+Persuasion]

"How could you do this?" Julian cries.

"To save people!" you say. "And I'm trying to save you. Run, before it's too late!"

He looks at the raging inferno all around him, the ruins of his project, then back at you. Then he fades away.

That's the last time you see him.

More gunfire arcs around you and hammers the Sprinter van. You duck, then get into your Escalade and get away from the burning warehouse.

So I thought that was it, but hey! Apparently Lettow wanted his say, too!

You slide into heavy traffic, scanning the late-night vehicles for signs of pursuit. No hunters, no cops. Good. You have a moment to think as you scan the streets.

Front, back, left, right. Nothing. If you breathed, you'd be breathing a little easier. You're just turning your thoughts to the next step of this desperate plan when a shadow passes over you.

You look up. Riga.

Then you crane your head out of your window.

Something like Riga, but with a wingspan like a light aircraft.

Lettow is following you, and it looks like he cares more about revenge for your "betrayal" than about preserving the Masquerade.

And here come the hunters: Buick SUVs close in on your location. Others are on a nearby bridge. They're tracking Lettow, trying to get close enough to open fire with rifles or even heavier munitions. You're not sure Donati cares about collateral damage anymore. The SI will blow holes in Tucson to take down its Prince.

This is it, you realize. The Eagle Prince plans to destroy you here and now. But with so many hunters around him, he'll only have one shot at you. If you can buy yourself a few seconds and slip out of his sight, he won't be able to try again.

But how?

> My supernaturally keen eyes will let me spot alleys, vacant lots, and other places where I can hide my SUV from Lettow. [Auspex]

You drive slowly, looking for little-used routes that Lettow won't be able to track from above.

Tucson is a low, flat city, but finally you spot a messy construction site next to a parking garage.

You turn hard, cutting off oncoming traffic and racing into the construction site as Lettow dives for you.

But just as you planned, he has to back off. Tarps cover most of the site, and he'd get tangled if he dove. You keep moving, weaving through narrow alleys, then blowing through a Chevron station—the covering over the pumps prevents Lettow from reaching you easily.

Then you reverse right into an unfinished apartment complex that you saw last week, going straight through the building itself.

And he's lost you.

You roll out with your lights off and look up. Lettow is on a nearby building, scanning the darkness with his golden eyes.

That's when the SI lights him up. Heedless that they're operating in the middle of Tucson, dozens of agents and soldiers open fire with rifles and truck-mounted weapons.

Lettow lurches in midair. But he's still an elder vampire. The huge eagle dives, scythes through a truck full of agents, killing five in a single pass, and then rises into the air, higher, higher, until he and Riga disappear into the clouds.

The last you see of Prince Lettow, he's flying east, away from Tucson, out of his fallen domain.

You disappear into traffic, getting away from the SI as quickly as you can.

An inescapable element of existing as a vampire is ignorance. The Masquerade is a shadow that swallows clarity and understanding. People suspect and imply, but they rarely know for certain.

Your final nights in Tucson are frightening but uninteresting. You check the news, divest from your real estate holdings, and listen to word on the street.

Over the next few nights, during which time the news reports a few strange acts of violence, a terrorist attack, and a zoo escape, you learn that Prince Lettow was almost certainly destroyed. Dove perished in a midday raid on her haven, and nothing remains of the Viper but a gutted heap.

The city's Kindred are scattered and leaderless, easy pickings for hunters that are now free to operate during the day, dragging vampires out of their havens and destroying them.

Despite the chaos in the shadow-world you inhabit, Tucson looks the same. The city's downtown is not ablaze, the national guard hasn't been mobilized. It's just another shadow-war for vampires to fight.

And it's time to leave.

Your plans to escape Tucson run into surprisingly little red tape as you sell your bungalow and liquidate your other assets.

You got what you could out of your deal with the SI, but now it's time to go.

Go where? Tucson never felt like home, but it was, at least, a base of operations. You can't just stick to the road forever; the highways are too dangerous right now, with the SI active and your bridges with the Camarilla burned. You see a few possible futures.

From what you hear, Seattle is a key city for the Camarilla's blood trade. You could head up north and, if you have enough venture capital, try to strike it rich, really establish yourself.

But maybe money isn't everything. Could you work with hunters to stop more Cainite depredations? From what you hear, Dallas/Fort Worth is now completely out of control, with open fighting in the streets among different vampire factions. If the SI trusts you enough, you could return there and try to protect humanity from the predators in their midst.

But you still feel the alien vitae inside of you: the 2100 Formula. You've heard that a scholar of the Blood dwells in Denver, someone who could answer a lot of your questions. With the briefcase full of Julian's Program research, you should be able to make inroads there. The only difficulty will be finding this scholar, and avoiding the hunters who suspect what kind of power you carry in your Blood. If you head for Denver, you'll have to hope that you've left the Masquerade intact enough here that you can reach Colorado without an army of hunters following you.

Finally…maybe you could just try to live a life. You're dead, of course, but you could try existing as a person, if only for a few years. You've heard that San Francisco is a good place for that sort of thing ever since the old Prince left for LA. Maybe you could cultivate your Humanity and try to live, instead of simply exist.

> I drive east to Dallas/Fort Worth. I'll use my Inquisition contacts to fight the vampires there. [Second Inquisition Hostility]

One month later...

Dallas is burning.

Not literally, not really. From your vantage atop this parking garage, you can't see any fires. But you know that the Inquisition has torn through the city, scattered its warring factions, dragged predators screaming into sunlight every day for the past two weeks. You know all this because you've commanded them from the shadows.

You finish your work tonight.

"We're the masters of this city," one of D'Espine's beautiful ghouls says through bloody teeth. "Even if you kill me, we'll always be here. Feeding and taking and ruling from the shadows. We are immortal! We—"

The other hunters have heard enough. They toss him off the roof and head to their van.

You get back in your SUV because your final target is on the move. D'Espine—the last Cainite of any real power in Dallas—has left the Cinderblock.

This is how you've succeeded in Dallas: not just through your network of hunters, but because you know how to move through a city. As the Cainites have crawled into their holes, believing themselves safe, you've never stopped moving, never stopped striking. And now you're almost done.

You roll out of the parking garage and point your Escalade at the Cinderblock. By tomorrow night you'll be done here, and you'll hit the road.

RIP Lettow and Dove. Julian did get out, though!

[randomfandomginger]

Puppeteer

I’ve been working on this fic for long enough I should really talk about it over here lol

Anywho, who ordered a Logince and Moxiety slowburn with extra plot and superpowers? 

Summary: There are a couple of life experiences that you can't get through without bonding with others. Being kidnapped just happens to be one of them. Discovering that you share certain enhanced abilities with your fellow kidnappees- that's another. (Logan would argue that it's hardly kidnapping, he's just helping to forcibly move them to a second location. No, never mind, that's definitely kidnapping.) Why have they all been brought to the same place? To fight crime apparently, and to steal back a little something that might just change their lives as they know them.

Words: 80k, complete! 

Click below for the character’s introductory chapters!

Chapter One- Patton 

Patton had been an optimist his entire life, somehow. To be fair, it had nothing to do with his personal experiences and everything to do with his love for life as a concept. Patton felt that he was lucky just to exist, lucky to have found such loving and accepting parents, lucky to feel so secure and happy as himself, lucky that he could do and see everything he wanted to do and see. Patton felt lucky, nothing else to it.

“Honey I’m home!” he called out jokingly into the open air, using his foot to help open the door to his apartment. In his hands, groceries were piled high, his spoils from his trip to the grocery store.

The store had been out of spinach, so they would have to forego the salads that he and Virgil forced themselves to eat every few meals, just for a semblance of healthiness in their lives.

“Pat? Is that you?” Virgil’s head poked out from around the corner. Patton was so lucky about so many things, and just knowing Virgil was one of them. The two of them had been inseparable since middle school, but the fact that they had both ended up at the same college had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with their shared love for the English language and a certain bond that could only possibly form between two boys who entrusted one another with such unique, such important secrets as they did.

“Who else would it be?” Patton said with a grin, setting the groceries down on the small table that they had set up in the middle of the tiny room. “Is anyone else around here referring to you as ‘honey’?”

“Last time I checked it was just you,” Virgil replied, beginning to help Patton stuff as many of the groceries as he could into their minifridge. “But then again, better safe than sorry.”

“Touche,” Patton replied. “Cutesy nicknames, that’s how they lower your guard…”

Virgil just laughed, a deep rumbling sound that Patton had been hearing for years, yet he never failed to feel a rush of happiness upon hearing it. “Alright, you find some cheesy feel-good movie to put on, I prepare our first round of food?”

“After last week’s disaster? Yes please,” Patton replied, smiling.

Being around Virgil was as comforting for him as it was for Virgil. Virgil’s brain seemed to slow down a bit when Patton was around, and a sense of contentment seemed to surround him. He was familiar, and safe, and Patton had known him so long that he could sometimes predict how he felt about any situation before he actually felt the shift in Virgil’s emotions.

Virgil gave him a grin. “I didn’t know it was physically possible to burn ramen, what with it being immersed in water and all, but you managed.”

“Well, I am a man of many talents,” Patton replied, a bit of an inside joke between them, already squatting down in front of their little box TV and looking through the collection of DVDs below. They’d been collecting since they were both children, but they’d agreed that only the essentials should come alone to them with college. That’s why, after a mere four hours of soft bickering, they’d settled on their twenty favorites to bring along.

“Hmm,” Patton mumbled to himself as he ran through his options. He could hear Virgil bustling around in the kitchen, humming the lyrics to some old song as he worked. “Something cheesy and feel-goodsy…” Patton said, then giggled at the word ‘feel-goodsy’.

He settled on Avengers, for both a comforting and fun storyline and Captain America’s ass, though he’d never admit the second one.

He and Virgil had been watching Avengers for years now, but what could he say? The movie held up. They’d always end up watching it somehow after bad breakups, difficult tests, kids being jerks, anything. It was a comfort movie, and one of the few that Virgil could stomach seeing more than three or four times. Movies like that were to be treasured.

Virgil waltzed back over to their shoddy little hand me down couch and sat down next to Patton, pulling him out of his thoughts, their plates clutched in Virgil’s calloused hands. “Our main course tonight will be none other than those gourmet reheated pizza slices that were apparently still left in the back of our fridge,” he announced with a flourish, handing Patton his plate.

Patton played along, gasping. “The very same gourmet reheated pizza slices that may or may not have been ordered a week ago?” he asked, doing his best but ultimately failing to hide the start of a grin tugging the corners of his lips up.

Virgil nodded gravely. “Those very same slices.” They stared at one another for a moment before they both burst out laughing. “Alright, what movie did you choose?” Virgil asked him mirthfully, and Patton simply nodded at the TV, where Avengers was all cued up and ready to go. “Nice!”

“Well, it is a cinematic marvel!” Patton joked, grinning at Virgil’s soft groan. “How could I not pick it?” He took a large bite of the pizza, chewing at the slightly stringy cheese.

“Terrible pun, Pat,” Virgil said, shaking his head as he shuffled a little bit closer to his shorter friend as he took a bite of his own slice. “ Terrible pun.”

Patton loved these nights on their ratty old sofa, eating cheap food and watching movies that they’d both already seen too many times to count. He knew they both had homework they needed to get done, and the next morning their stomachs would probably hate them, but these nights were to be cherished.

After all, Friday nights were one of the only nights he used to be able to have friends over.

Patton was fifteen, dressed in hand me down pajamas, and sitting in his living room, practically vibrating off the walls.

“Goodness,” his mother chuckled, walking into the room and finding her son staring at the front door anxiously, knee bouncing up and down feverishly. “He’s only five minutes late, Pattycake, I’m sure he’ll be here in a moment. Maybe traffic was just rough.” She was amused, which seemed to be her default setting. Amused and fond.

“I know, I know,” Patton said, bouncing his leg a little bit faster as the corners of his lips twitched. “Sorry Mom, I’m just anxious.”

Patton could feel his mom’s ripple of pride as he said that. He looked up to see his mother trying her best to hide a grin. That always happened these days, even though he’d gotten used to calling her mom almost a year ago. “And I can tell that from all the way over here!” his mother commented. “What makes this Virgil guy so special, hmm Pattycake?”

“He’s a friend,” Patton said, distracted, looking up and meeting his mom’s growing smirk with a groan. “No, Mom, not like that. He’s just a friend, I swear.” He wasn’t just a friend, he was Patton’s closest friend, but he didn’t really think saying that would help his case. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need his mother to know it for it to be true.

“Alright, whatever you say,” his mom said with another smirk. “You two are sleeping in the living room though, you hear me? Not your room.”

The doorbell dinged then, luckily saving Patton from any kind of further embarrassing gossiping. Vaulting to his feet, Patton rushed over to the door, opening it quickly and doing his best to act like his entire face hadn’t been flushed a brilliant red only moments earlier.

Virgil, complete with an overnight bag, stood on his front porch. As Patton took his friend’s image in, Virgil’s anxiety spiked through him like lightning. Virgil was clutching his bag close to his chest, eyes a little bit wide and unsure, knuckles white. Patton frowned. He didn’t really mean to read Virgil, but it wasn’t like he could help it.

“Hey,” Patton said softly to his friend as he took him in, Virgil’s anxiety still coursing underneath his skin like boiling water. He didn’t really need his empathy to figure out that Virgil was tense, but oh well. “You doing okay there, Virge?”

Virgil swallowed, nodding, shoving down whatever he was feeling. Patton resisted a small wince at that. Repression was never good in the long run. “Yeah,” he finally replied, cracking a small grin as he took in Patton in his baby blue pajamas. His mood shifted to a more positive one. “Yeah, better now.”

Patton beamed at that. “Great! Welcome to my home!” he said with a small flourish. “Come on in!”

As Virgil walked through the front door, Patton’s mom came around the corner, still grinning. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Virgil!” she exclaimed happily. “Patton’s told me so much about you.”

“Mom…” Patton grumbled, flushing a little bit, but Virgil just laughed a little bit.

“It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am, thank you for letting me stay the night.”

Oh gosh, he’s so polite.

“Please, call me Mrs. Hart,” Patton’s mother said with a small smile.

When his mother left, Virgil began to look around his living room. Patton followed his gaze, a frantic bundle of excited and nervous thoughts. Virgil’s gaze rested for an unnaturally long time on the mantle, and Patton frowned a little bit. Virgil’s house was full of baby pictures. You get through the front door, there are baby pictures on the walls. You go to use the bathroom, bam, more baby pictures hanging above the toilet. Their living room practically looked like a ‘greatest hits’ from Virgil and his older sibling’s lives. Patton had even found baby pictures all over the mug of hot chocolate his mother had handed him. They were everywhere. Virgil was the youngest of four, and Patton didn’t think there had been a moment of silence in that tiny house. He positively loved it.

Patton’s house didn’t have baby pictures. They didn’t even have him when he was a baby. Patton didn’t remember his childhood, as he was a baby at the time, but he did remember the foster care system.

Baby pictures don’t make a family, Patton reminded himself firmly. Sure, it would be nice for him to remember anything from his youth, but he was happy now, under the care of two loving parents that he cared for very deeply. No sense in dwelling on what you couldn’t remember. Besides, he had Virgil here right now, and his top priority was making his friend feel comfortable in this new space.

“Your house is so much cleaner,” was the first thing that Virgil said, after a long moment of silence. He wasn’t exactly wrong, the entire living room looked as though it had been surgically bleached. His parents liked a clean home.

Patton burst into laughter at that. “I promise my room looks more lived in,” he replied. “Plenty of dirty clothing on the floor.”

Sometimes, Patton hated feeling other people’s emotions. Sometimes it was a rush of hatred and disgust and all kinds of horrifying darkness that made Patton feel dirty just for feeling it secondhand. Sometimes it was sadness so crippling that Patton’s own knees felt weak, that he could feel himself tearing up. Sometimes, it was fear so paralyzing that he felt his joints lock up and his own breathing get shaky.

Tonight, it was joy and excitement and a tinge of adrenaline that usually accompanied exploration. Tonight, Patton had never been less bothered by his empathic skill.

As they watched the movie, Patton could feel his mind beginning to wander. This was in no way the fault of Avengers, he’d simply seen it more times than he could count. Besides, now his brain was full of thoughts regarding his special skills.

The empathy was bad enough, forcing him to pry into people’s heads when he didn’t want to know, but his second skill was even worse, even more intrusive. Patton knew secrets, or more accurately, one secret per person. Sometimes he knew their worst fear, sometimes he knew their greatest hope. On very rare occasions the two were the same.

For instance, when he first met him, Virgil’s greatest fear was someone discovering that he was different. It had changed since that day, but Patton had known and always would know with nothing more than a simple cursory glance exactly what it was. There were no words floating in circles around Virgil’s head, there was no psychic link moment where everything became clear to him, he just looked at him, and he knew. He didn’t have any better way to explain it.

Patton hated it. His mom’s greatest fear was cancer, and his dad’s greatest hope was to give his wife and son the best lives that they could possibly have. Most people’s were generic like that, but more often than he’d like to admit Patton would stumble across something that he’d rather not know.

He’d outed his first foster father at age eight, asking his mom what a homosexual was, and why his new daddy was so worried about her finding out. He’d informed his second foster father bitterly at age twelve that his wife was having an affair, one that she feared he’d discover. It wasn’t until he was thirteen and finally settled in with his mom and dad that he was able to relax.

Patton was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that when the doorbell rang, he jumped about a foot in the air, jostling the table.

“Oh crap!” he cried out in distress, watching as Virgil’s glass teetered, before beginning to fall to the floor, almost as if in slow motion.

Quick as a blink, Virgil’s hand shot out, easily snatching the glass before it hit the floor. He’d barely even looked up from his phone.

“Nice catch,” Patton said with a grin. “Show off.”

Virgil stuck his tongue out at him. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

Two, to be exact. They both had two. It had taken Virgil a long time to use his around Patton, but his enhanced reflexes came in handy around the house, as Patton tended to bump into anything and everything that could be broken. Virgil had probably saved about ninety percent of their dishes by this point. Super fast reflexes don’t sound very much like a superpower until you bump the dining room table over and not a single dish ends up broken.  

“I’ll go see who it is,” Patton said cheerfully, patting Virgil’s silky purple locks as he passed him by, smoothing out his shirt in an attempt to make himself marginally more presentable before pulling open their heavy oak door.

“Hello!” Patton said cheerfully, his smile dipping momentarily as he took in the scene before him.

A young boy, maybe about his and Virgil’s age, stood in front of them. He had dark hair, so dark it was almost black, and navy blue spectacles on his face. He was dressed in all black, almost formal. He was expressionless, but a wave of guilt hit Patton like a brick. He began to feel uneasy.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Patton tried again, eyes flicking behind the boy to see the two men standing there, staring straight ahead. They almost looked like soldiers.

“I suppose,” the boy spoke, and Patton turned his attention back to him. He appeared to be sizing Patton up, an action which was not appreciated. “Are you Patton Hart or Virgil Sinclair?”

“That would be me,” Patton said carefully, “What can I do to help you good folks?”

The boy in front of him opened his mouth again, when he heard from down the hall, “Pat? Everything good out there?” Virgil was nervous, he could tell from his voice.

“Ah good, that answers my next question,” Logan said with a nod, now rummaging around in his back pocket for something. “Well, Patton, I would tell you that I am incredibly sorry about this, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t find myself bothered by this. After all, it is necessary.”

Patton was taking a step back, already trying to close the door, but the man closest to him grabbed it before he could. “Virgil!” Patton shrieked as they pushed past him into the house, and then he felt a sharp prick in the side of his neck.

Looking back at the young boy, Patton swayed for a moment, suddenly feeling heavy. Blinking drearily, he squinted in an attempt to focus. What was he supposed to be doing? Gosh, he sure felt worn out. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could just take a little nap? As Patton’s eyes sagged closed, he could hear Virgil doing something, most likely fighting the other men, but he couldn’t keep his focus on much of anything for too long.

Family, he thought as he drifted off, staring up into the other boy’s bright blue eyes, his biggest hope is for a family.

And then his eyelids slipped shut, and he could feel his head thunk against their floorboards.

Patton didn’t dream while he slept. It was just dark. He couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t hear anything, but he knew he was asleep. That in itself was peculiar. Patton was a lucid dreamer, and usually his entire night was filled with fantastical adventures and unusual shenanigans.

He awoke in a strange bed, in the middle of a strange room. His eyes snapped open, another unusual occurrence for him, seeing as Patton usually took ages to muster up the courage to open his eyes after a full night’s rest.

The room was dimly lit, and he sat up, rubbing his neck slightly as he took in his surroundings. To his left was a table, a couple of books stacked underneath. In the right corner sat a potted plant with a light blue vase. In the chair next to the potted plant sat the same boy from the night before, staring intently at him.

Patton jolted as he noticed him.

“Oh, good,” the boy said with what looked like an attempt at a friendly smile. “You’re awake. We may begin. My name is Logan.”

Patton sat there, his mind racing. Should I say something? Will that make it worse? Where am I? Who is Logan? How long was I asleep? What am I doing here? Why did he take me?

Where’s Virgil?

Chapter 2- Janus

Janus couldn’t believe his luck. Honestly.

Walking throughout the crowded city street on swift feet, he eyed up the stores to his left and right respectively. The crowd rushed around him like a babbling brook, and just as loud. Vendors were out on the congested streets, doing their best to entice the public under their brightly colored coverings. Children were laughing, birds were chirping, and the organized chaos around him made conditions perfect for what he wanted to do.

Janus ducked out of the street, standing off near the opening to a sweets store, observing the festival from a bit more of a difference. The shadows obscured his already covered face further, and Janus tugged impatiently at the strings on his hoodie, squinting his honey and hazel eyes squinting at the people wandering through the festival. “Come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath.

A little ways away from him, a tan man with long black hair laughed loudly, running his fingers through his thick hair before interlacing them with his girlfriend’s once more. Perfect.

Janus concentrated. Usually, when he shifted, he preferred to close his eyes, but the most important part of this whole thing was that he stayed constantly on his toes, so he begrudgingly kept them open.

Janus could feel his entire body begin to tingle as the shift took over. That was probably his least favorite part of all of it. He could feel his chin bulging slightly, as well as his nose growing. His build became stockier, and his eyes, so captivating before, turned to a dulled brown. Likewise, his hair darkened as well, the already dyed blonde coloring fading from the roots outward. In a matter of moments, he was a completely different person.

Janus put down his hoodie, stepping a bit further out of the shadow of the archway and smiling a smile that wasn’t quite his. “Alright, let’s get this started,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been only moments earlier. Good, that was all in order then too. The mimicry was always easier than the conscious effort shifting took him, so long as he heard their voice first.

As he walked, opposite the direction from the man he’d just impersonated, he kicked at the sidewalk casually, forcing his toes to the end of his boot. Did I lose a couple of inches? He wondered, amused. He was pretty short already.

Whatever. He ducked into a nearby store, one that sold crappy old antiques for overinflated prices, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles as he did so. That would have been horribly stereotypical. Giving the shopkeeper another one of someone else’s signature smiles, Janus set to work, eyes flicking from shelf to shelf, noting the unsurprising lack of customers that made his job much simpler than he needed it to be.

As Janus left the same store only minutes later, an extra pep in his step and his pockets full of useless knick knacks, he blended back into the crowd easily, letting the flow carry him through the streets.

Nabbing a spare pastry from a visiting vendor and dropping some change on the counter, he continued through the crowded streets, allowing his face to slowly bleed back into the one that he’d been assigned at birth. This time, changing back was almost like shrugging off a heavy coat, one that fit him just a little too strangely to feel completely comfortable in.

That was the oddest part about it, in his opinion. Everyone was a slightly different experience. Some people fit like skin tight leather, others gave him a strange, almost bloated feeling while he was trying their likeness on. Still others left a tangy taste in his mouth, and on very, very rare occasions, people just felt right. A person’s outward appearance wasn’t the determining factor, to the best of his knowledge, as Janus had tried and failed to find one characteristic or pattern that would differentiate exactly how it felt to become that person.

It was a beautiful, bright summer day, and the heat of the sun beat down on Janus’ back while he wandered, taking another bite of his chocolate pastry. The sweet was positively exquisite, and he smiled. The summer festival was his favorite time of year, not only for the ease with which he was suddenly able to pickpocket, but also for the out of state company and the vendors from all over that lined the streets constantly, jousting one another for position, each tarp cover more flamboyant and eye catching than the last.

There were a couple of little kids playing in the street nearby, shrieking and giggling. Their mothers were pleasantly conversing a small ways away, most likely also keeping an eye on their respective children. Janus watched them from the corner of his eye, running his slender fingers through his hair. They were caught up in their own little world, unaware of the strife and conflict that surrounded them at all times.

He frowned. Ah well, they would learn soon enough. He certainly had.

As he moved on, his phone buzzed. Digging it out of his back pocket and checking it absentmindedly, he noted the time.

Grandma: When will you be home, garter snake?

Smirking at the pet name (though he’d never admit it), he shot back a ‘soon’ to his grandmother before repocketing his phone. He’d technically gone out today to see the festival and he wanted to stay just a little bit longer. After all, it really did only happen once a year.

It was at that moment that Janus heard the crying. Honestly, it was a miracle that he could even pick it out in the first place, what with how quiet it was. Luckily, several years of living on edge and learning to make money where there was none had prepared Janus for hearing noises others didn’t deem quite so important.

“Mom? Mommy!”

Janus glanced around hurriedly, heart race picking up as the small voice became clearer. The kid was getting closer to him.

It only took him a moment more to spot her, wearing a slightly scruffy white dress and blue boots, her straw colored hair pulled back in two braids. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, and she stood off to the side of the crowd, calling out to the foot traffic desperately, like she wanted to weave and search her way through the crowd but was unable to. She clutched the side of one of the nearby vendor’s tarps in her right hand and a tiny stuffed bear in her left. Crap.

Quickly, he ducked out of the flow, approaching the girl with his best ‘I’m not intimidating’ smile. The girl, for what it’s worth, evaluated him through calculating eyes. This would be very good, if not for the small sniffles she let out every couple of seconds, and the tears budding in the corners of her little chocolate colored eyes. Why is no one helping her? he thought, an irrational surge of anger coursing through him.

“Hey there kiddo,” Janus said, the words sounding a bit strange in his mouth, but pressing on nonetheless. “You doing okay there? You look a little lost.”

The girl nodded hopefully, though he couldn’t tell which question she was nodding in response to. She kept the distance Janus had established by stopping a few feet away from her, clutching the tent behind her a little tighter. “I’m looking for my mommy,” she explained, before sizing him up again and stating decisively, “You’re not my mommy.”

Janus had to push down a bubble of laughter at that, watching a small grin cross the girl’s face. “Well, you’re definitely correct there,” he admitted, shrugging in a ‘what are you gonna do’ kind of way. “But I can help you find her if you want,” he offered.

“Mommy told me if I ever get lost to go to the nearest place I recognize and wait there for her, but she hasn’t come to get me yet and I’m scared,” she told him. Janus didn’t miss the way her voice broke on the last syllable, or the tears now threatening to spill over the corners of her eyes and down her rosy cheeks.

Oh shit oh crap, don’t let the child cry, he thought, and before he knew what he was doing, Janus had dug through his pocket and pulled out one of his knick knacks, a little silver chain with an aqua stone hanging from it. It was one of the simpler things he’d nabbed, most likely not even very old at all. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the store had taken it and distressed it themselves in an attempt to pass the necklace off as an antique.

The little girl’s eyes widened as he offered the necklace to her, taking a step forward and reaching out with both of her little freckled hands to examine it.

“Here you go,” Janus said dumbly, because he wasn’t really sure what exactly to tell the small girl, but he wanted her to know the necklace was hers to keep, and she seemed pretty entranced by it already, but it couldn’t hurt to clarify.

“It’s so pretty,” the little girl said, touching the dangling stone carefully. A child who’d been taught how to handle breakable things, even better, Janus thought, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Okay kiddo, if I’m going to help you, I’m going to need to know your name, okay?” he told her, and she nodded up at him.

“That sounds reasonable,” she said softly, sounding out every syllable in the word reasonable. “My name is Jessica, but my friends all call me Jessie.”

Janus continued to smile at her, hoping it was still coming off as reassuring. “That’s a very pretty name, Jessica,” he said, watching her attempt to fasten the necklace around her neck. “My name is Janus, and my friends call me Janus. Would you like some help with your necklace?”

She giggled a little bit and nodded again, eager. “Thank you Mr Janus!”

He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as he knelt down to help her, Jessica turning around and raising her hair out of the way, even though it was in braids. Diligently, he refastened the little silver clasp around her neck, suddenly thankful for his long nails.

“Alright Jessica, now let’s get you back to your mother!” he announced in his best chipper tone, and the little girl flashed him a grin brighter than the sun.

I should probably find an officer, or maybe someone in charge of security, he thought, and even though his blood went a little cold at the thought of willingly walking up to anyone dealing with law enforcement, he shot another glance over at the little girl, and he steeled his nerves, doing his best to push down the anxious fluttering in his stomach.

“Okay Mr Janus,”Jessica responded, prim and proper and polite as she used her palm to wipe the last of her tears off of her face. Then, a little shyer; “Can I hold your hand?”

He looked down at her, and the words “Of course,” were spilling out of his mouth before he could even stop them.

Just as shyly, he felt a tiny hand slip into his, and Jessica gave him another of her little smiles. “Okay, all ready now,” she announced, and Janus grinned at her.

And the two of them were off, Janus weaving through the crowd easily, used to navigating large groups of people. Every so often, he would glance behind him to reassure himself that Jessica was still there, despite the weight of her tiny hand in his own.

As they neared the police tent, stationed near the barricades closing off the road at the ‘start’ of the festival, Janus could feel his stomach trying to crawl out of his throat. There were a few officers standing around under the cover of their tent, and one very desperate looking woman speaking with them hurriedly. As Janus approached, he could hear the conversation a little bit clearer.

“Please, sir, I need to find my daughter,” the woman pleaded. “I don’t even know what happened, one moment she was holding my hand and the next she was gone, please!” She sounded close to hysterics, clutching the deep red purse around her arm tightly.

“Ma’am-” the police officer said in a slightly exasperated tone, but it was at that very moment that Jessica cried out “Mommy!” and let go of Janus’ hand, running past him on her short little legs and straight into the arms of the anxious woman.

“Jessica!” the woman responded, picking up her daughter and squeezing her. “Oh my gosh, Jessica, what happened to you? Why did you let go of my hand? Are you safe? Are you okay?” The woman’s questions got louder and more concerned the longer she looked her daughter over, patting her down for injuries and then hugging her again, just as tightly as the first time.

“Mommy, it’s okay,” the little girl said, in that same placid tone that all children somehow managed to channel through them when they really truly believed that nothing was wrong. “Mr Janus helped me.”

“Who is Mr Janus, honey?” Jessica’s mother asked, biting her lip nervously and giving her daughter another once over.

“He’s right over there!” Jessica pointed back to where he was awkwardly standing a few feet away, feeling a little bit like he was infringing on a personal moment. “He gave me a pretty necklace and helped me find you.” Janus gave her an awkward wave, unsure of what exactly to do.

As Jessica’s mother looked him over, Janus squirmed under the scrutiny. Jessica clearly took after her mother, sharing her straight blonde hair and button nose, though her mother’s eyes were blue, and Jessica’s were brown.

“Hi,” he tried, unsure of the proper protocol for dealing with returning a lost child.

Jessica’s mother’s grip tightened on her child for a moment, and then she smiled genuinely at him, and oh, that was Jessica’s smile too, and tears were welling up in her mother’s eyes as she said her next words. “Thank you so much for bringing my little girl back to me.”

Janus felt a rush of emotions, most of them positive, some of them bittersweet, still others a little bit confused and unsure. “Yeah, it was no biggie,” he managed to make out, giving her a smile and a head tilt. “I just did the respectable thing.”

Jessica’s mother gave him another smile, and said in the most genuine, sincere voice she could manage, “Well, if the world were full of people like you, we’d be all the better for it.”

Janus had to resist the urge to laugh outright at that, though the corners of his lips did twitch up. Hopefully, he could pass that off as a bashful smile. Oh lady, you have no idea. “It was my pleasure,” he responded smoothly, smiling down at Jessica and waving. “It was nice to meet you Jessica.”

“Bye Mr Janus! Thank you for helping me find my mother!” Jessica said with another one of her big grins, and surged forward to wrap him in one more big hug before she let him go.

“Bye Jessica,” he echoed, even as he turned away, smiling a little bit, knick knacks weighing heavily in his pockets.

The walk home was a slow one, one that he knew well. He’d been walking these bleak streets for years now, practically since he was old enough to stand on his own two feet. They were as familiar to him as anything could be, the result of time and effort spent exploring their back alleys and lanes.

Now that the festival was behind him, the cheery feeling had faded, the colors desaturated. Even the air seemed different, slightly stuffier. He knew that was ridiculous, he knew the air quality couldn’t deteriorate that quickly, but it seemed to choke him, worming its way down his throat and making itself at home in his lungs. It always had.

A dog barked from a nearby house as he passed by, and Janus crossed the street. There was no one out on these roads, but that wasn’t uncommon. He wouldn’t have been very surprised if a tumbleweed bounced past him one of these days on his walk home. It was just horribly stereotypical enough to be funny.

His grandmother’s house was a little brick house on the end of the block. She’d lived there as long as he’d known her, which was pretty much his entire life. Then again, he’d lived with her for most of that life. He didn’t really remember his parents, but that was okay in his book. Anyone who deserted their three year old child wasn’t anyone he ever wanted to meet, much less be related to.

Besides, his grandmother had been a more than capable caretaker. No one had showed up at more random childhood talent shows and concerts than she did, and she baked cookies wherever Janus did anything even minorly noteworthy, to show him just how proud she was of him. They’d replanted practically the entire garden behind the house together when he was little, and it was yearly tradition by now for the two of them to go out on the first acceptably temperate day during the spring and do their first round of weeding together.

Janus was walking up to the front step, already fumbling for his key when he stopped. The door was already open, slightly ajar. His eyes narrowed.

He could hear deep voices coming from inside, faint, but definitely there. Not his grandmother.

Without a second thought, he shifted, struggling a bit to pull his coat from this morning back on. Crap. Were the man’s eyes blue or brown? Was the small scar on his right hand or his left? Did his chin have a cleft in it or not? He didn’t remember, and that could be dangerous.

His coat was full of holes, little ones, but holes nonetheless. It was like he’d left it in the back of his closet, only pulling it back out to wear again once the moths had had their way with it. Was his nose really that big too? That certainly didn’t feel right. Clearing his throat and letting his voice deepen and shift into the man’s honeyed rumble, he slipped his jacket off and left it on the rocking chair to the left of the door. The voice was always easier.

“Mrs Devon?” he called out as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. The voices inside quieted immediately, and Janus put on his best mildly concerned but mostly confused look. His teeth were just a little too white to be real. Something told him that he wasn’t nailing this.

“Janus? Sweetie is that you?” his grandmother called out. She sounded nervous, never a good sign.

“No, it’s, ah, Mark.” Janus winced. He hadn’t had time to come up with a name, a story, anything. “From nextdoor?” he tried.

“Ah, Mark, come on in!” his grandmother called out, and Janus had to resist smirking. She was a better actor than he’d ever be.

As he walked through his hallway and into the kitchen, he found his grandmother sitting at the kitchen table with her hands crossed in front of her. Her lips were pursed and her expression was mildly frazzled. All around her, making themselves at home in her kitchen, were several different middle aged men. Sitting on the counter and sipping from a juice box was a boy that looked about his usual age, kicking his feet a little bit.

Staring at the scene in front on him, Janus all but tilted his head to the side questioningly. “It appears that I am not acquainted with your guests, Mrs Devon. Are they new in town?”

Before his grandmother could reply, the boy with the juice box spoke. His tone was icy. “Simply passing through.”

“Yes, I do believe they’re looking for my grandson,” his grandmother said, meeting his eyes. Janus could feel his blood run cold. Surely this isn’t for petty theft, he thought.

“What did he do this time?” he tried to joke, but it fell flat.

“Not a gosh darn thing,” his grandmother replied. “Mark dear, you will let me know if you see him, won’t you? He’s been out all day and I’m ever so worried about him.”

“O-of course.” His throat felt dry.

“We were informed that he would return at around this time,” the boy said, eyes narrowing behind his thick glasses lenses. He brushed some of his black hair out of his face as he evaluated Janus.

That seemed to be happening a lot today.

“Well, I certainly haven’t seen him,” Janus responded, you know, like someone who certainly had seen him.

“Of course you haven’t,” the boy repeated again, in that same cool tone that made Janus feel like his skin was crawling. “Because if you had seen him, then you would certainly tell us. After all, you have nothing to hide, and as a fine, upstanding citizen you certainly want to make sure that the law is being upheld.”

“That goes without saying,” Janus replied. Seriously, don’t say it. Stop talking to me. Please.

The boy sighed heavily. “This is a real shame, Mr Devon, I’d hoped you would cooperate with us…”

“I’m sorry?” Janus replied, feeling dread begin to pool in the bottom of his stomach.

“Yes,” the boy said with a nod. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

There was a small prick in Janus’ neck, and he gasped, stumbling away from the man behind him, eyesight already going a bit fuzzy. Somewhere to his left, his grandmother let out an indignant cry. Shit. “What- what did you do to me?” he gasped out, blinking heavily even as the man retreated back next to the boy with the brilliant blue eyes. “Shit,” he gasped out, and then his vision went black.

Chapter 3- Roman

It was just like his brother to have done something incredibly stupid the last week of their senior year and then claim he was “too tired” to get anything else done for the rest of summer. Roman let out a small huff as he walked back from their kitchen, balancing two plastic cups in one hand, and a bowl of chips in the other.

Remus had set off fireworks indoors. Not a couple of fireworks either, he’d gone out with some friends a couple of nights before and bought as much as six months of a minimum wage paying job would buy in fireworks, which was more than you’d expect. Roman had been saving his own money for college, despite his scholarship, but Remus just went out on impulse and purchased more fireworks than could fit in the back of his truck quicker than you could say “bad idea”.

Talk about going out with a bang.

Besides, Remus wanted to be a ceramist, he’d already gotten everything set up and ready to go on that front. Best to start the whole ‘starving artist’ thing as early as possible, right? At least, that was his go to joke whenever it was brought up.

“Anything good on TV?” Roman asked him, setting the cups and chips down on the table.

Remus was flicking through the channels absentmindedly. “Nah,” he muttered.

“Move your legs,” Roman told him, nudging one of the offending limbs. Remus insisted on wearing booty shorts throughout the entirety of ‘shorts season,’ no matter how cold out it actually was. Between the AC and the time of day, Roman didn’t know how his brother’s legs hadn’t frozen solid already. Remus had always run warm though.

“Mmh, no,” Remus replied, reaching out and popping a chip into his mouth.

“Don’t make me sit on you,” Roman warned him. “I’ll do it too.”

“Whatever.”

“You asked for it.”

Roman sat down on Remus’ kneecaps, but instead of the usual cursing and writhing that would result from such an action shared by siblings, Roman could only feel Remus’ knees give a little bit, and then they went completely flat and rubbery.

“Oh, gross!” Roman leapt off of him at once, brushing down his butt like he’d sat in lava. “You know that I simply despise it when you do that!”

Remus let out a little snicker. “Do what?” he asked him, smirking.

“You get all… rubbery. I don’t know how to explain it! Just… ew.” Roman made a face.

“I know, right?” Remus grinned at him. “I’m like a gutted fish, ready to be cooked! Where do my bones go? Who knows…”

“Don’t make it any weirder than you already have,” Roman said, exasperated, like they hadn’t had this conversation over and over again in the past. “Come on dude, please, just move your legs.”

“Oh! Well why didn’t you just say so, brother dearest?” Remus said, batting his eyelashes comically at Roman and sliding his legs gracefully to the floor, where they fell with a slight jiggling motion, kind of like jello. Roman resisted the urge to make another face, he knew it just egged his brother on.

Sitting down, Roman popped a chip into his own mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the flavor. Twelve years of schooling, done and dealt with. He couldn’t believe it. They’d done so much and spent so much time in that old brick building that it felt almost wrong to leave it. He had no more constants in his life, no more getting up early every week day for school, no more Friday math tests, no more lunch block to be spent with the theatre kids. He had lost all his constants.

Well, all but one.

Remus was his one true constant. They were going to the same college, despite all of the differences between them. Roman’s football scholarship was offered by a place with an excellent theatre program, and Remus had chosen the same school based on their stellar arts program alone. Remus was the antithesis to his thesis, the yin to his yang. Even Remus’ powers seemed to be in direct contradiction to his. Roman had expected them to be exactly the same, since they were twins, but his brother and he couldn’t be more different when it came to their strange, almost otherworldly skill sets. They’d had two apiece their entire lives, the powers of unknown origins that they only used when it was them and their parents around.

Roman had always had thick skin and an even thicker skull, in every sense of the words. He couldn’t remember a time when any knife, nail, or needle had ever pierced his skin. He led a surprisingly bruise and scrape free childhood, but it wasn’t until he’d accidentally caught his finger in a stapler and pressed down and the stapler had bent that he realized he couldn’t break his epidermis. He’d come to his mother and father crying, they’d thought he was finally hurt, but when he showed them the bent stapler and his pristine almond skin, they’d simply exchanged a look that he couldn’t quite figure out.

Remus’ skin was weird too, but not in the same way as Roman’s. Where Roman’s skin was rigid and unmoving, Remus’ was practically too easy to bruise. He’d spent most of his childhood covered in bandages and gauze pads, but he’d never broken a bone. This probably stemmed from the fact that Remus was like a rubber band. He could have been a contortionist, though Roman hadn’t ever seen a contortionist that could squeeze themselves completely flat and slide under his door to wake him up at three am on their birthday. Remus had limits, sure, and he seemed to keep the same body mass no matter what, but it was like his bones were gone sometimes, weird to look at and even weirder to feel.

It was Remus’ second skill that really made him the one with the more interesting skill set, in Roman’s opinion at least. It was the one thing that actually made him a match for Roman’s super strength, and made sibling squabbles a little bit more “fair.” He didn’t use it often, and Roman hadn’t ever really been able to put a finger on what he should call it.

They were seven or eight at the time, sitting on the floor of their living room, propped up in front of the TV. Colorful cartoons flashed on the tiny screen, but neither brother was actually paying much attention at all to them. Their focus lay on the toys on the rug in front of them, trucks and cars and dolls and little tiny building blocks.

“Boys, do you want lemonade?” their mother called from the kitchen, before returning to her usual humming.

“Yes please!” Roman called back to her politely, before returning to his very serious battle with Remus. So far it looked like he was winning, but he never knew when Remus would try and cheat to get the upper hand, so he had to stay vigilant. His father had taught him that word last week, and Roman had been thrilled to know that it had so many practical applications.

“Alright, Monsieur Poopybutt will now lead his forces in an attack!” Remus cried out, holding up his own doll, a barbie with a sharpie mustache scribbled across its small upper lip. He placed the doll very delicately in his biggest monster truck, colored the green and brown of camouflage.

As Remus mimed driving the car closer to Roman’s lego castle, he let out a hearty laugh. “You fool! You’ve fallen for my plan, hook, line, and stinker!”

Remus chuckled. “It’s hook line and sinker, doofus!”

“Whatever! Point is, I have you now!” Roman grabbed another of the dolls, one he’d been saving for the special moment that Remus tried to attack him head on, like he always did. “This is Princess Elizabeth!” he announced, brandishing the doll close to Remus’ face so that he could see her closer. “She wears a sparkly dress!”

“I know Princess Elizabeth,” Remus replied, unimpressed. “You use her every time we play. She knows how to use swords and whatever. She’s not that cool.”

Roman gasped theatrically. “How dare you besmirch the good name of Princess Elizabeth?” he cried, dramatically throwing one arm over his forehead, the other still clutching his doll tightly.

“Meh.”

“Well, dear brother, there’s something you do not know!” Roman cried out, grinning the gap tooth smile of a delighted child. “Princess Elizabeth has learned a new skill since our last battle!”

“Oh?” Remus asked him curiously, tilting his head and flashing his own identical gap tooth smile. “What is it?”

“Princess Elizabeth has learned how to use magic,” Roman whispered, eyes sparkling as he leaned in for dramatic effect. It had taken him days to fully flesh out her backstory, limitations, and powers. Originally, he’d wanted to make her like himself, but in the end he’d fallen back on the classic elemental control.

Remus let out a raspberry. “Well that’s good for me, since Monsieur Poopybutt is immune to magic,” he said with a shrug, knocking Roman’s doll out of the way and continuing his siege on Roman’s now unprotected castle.

“Wait, you can’t just do that!” Roman cried out, scrambling to grab Princess Elizabeth. “You made that up just now, you can’t change the rules!”

“So what if I did?” Remus asked him, grinning. He was already in the process of destroying Roman’s castle, ramming the truck containing his own doll into the side of the structure again and again. “Monsieur Poopybutt can do whatever he wants! He’s immune to magic because I say so, and he’s killed Princess Elizabeth, so I’m free to attack your castle! Besides, you can’t learn how to use magic that quickly, that’s unreasonable. Learning magic takes time!”

“Princess Elizabeth is not dead!” Roman protested, holding her aloft. “See, she’s right here! She’s fine! You didn’t do anything to her!” He paused. “And you can too learn magic that quickly! Princess Elizabeth is a fast learner!”

Remus just looked over at him, before grabbing the doll out of his hand and chucking her across the room.

“Hey!”

“You started it! There, she’s dead, I killed her! Don’t make me pop off her head too!” Remus retaliated. “She’s gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Roman let out a shriek, throwing himself at his brother and knocking him away from the castle, sending him staggering to right himself.

“What was that for?”

“You can’t just kill Princess Elizabeth! She’s my doll, not yours!”

They were both on their feet now, glaring at one another, the toys discarded. “I can and I will!” Remus replied haughtily.

“I hate you!” he yelled at his brother.

“And what are you gonna do about it, huh? Punch me?” Remus’ voice was deeper now, a low growl in the back of his throat that no ten year old should be able to use.

Roman shoved him. He knew it wasn’t the right thing to do, he knew that Mom had told him never to physically lay his hands on anyone unless it really couldn’t be helped, because they weren’t as strong as he was, but he couldn’t help it. Remus had been a pain in the butt all day, and this was just the last straw. Besides, he’d killed Princess Elizabeth and that was simply unacceptable. She was too important to just be killed off like that. So he pushed his brother with all the strength he could muster, stumbling into him and knocking him over.

Immediately, it was like his arm had gone dead. Pins and needles traveled throughout his entire body, and Roman felt drained for a second. Stumbling further, he fell on top of his brother. Immediately, Remus went pliant beneath him, probably ready to ooze away from him like he usually did. “Ow, get off me!” Remus cried out.

Roman felt like his body had been filled with lead, the pins and needles feeling retreating and leaving him utterly drained. He was oblivious to Remus’ whining as he tried to figure out exactly what he just felt. That had never happened before, not even when he hit things as hard as he possibly could.

“I said, get off of me!” Remus cried one last time, and then he shoved up at Roman.

Roman stumbled back and off of his brother, feeling a little bit like he’d bounced off of a wall. Crying out on his own, he felt his back connect with the floor as the air was knocked out of him.

A moment passed, and then Roman became acutely aware of his brother staring at him with wide eyes, their quarrel forgotten. His brother had shoved him away with a strength that only Roman could have possessed.

It had happened in the span of a couple moments, only seconds. Maybe he’d imagined it. Roman rubbed his elbow on reflex, even if it didn’t really hurt. He had never felt more powerless.

The best way he could think to explain it was energy redirection. However hard you hit Remus, he could hit back just as hard. He assumed. It’s not like they took a lot of time testing it out. As long as Remus could weather the hit, he would be fine. That was a lot cooler than his super strength, the only thing he got out of that was an advantage in football.

I wonder if Remus would be able to redirect energy from a moving car? he wondered to himself before banishing the thought from his mind. Remus would absolutely be up for being hit by a moving car for an experiment, and if he even heard about the idea he wouldn’t be able to get the idea out of his head. If he didn’t end up asking Roman to do it, he’d find someone else to hit him with a car. Roman wasn’t sure which of those options he felt more comfortable with. Probably neither.

Right now, they were both just having a lazy night in, gorging themselves on food while their parents were still paying to keep it stocked in the house and heckling at reruns on TV. It was peaceful and familiar, and Roman was glad for that. With so much changing so soon, he was a little nervous for what the future held.

Their mom brought their dinner out to the couch about halfway through wherever stupid TV show they’d put on for background noise, and after a profuse thanks from the twins, who hadn’t expected any other food to be provided, she retreated back to her study to work.

They dug into their calzones while they watched, the ceramic plates cold in their laps even with the steaming food atop them. College was stressful to think about, college was going to be expensive, and college was nowhere on their radar tonight, luckily.

The Princes had a rather nice house, upper class if you will. It was no mansion, but they had several floors and more than enough bedrooms for everyone. They were quite comfortable, and one of the features of their big house was their lovely doorbell, which had been rewired sometime when Roman and Remus were children to ring with a pleasant chime whenever anyone pressed the button. That being said, the sudden loud knocking at the door was a jolt to both of the twin’s systems, unexpected and louder than was strictly necessary.

Roman felt his grip on his fork tighten a little bit too much in his surprise and he looked down sheepishly. “I bent another one,” he told Remus.

His brother just rolled his eyes. “You’re a dork. Try to bend it back into shape while I go greet our guests.” He slid off of the couch and, with a shimmy, waltzed over to their intricate front door, opening it with a flourish.

Roman listened from the couch. His brother had an interesting way of greeting guests that tended to persuade them to leave quickly if they were unwanted, and his methods were fun to listen to. He just didn’t have a clue who would be knocking at- he checked the time- ten thirty at night.

He could hear Remus wolf whistle from the doorway, low and long. Roman frowned. He’d have to talk to Remus about doing that in the future, that was quite inappropriate. Then again, if he told him that, it might just make him do it more.

“Damn, where’d you fall from, angel?” Remus said, presumably addressing whoever had the misfortune to be on their doorstep.

The response was quiet, and Roman had to strain to hear it from the spot on the couch. “I have not fallen, in fact, I’m here on business. I’m looking for Roman and Remus Prince.”

“I sure hope you are, pretty boy.” Roman could almost feel Remus’ smirk, could almost envision his brother biting his lip in that way he did that made you feel weird making eye contact with him ever again. “Hey Ro,” he called over his shoulder. “Look who’s here to see us!”

Roman poked his head over top of the couch just as the boy at the door sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is definitely them. Just…” he waved his hand vaguely at the men behind him. “You know the drill.”

It took Roman about three seconds too long to understand exactly what he meant by that. One second Remus was standing there, grinning at him with his hands on his hips, the next his brother had been stabbed in the arm by the man closest to him, crumpling to the floor mere moments later. The man leaned down and picked him up like a sack of potatoes, beginning to walk out the door.

Panic rippled through Roman’s system as Remus left his field of view, and he threw himself at the blue eyed boy, unsure of quite what he was supposed to do but knowing that when he got there he’d figure out exactly what he was doing. He had to get Remus back.

Unsurprisingly, the boy dodged, stepping neatly out of Roman’s way and back a little further onto their porch. Thrown for a bit of a loop, Roman stumbled, twirling around to try and find the man that had grabbed Remus, single minded and focused on that and that alone, and-

-he felt a sharp prick in the side of his neck.

“You son of a bitch,” he whispered, feeling a haze settle over him, stumbling a bit further as his vision began to go dark.

Edit: Here’s the Ao3 link! 

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 9- Burnt Parchment

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

A brief respite for the hermits, they all take the time to rest, train, and learn more. While Xisuma digs through the libraries for information on dark magic, Stress discovers an unnerving note far from home.

____________________________________

Xisuma hums to himself, fingers running along the books. Old leather soft and emblazoned with gilded letters, sharp parchment of scrolls cutting into his skin with new vigor. All kinds of books and tomes and tablets, collected among Joe’s library. It’s a well cared for collection, and Joe prides himself on all the knowledge stowed in his home. 

The only problem is how he sorts his books. Most librarians would use one of many systems developed by scholars, perhaps by genre or author’s last name. But no, Joe used his own strange system, a madness to his method. No matter what the other hermits do to fix his insanity among the stacks, he only shuffles it back. And Xisuma is stuck reading through the strange collection their resident poet has amassed. He blinks away as he reads something he’d rather not, and pulls free an aged scroll, adding it to the collection in his hands. 

Xisuma steps back, turning. His eyes fall across the large black lacquered cabinet settled in the corner of the poet’s home. Distant from everything else, even the azure blue bed that’s covered in half-written poems and spells. Cold metal brushes against X’s fingers as he unconsciously touches the wrought iron key. “Dark magic has to be somewhere in there.” 

He reluctantly opens the banned book cabinet. Joe isn’t a person to ban books just for being controversial. In fact, the poet loves to bring books other libraries wouldn’t dare hold. Knowledge that should be spoken, kept safe. Illegal works against the Council, exposes on guilds, lost history no longer taught in schools. If their island in the Ashioll sea was a sanctuary to the illegal guild, this library was a sanctuary to illegal words. 

But even some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands. And if there’s anything X could call dark magic, it’s dangerous in any hand. Only one book among the darkened oak shelves gives him any hint to it’s contents including dark magic. A book about ancient magic. Why is this with the taboo tomes? Xisuma stands, tucking his armful of books close to his chest and donning his mask back on to face the sunlight.

Xisuma is a void wizard. He spends his days staring into the darkness of space, learning from the motions of dark matter and the void between stars. When others look to the light to discover truth, he can see everything beyond space and time, warped by the light others seek. X’s fingers run across a fractured part of his helmet. Where an insignia of a sun surrounded by spiraling void was dented out of existence. He can just barely feel the sharp triangular points of his brother’s symbol nowadays. 

He pulls the mask over his head, and braves the sunshine of his island home. In the distance, he can hear yelling, followed by the sharp clang of metal. The ground rumbles, and out of the corner of X’s vision he sees pillars of stone spire free from the grass. False and Scar are dueling, and Xisuma notices silver coins being passed between TFC and Cub. An easy smile appears beneath X’s mask. TFC was never one to stay holed up in the infirmary long. He’s still pale and weak from the crystal attack, but nothing would stop the guildmaster from being with his family. So long as he’s not using his magic, Xisuma won’t stop him. 

The fading black veins up TFC’s arm reminds Xisuma why he’s researching dark magic. After what happened to their guildmaster, their leader and father figure, Xisuma needs to know why it happened. And how to stop it from hurting any of his family. Ever again. Dirt crunches under his boots as Xisuma walks to the stone tower he calls home. The oldest structure, the first part of the island built up. When him and his brother fled into the mysterious sea, setting up the Order of Hermits. Fitting name, seeing as they’re the only ones brave enough- or stupid enough- to call the odd archapelago home. 

“Sheshwammy!” Keralis’s voice runs across the air like honey, but the magnitude of his voice causes Xisuma to jolt in his boots. A scroll drops, falling open and rolling across the dirt. Xisuma groans, tucking his chin to chase after the runaway parchment. Keralis aids him, scooping up the scroll and tightening the paper around the wooden rod. “Whatcha got there? A little bit of light reading?” 

“I wouldn’t call dark magic ‘light reading’.” Xisuma chuckles, plucking the scroll handed across from him. Keralis’s expression is quite alarmed. 

“Dark magic? Like spooky scary attacking crystal dark magic?” Keralis peers at the books in Xisuma’s hand. “Why are you trying to learn dark magic?”

“I’m not trying to learn it- I’m trying to learn about it. So...so things that happened in Gildara don’t ever happen here. Don’t ever happen to our island.” Keralis nods, nudging Xisuma’s shoulder to show it was all in jest. And the void mage feels like he can breathe. 

“Are you going to hole up in that tower of yours then?” Keralis watches X’s eyes through his visor, the crossed scars over his left eye. “Sheshwammy, come, let’s have some tea in my house! Soak in the sun, it’s good for you!” 

Keralis waves Xisuma to the glass hemisphere, tall grass and undergrowth flourishing in the massive terrarium. A single tree props up the glass from within, and a beehive thick with honey sits like fruit hung low from the tree. Black flecks buzz around among the terrarium, denizens of bugs flying in their habitat. To and from their food and wherever they make home within Keralis’s terrarium. When Keralis first showcased his magic to Xisuma, he admits he was freaked out. To gain magic by consuming bugs seemed...strange. But over time, it was no different than Joe’s poetry magic or Tango’s hellbound spells.

“Hello Suzy. How’s the hive today?” Keralis giggles, giving the fuzzy bee a pat. X stops at the door, watching Keralis file away some of his magical treats for later. “I was just coming to grab some more beetles before fighting Cleo, but this gives me an excuse to not face her now.” 

Xisuma sits down among the grass, the tall blades bending outward like a nest. Green and grey robes spread out, and Xisuma sets his pile of books on Keralis’s green bed. Keralis places a cup of tea in his hand, his friend remembering exactly how much sugar, honey, and milk he likes in his tea. Xisuma’s shoulders untense, remembering why he wanted a guild in the first place.

They weren’t just a team. They were family. They have each other. He’s not the only one worrying about TFC, others are taking good care of him. And they take good care of each other, including X. Xisuma swirls the spoon in his tea, blowing on the steaming drink and raising his head to feel the sun filter through the glass dome. His brother always wanted a family like this, but sometimes the sun shines too bright even for those who rely on it’s light. Every time Xisuma feels the warm rays on his brown hair, he thinks of his brother. 

But he always chases the thoughts out. That wimp left, ran away when things finally started to become real. Xisuma pulls the book on the top of the stack and forces it open. He flips to the page about magic law and illegal magic. 

Keralis peeks over Xisuma’s shoulder, trying to follow the insane speed the void wizard reads at. He doesn’t catch everything he sees, or understands most of what he reads, but the pages do reference the words he fears to be true. “Do you really think someone is practicing dark magic?” 

“I’m sure it’s dark magic. You saw how those husk people acted.” Xisuma picks up a book discarded to the side, pointing to a single paragraph. Hardly more than a line references the process of magic. “Dark magic is illegal for a reason- it steals power, killing the person who it’s stolen from. But none of these books talk about how it happens. There’s no mention of crystals, or the entire land devoid of life. A grey wasteland.” 

“What about this book?” Keralis sits in the grass, pulling up a massive, ancient leather book. “Plirus Mageia.” The bug mage opens the book, dust spouting free of the yellow, torn pages and causing Keralis to cough. 

“Well, it says it’s complete, but does that really mean…” Keralis grins as he discovers dark magic listed in the index, flipping to the page. It’s Xisuma’s turn to peer over Keralis’s shoulder, watching the ancient pages flipping forward, deft fingers searching for the page number listed.  Until they go past it. Keralis frowns, and flips back. And misses again. One by one, they look through the book. All that remains of the chapter on dark magic is ash, pouring into Keralis’s lap when he tips the book forward. “Someone doesn’t want dark magic to get out.” 

“Or someone doesn’t want anyone to know their secret.” Keralis whispers. 

-------------------------------------------

Stress packs the snow tight, pressing rosy pink lips onto the forehead of the snowman. One hand has her icy magic circle pressing against the torso. A little kiss like that sends magic surging through the white snow, each crystal and snowflake imbued with her power. The stone eyes blink and bluster against it’s cold body, and stick arms wiggle to life. “There you go lovely! Go explore! Watch out fer the edge!” 

Stress giggles as the snowman wanders across her icy island home. Just offshore of Eremita, she built her igloo under the cooling respite of an eternal snowcloud. She sits back, closing her eyes and feeling the chill touch of snowflakes falling on her pale cheeks. The cold water tickles her skin, clinging to the warm, fluffy grey fuzz that keeps her comfortable. She loves the cold, because it means she can cozy up in her warm robes, fluffy boots, and thick pants. She doesn’t have to worry about her hair being too long at her neck, or if she has too many blankets- which is never enough in her opinion. She’s known as a blanket thief, and it takes bribery to get them back. 

Snow crunches, the fresh layer depressing onto the white powder beneath it. Stress peeks open her eyes, and notices her new snow friend is waving for her attention, rock mouth mute to call for her. Rigid sticks flap back and forth, until the snowman knows it has her attention. It points a wooden finger down to the icy waters around her island. 

“What is that doin’ here?” Stress questions, standing up. She brushes the snow from her rear, watching the tiny boat rock against the ice chunks. She can only imagine if these enchanted sailboats had little itty bitty sailors, they’d look like massive icebergs, just before a frozen continent at the bow. “I thought these didn’t leave the cities.” 

Stress scoops up the wooden boat, fingers running along the smoldering fabric sail. The edges turn to ash upon her touch, embers eating further into the sail and smoking the wooden ship. It’s in bad shape, and Stress can’t figure out how such a little ship meant for messaging within a city made its way out here. Why is it burned?

She remembers the contents of the boat, pulling off a glove to squeeze her finger into the thin deck. Sure enough, a scroll was being carried by the scorched ship. The snowman at her side reaches for the boat, like a child desiring a toy. It’s wish is granted, Stress ignoring the boat in lieu of opening the parchment. 

It’s burned as well, and whatever edges aren’t black and charred are torn and tattered. On the backside, Stress can see printed letters torn through. It reminds her of when she went to school in Milliara, among the other noble children learning how to be good heirs, passing notes on torn sheets of their notebooks. The twine falls apart in her hand, allowing the burnt parchment to open. 

Stress gasps, letting the letter fall to the snow. She runs to the icy edge of her snowstorm, but the ice rises to meet her feet. Walking across frozen water beneath her shoes, until she’s on solid ground again. She doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate. She needs to tell the others what was on the paper. 

The parchment, burnt and soaked with snow, flutters in the warm Ashioll sea air. Blood for ink scrawls out two words. 

HELP DANES

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 251: Help I Love a Manga Too Much

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi answered the age-old question of “can the Todorokis ever be together for more than five minutes without lapsing into a daytime soap opera?” with a resounding “HAHAHAHA.” Fuyumi and Shouto sat down with Kacchan and Deku and told them all about their super-dead brother Touya, whose death -- and you’ll be shocked to hear this -- apparently had something to do with Endeavor. What exactly happened, though, we don’t actually know, because they didn’t tell us, because of course they didn’t. Anyway, so then Fuyu bid everyone farewell and they piled into the Endeavormobile and started to drive away. Except they didn’t get very far, because all of a sudden some guy was like “HEY ENDEAVOR I’VE KIDNAPPED YOUR SON, NATSUO” and Endeavor was like “!!!” and the guy was like “AND I’M GONNA KILL HIM, WHEEEE” and then the chapter ended. Anyway so we all agree this family is cursed, yes?

Today on BnHA: Ending, who really doesn’t have much depth to him beyond continuously screaming “SO ARE YOU GONNA KILL ME ENDEAVOR?? HUH?! COME ON AND DO IT! I FUCKING DARE YOU TO DO IT! COME ONNNNNNN”, keeps on doing that. After about three seconds, the Terror Trio gets bored of sitting around not kicking ass, so they explode out of the car to join in the action. Since they all have impeccable senses of narrative timing, they simultaneously choose this moment to figure out all that shit Endeavor was trying to teach them a few chapters ago, with the end result being that (1) Shouto uses Flashfire, (2) DEKU USES BLACKWHIP YESSSSS, and (3) Katsuki rockets himself at fucking lightspeed to save Natsuo in the nick of time. Then Endeavor wraps Natsu (and Katsuki lmao) in a big ol’ panicked dad hug, which fully destroys me, and the chapter ends! So that was pretty quick, actually, but it sure was intense!

lmao -- what?? -- are you --

ME, TALKING TO A FOREST WITCH: so you’re saying that once I peer into this cauldron, the spell will reveal the thing I love most?

WITCH: yeah basically

ME: [peers, sees this]

WITCH: ...

ME: ... I can explain

[wiping away tears] yep so anyways. that’s my son. that’s my boy. so handsome. and talented

anyways so I guess that answers the question of whether or not the kids are gonna get involved lol. the title presumably refers to the one week of winter break that they had, which was also their time limit to try and beat a villain before Endeavor. GEE I WONDER IF THEY WILL DO IT

so Ending, our friend from last week (who apparently isn’t the “Takami” guy he was monologuing about, so so much for that), says that even under the most extreme circumstances, heroes will never choose to kill someone. and god I am so tempted to say something snarky about real life law enforcement here. but you know what, I’m not even gonna go there because this is supposed to be my happy weekly manga reading time, and lord knows Horikoshi is good enough at fucking that up himself without me adding on to it

anyway, so Ending says that despite that principle, Endeavor chose to kill that Noumu at Fukuoka. so I guess he assumes this means Endeavor just doesn’t give any fucks nowadays and will just kill ANYONE, ANYTIME, WHENEVER! sound, logical deduction there! airtight fucking reasoning

anyway this guy actually sounds seriously depressed though, and yeah this is getting dark real fast you guys

a few people pointed out to me last week that this guy is manipulating the lines painted on the road, and that’s what his quirk is (and it was also pointed out to me that he shot himself up with something akin to Trigger before he got started, so presumably he’s hopped up on those quirk roids at the moment), and now that I know I can see it actually should have been really obvious lol. anyways so yeah, looks like he’s been busy. I’m sure the three buckos strapped into the back seat of this vehicle know when they’re beat, and will use this opportunity to just take a nap or something

honestly, I could have predicted this coming even without that thumbnail lmao

also is anyone else dying at Katsuki being all BOOM!! while Deku and Todo are just “BANG” further back by the car. just a slight difference in intensity, here. it’s subtle but you can spot it if you look real close

anyway if I were Ending, this right here would be the point where I said “OH SHIT” real loudly, and screamed and dropped Natsuo and turned and hightailed it out of there with my road stripes whipping out behind me in the wind like tin cans dangling from the back of a newlywed car

LMAO CHAUFFEUR ARMSTRONG IS ALL “YOU FORGOT THESE!” AND YEETING THEIR COSTUMES OUT AFTER THEM, AND FUCKING LOOK AT THIS SERIES OF PANELS OMG

Endeavor’s face is fucking SENDING ME, man, oh my god. the man has gone FULL SURPRISED PIKACHU, someone help me I can’t breathe dfklsk

AND WHAT ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO DO, CATCH THE BRIEFCASES AND THEN THEY’LL JUST MAGICALLY UNFOLD THEMSELVES OUT OVER THEM LIKE IN IRON MAN 2? actually, scratch that, that’s exactly what should happen. please do this. I promise I won’t even poke fun, I’ll just accept it unconditionally

LOL IT KEEPS GETTING BETTER HOLY SHIT

“911, what’s your emergency?” YES HELLO PLEASE HELP, I LOVE A MANGA TOO MUCH. “ma’am, that’s not a real emerg –”  NO, LISTEN, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND

Kacchan doesn’t even look back, he just reaches his hand out and knows exactly what Deku is doing without looking, and trusts his aim to be perfect. I’m so fucking weak for this teamwork I fucking sighed in real life you guys, it’s unbelievable

I can’t tell if this is Deku using “Shouto” the hero name, or if it’s now “Shouto” as in his actual name lol. because he’ll keep on using “Kacchan” no matter what, in any and all circumstances, so we can’t even use that to try and gauge lol. but anyway I’m choosing to believe it’s “Shouto” the name because they’ve now graduated to the next level of friendship after that dinner, and after Fuyu clasped his hand in both of her own and was all “I want you to know that I approve of the two of you together with all of my heart” or whatever it was she said, but it was basically that. so anyways yeah after that they’re now on a first name basis. YOU HEAR THAT, SHOUTO?

and then, with these bottom three panels, I know this is supposed to be all “click/bzzz/whrrr/other high tech costume-changing sounds” and it’s supposed to be a near-instantaneous costume change, presumably while still in motion because THEY’RE JUST BADASS BITCHES LIKE THAT, but like. in reality I pictured them all instantly grinding to a halt, and unclicking the locks on the briefcases, and Kacchan just giving his a shake to spill all the contents out haphazardly on the ground, while meanwhile Shouto is much more fastidious and respectful, and kneels on the ground and opens his case with both hands, and Deku is hopping around on one foot trying to drag his gloves on with his teeth while putting on his metal shoe-thingies, and the entire time Ending and Endeavor are just staring at the three of them like, “.....”

so anyway that’s what I choose to believe is actually happening. lastly, you also need to understand that pretty much this entire time, I’ve had the Powerpuff Girls theme playing in my head AT FULL INTENSITY on repeat, including during the part where they stop for five minutes to suit up. so there’s that, too

moving on!

TODOROKI SHOUTO, AFTER STOPPING TO CLICK OPEN HIS BRIEFCASE, RUMMAGING AROUND FOR HIS SHOULDER GUARD THINGS, LOOPING THEM OVER HIS ARMS, PAUSING TO WIPE THE SWEAT OFF HIS FOREHEAD, AND THEN FINALLY STANDING BACK UP: Natsuo!

lmao so anyway, now Endeavor is fully engaged in the fight once again, and thinking that Ending is “A FOOL” for letting himself get temporarily distracted by the interns’ shenanigans. but like. is he, though? seeing as he’s flat-out admitted to you that he wants to lose this fight? because he wants to die? did you hear that part? like, ??

so now there are some very intense closeups of Endeavor’s eye, and Natsuo’s face, and Endeavor’s feet

intense

(ETA: actually in hindsight of the hug, I fucking love this, because this is the moment where, right after he psychs himself up and is all, “now’s my chance!”, he sees Natsuo’s face and he sees the fear in his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s frozen in place, terrified of making a wrong move when his son’s life is at stake.)

-- oh snap, look who’s getting beaten to the punch!

do you guys remember that season 3 anime filler where Deku somehow beats Iida in a race and everyone just accepts it like that could ever actually possibly happen, like...?? if he can’t even keep up with Kacchan and Shouto, I hardly think he could pose a challenge to the guy who’s basically the Usain Bolt of heroes. but it’s not like that still keeps me up at night or anything. anyway!

so Ending here is giving the Todorokis a run for their money in the drama department, which is really saying something

okay, but what exactly is he supposed to do, then? you’re saying he should focus on killing you to save his son? so what, just like try to fry you and hope he doesn’t also hit Natsu? it seems to me like he has the same chance of success here whether he aims for lethal or nonlethal. so idk but go off I guess dude

oh damn, but in the meantime it looks like Todo is having some sort of badass awakening moment

YESSSSS SHOUTO UNLEASH THE INFERNO

(ETA: so Shouto just burned off his entire uniform, yes? boy you’d better keep that fire going now for modesty’s sake until you figure something out sob.)

lol so anyway I just had a flashback to Shouto’s fight against Tetsu back in chapter 205, and I realized that if Ending really wants to fight someone who absolutely doesn’t give a fuck, and will straight up kill a bitch with his quirk if they test him, then HERE’S YOUR GUY LMAO

now Ending’s saying “because you took your time...” and I have no idea where this is going, but I’ll take this as confirmation that they really did take a time-out for five minutes to gear up

oh damn

friendly reminder that gravity in BnHA tends to follow normal rules, unlike in most shounen manga. but even so, I’m finding myself hard-pressed to be concerned considering Kacchan and Deku are on the job. you’re gonna have to do better than that Ending my dude

wow is he shoving Natsu right into oncoming traffic?!

where the fuck did all these fucking cars come from out of nowhere like this?? the highway was like empty two minutes ago, geez

anyways now we’re seeing another “condense it!” panel, and is this one Bakugou??

I mean it looks like his gauntlet there, and I’m pretty sure Shouto was wearing sneakers in the panel earlier, and those obviously aren’t Deku’s shoes, so...!

YEPPPPPPPP

listen you judgey forest witch, I don’t need to justify myself to you, okay?? just!! I LOVE HIM END OF STORY

(ETA: and hey can we also just stop for a second and talk about how insanely fucking fast that was, though?? and Kacchan was fast to begin with -- remember how quickly he saved Jirou during the joint training arc. anyway so he’s basically moving at teleportation speeds now, and I’m here for it, and also terrified that he’s going to blow his fucking arms off at some point because holy fuck though.

also, once again I would like to express my gratitude for Horikoshi for once again giving Katsuki the big rescue moment, rather than having him go immediately for the bad guy. this is such an important thing to show. he’s really giving his all towards this “saving people” thing and trying his hardest and I’m so proud.)

and now it’s Deku’s turn to get to work!

that guy gripping his steering wheel for dear life has the most perfect expression I’ve ever seen, like that’s exactly the face I would be making in that situation. this chapter has had so many great facial expressions overall. I feel spoiled

[LUNGES TOWARD THE SCREEN IN ANTICIPATION!!] MOTHERFUCKER, ARE WE ABOUT TO SEE SOME BLOOP ALL UP IN THESE PAGES!?! PLEASE!!!!?

I FUCKING CAN’T WITH THIS BUILDUP?? THIS IS PAGE ELEVEN OF THE CHAPTER, AND I JUST KNOW WE’RE ABOUT TO END IT WITH A TWO-PAGE SPREAD ON THE NEXT PAGE. THIS HYPE IS TOO MUCH, I’M GONNA LOSE IT

OH SNAP NO IT WAS JUST A SINGLE PAGE!!

THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF BLACKWHIP YESSSSSS

lmao Ending looks so fucking shocked at being completely taken apart by these three kids with basically no effort. and I see that ice creeping up around him. oh, son. you tried

and then the last page is -- oh

I mean, Deku and Shouto being complete badasses (ETA: and I so wasn’t kidding when I said that Shouto will straight up murder a bitch omg), but then

aaaaand there goes my heart. hey would it kill you to give me a heads up before you just go and STUFF IT FULL OF FEELS like that?? like

just. Endeavor just ran up and gathered him up in his arms, and he’s holding him with this desperation that we’ve never seen from him before, and just... wow. it’s completely disarming and I’m almost at a loss for a coherent response. meanwhile poor Katsuki nearly got wrapped up in it as well due to proximity, but it’s not like it’ll hurt him to see this moment up close. I still have another essay I’m working on for you, you little honey badger

(ETA: on closer inspection it seems like poor honey badger actually has been fully included in the hug lmao. and at first I was thinking it was just the proximity as I said above, but you know what? if some punk kid flew in out of nowhere and saved my child’s life, you can bet I’d be wrapping them up in a bear hug too. so maybe it’s just the dad emotions getting the better of him. either way Katsuki you just gotta put up with it!)

anyways don’t mind me, I’m just sitting here thinking about how Endeavor has already lost a child (and yes I know, but like I said last week, I genuinely believe it was a tragic accident. to me that makes infinitely more sense than all of the darker/more sinister explanations. but anyways we’ll see eventually), and his family has been in shambles for so long and he’s been estranged from all of them (for good reason), and I think he finally even is coming to terms with that, and the fact that it may always be this way for him because of what he’s done. but to then almost have a second child taken from him, right before his eyes, and knowing that once again it would have been his fault, was apparently more than he could handle

and then, just the fact that he reacted in this of all ways. by openly showing tenderness and emotion, without even thinking about it, because he was so shaken up by the whole thing. this from Todoroki Enji, the most stoic, impassive, closed-off motherfucker to ever walk the earth! like, even after he clearly established that he was on the redemption path, he still never showed this kind of vulnerability. we’ve had a window or two into his thoughts and reflections, so we know he’s been experiencing remorse, and we could see it also during some of the quieter moments like him thanking Fuyumi or kneeling at the shrine for Touya. but I will tell you that I never for a moment could have imagined a scene like this. and I know it’s probably going to make some people angry because they feel like he hasn’t “earned” it or whatever. but I’ll be fully honest, at this point I’m kind of over feeling like I have to put a disclaimer every week explaining that yes, I like the Endeavor redemption arc lol. just, yeah. I like it. and anyway, so this was feels all over the damn place. fuck

(ETA: and I feel it’s worth adding here that even though Endeavor didn’t do anything to save Natsuo himself directly, it’s his guidance that enabled those three padawans to reach the next level so quickly. so in a way he did save his son: by finally moving past his self-centered mentality and taking these three kids under his wing and helping them grow. this wasn’t a victory he could have pulled off alone. but because he finally learned to see past himself, they were able to win the day and save Natsu.)

anyway, so now that all this has happened, I’m curious as to whether this is the end of this little arc! if so it’s much shorter than I expected. though obviously their internship is going to continue even after they head back to school, so it’s not like the action is just gonna come screeching to a halt. but maybe we’ll take a little break after this to catch up with the rest of 1-A, and maybe follow up with All Might to see who the great-great-grandfather of One for All is, oh snap

AND MAYBE A CERTAIN SOMEONE CAN HIT US UP WITH HIS THOUGHTS AND REFLECTIONS ON WHAT HE LEARNED DURING THIS WINTER BREAK, AND WHETHER OR NOT HE TOOK AWAY ANYTHING FROM THIS THAT MIGHT STEER HIM A BIT MORE TOWARDS HIS NEW HERO NAME. THAT WOULD BE SPLENDID. JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE

and having said that, I don’t really have a clean way of ending this recap this week lol so just. uh. I liked it a lot, thank you, good night

[didanawisgi]

Not to alarm you, but... whoa

This was sent to me in an email from MVT, a tactical training group I was planning on taking courses from in the future. This is how some of these guys feel, not to alarm anyone, I just wanted to show you how serious the situation is in America right now. What you are about to read is a mainstream view, as in millions and millions and millions of Americans feel this way but are largely silent at the moment. I don’t necessarily agree with everything he says, but I thought it would be worth sharing so you could feel the same sense of alarm I felt going through my emails... - REGIII, M.D., 32, RAM ‘Modern Alchemist’   

“BLUF: What you need to hear, but don’t want to.

Let’s keep things simple, shall we.

We are facing the end of the Republic. It is easily argued that it already expired, the point being that now we face a deep state coup, massive election fraud, huge corruption, an attempted Marxist takeover, and foreign control from China.

Democrats are traitors to the Republic. Republicans are not much better. The rule of law is dead: nothing that Trump has attempted to do has been done. He is surrounded by the deep state. The three letter agencies (of which so many of you are so afraid) have sold out to the dark side. They are part of the deep state.

Many of you are sold on the PSYOP that there is a plan in place. You may follow QAnon. “Trust the plan.” There is no plan. The attorneys who have attempted to fight the election fraud in court are fools. Why? Because they are working in an old system, where they had success with big lawsuits in court, and cannot get their heads around the massive corruption of the rule of law and the court system. They are working in an old system that no longer has merit. The supreme court is not doing its job. The Lawyers will not save you; you have to save yourself.

I would like to be wrong, and I would be happy to be so. But I don’t think so. Unless Trump pulls a plan out of his ass, Biden is getting sworn in on the 20th of January. The reprieve we had during the four years of the Trump Presidency will be over.

Most of America is sleeping. They expect that we will get over this. They expect a ‘return to normal.’ That is not going to happen. In 2021, it will all be over. The Republic will be finally dead. They hate you, and will be after you. That means your livelihood, your family, even your very lives. It always happens with a socialist administration. Even when you tell yourself that “it can’t happen here.” America is the prize, and it will happen here more than anywhere else.

Thus we face huge normalcy bias and denial. And this is the key, what I want to talk about here today.

I wrote a recent article called “Trust in Combat.” What I didn’t do was give you the answer to the problem. I will do so today, however much you don’t want to hear it.

The Trust in Combat article focused on the problems with forming groups, and training, and all the inherent issues about ego that will destroy a group, which is formed before the actual need for that group. Thus, we form groups now which are aimed at surviving hard times, but are operating now in easy times. Thus, ego will play and when it comes time, when you are actually in combat and the rounds are flying, it is likely to all fall down.

And that is the issue. We are either facing war, or perhaps we are not facing war at all, given the somnolence of the American population. We would tell ourselves that at some point, they must wake up. But will they? Or will they go to the camps like the citizens of the USSR? Will they tell themselves that “it will be resolved in the courts.” I really don’t know. I don’t have a crystal ball. I have no idea how this will play out.

I will tell you that there is no point waiting until the Marxist coup is consolidated, and strongly in place. Unless Trump is able to pull something out of the bag (a PSYOP story that will keep many of you hesitating) then what needs to happen is that We The People stand up. But we know that We The People will not do this. The ‘conservatives’ are either corrupt, or as seen with many of the ‘MAGA’ voters, are too focused on picking up litter and being polite, despite the assaults from Antifa. There comes a time to forget about the litter, and be rude as fuck. We are facing a civilizational assault on Liberty and the United States Constitution. And all we really care about is picking up litter, being polite, and trying to get by. There is absolutely no point in keeping arms, for resisting tyranny, if you have absolutely no intention of using them. All these quotes about blades of grass and the American Riflemen make me laugh; weapons will be banned and everyone will hand them in, because they were conditioned and told to do so (see how many are wearing masks?) Except, of course, for those who won’t; the problem being that they will be small groups and individuals.

So, however we get there, we will be at war. Whether the left comes for us, and however we resist, whether it be in small or large groups, we will be at war. This means that hardly anyone is trained, or physically fit enough; we will end up in combat as a total shit show. It’s going to be a total disaster and a lot of people will unnecessarily die. But that is just the way it is, because hardly anyone has the foresight to get fit, prepared and trained before such an event. We will be suddenly involved in some sort of Bosnian civil war scenario with absolutely no preparation and no forming of trusted, reliable, teams in advance.

So what is the solution? Individually we must do all we can to get fit, trained and equipped. We just know that we cannot form groups before the war, because of the way we are (‘Rugged Individuals’), and even groups that already exist are most likely flawed because they are not tested in combat (not fully trusted and tested in advance). The moment that the rounds start flying, is exactly the moment when all the unspoken issues of ego and trust start appearing, and before you know it, no one is doing what you trained to do (or not trained?) No one is moving. See my ‘Trust in Combat” article if you have not read it already.

What needs to happen is that, when people finally wake up and realize that they need to fight back, they need discipline and organization. People fight for a couple of things, and those can be summed up as 1) the group, and love of the group / not wanting to appear a coward in front of them and 2) discipline. This discipline can be found in the military with UCMJ, Uniform Code of Military Justice. The military is a legitimate organization where in small teams, the ‘alpha’ personalities are kept in check by a mixture of UCMJ (the hard check) and a general understanding that for the team to succeed, leaders must be supported. If leaders are generally supported, then people will do less dying (assuming competent leadership), and the team will be successful. None of this takes away from the wider discussion of leaders, for example, listening to helpful planning suggestions, not being a nightmare of a leader (effective leadership) and the rest; thus assuming relative competence from leadership, it is a good idea that the leader is supported in his role. Otherwise “we break down, the machine breaks down.”

How does this happen in civilian groups, either formed now or formed after hostilities begin? The leader must be able to rely on his team. He must be able to assume discipline and adherence to orders. When he expects someone to move, they must move. There must be a system of some form of oath, and some form of UCMJ. If people fail to do as ordered in combat, or are willfully disobedient, then they will face effective discipline.

And we know that this is not an acceptable plan for all of you “you are not the boss of me” types. ‘Rugged Individualists” (LOL), who will die as such.

When we talk about some of our favorite things, like the Revolutionary War or the Civil War, and we refer to the organizations of the day, we have to realize that these were either Armies or Militias. The Colonial Militia was an actual military force with leaders and discipline. Yes, I know that the Bosnia x Rwanda situation that we are likely to face is not the same war as they fought, but the point being that you cannot expect men to rise to combat without training and discipline. Without that they are just a mob, and will likely be as effective. And for those that don’t want to hear it, this is also not he same as a ‘militia muster’ with untrained and unfit people showing up to ‘muster’ in a field and then going home. Again, just another form of a mob.

Take it or leave it, I provide this to you as a solution. Given that it is likely to be rejected, all I can tell you is that you are best at home defending your family from the socialist hell that will be unleashed in 2021. That in itself is not an effective remedy, and allows us to be taken down one by one.

As for Trump, if he is going to act, he needs to act now. This situation will not be solved in the courts, it can only be solved by supra-legal action. By which I mean the insurrection act and whole lot of members of the coup going to jail / the firing squad. This has been termed “Crossing the Rubicon” but he must do so mindful of the best interest of the Constitution. Consolidate power, fix it, and step down. This would be truly in the spirit of a Roman ‘Dictator.’ But I don’t think he has it in him, and I don’t believe that he is really playing ‘4D chess.’ Prove me wrong. I would rather be wrong, than face the hell of a civil war, which many of us will not survive, victorious or not.”

Source: Originally posted here at the MVT blog: https://maxvelocitytactical.com/where-we-are/

[wexhappyxfew]

3, 15, and 20 for the writing asks ILY SUNFLOWER SISTER 🌻🌻🌻

JJ!! MY SUNFLOWER SISTER HOW ARE YOU TODAY!! thank you for stopping on by the askbox i’m excited to answer AHH!!! thank you again, it means the world!! <3

1. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

So CURRENTLY, I am actually writing the scene that I’ve been avoiding like the plague so there’s THAT LOL!! BUT..there was in fact another scene that I wrote that previously I was mentally prepping for and it was written SO, I’ll share it here because it speaks for itself! It is during Crossroads and we all have heard quite possibly about Agent Mortem - if not, here is a snippet of him essentially haunting her, her memories colliding with the present and ripping her from her focus-battle ready to her past which conflicts her nearly everyday.

FOR MY WAYWARD HEART, excerpt

" Oh dear Agent Fidel," he hummed, slowly crouching down beside her frame as a round of gunshots suddenly echoed off in front of them, far up along the dike. Agent Mortem watched her.

" Sounds like they need you."

" Don't you fucking distract me." she spat, hatred filling her lungs and her bones. He was not real, he was not standing there in front of her - it was all in her mind, it was all in her memories, it was all fake - it wasn't real. Agent Mortem's lips curled, attempting his best at the suppression of a smirk but a cold grimace laced his lips instead.

" Pity." he muttered, lighting up a cigarette under the falling rain," Never thought you'd degrade to an American uniform, more or less so the aid of Americans - I thought you were quite angry that they did nothing to help you?"

" Shut up." she snapped," They're the only reason I'm even alive and have the chance of getting home - and farther away from you."

" And closer to your real enemy again." Agent Mortem sneered. Natia narrowed her eyes and pushed up from the hedgerow and launched herself at him, but found herself sprawled out on the ground again, her feet kicked out behind her, radio yet again squishing her tiny body, front caked in mud, water and Earth going up her nose. She lied still in the rain, hearing the gunshots, the voices, the yelling the falling rain. She tried. She tried to get him out of her head. But she lie still, feeling the water roll over her, drowning her yet again. She was a weapon and her mind was the main part - but Agent Mortem controlled that, not even in his presence and he controlled every aspect - his little, perfect and warped war machine, calculated to kill. Now she lay in the mud of the Earth which tried to suck her whole again. Never had she felt more lost in her entire life.

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

I answered this, but I said BOTH in their very own ways! 

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

Okay so I ALSO answered this one, but I’ll chose something different and this time I will discuss the personification of the concept, Death, in this fanfic. 

I wanted to try something different and Natia is heavily related to Death in many aspects - she describes him readily, almost daily in her mind, how close she feels to him, his guidance, his comfort. And I talk a lot about how Death is misunderstood, and almost a way to pity him - he has no control yet is unstoppable in what he does, something that is very true to Death - in most cases, you can’t stop him. 

So here is some more info I chose to include when writing him!

DEATH - EXTRA INFO

Death’s connection with Natia here is very heavily set on this conflicting relationship. He is known as the Bearer of Death, he brings death where ever he goes and he can hardly control that. And it is fairly strange, because he does everything in his power to save Natia - he stays away from her but just close enough to see the color of her eyes. He attempts to protect her in ways he can, but enough for her to still feel HUMAN. It’s fairly complex, Death who literally brings Death, preventing one from death. It’s like he’s her guardian angel in a sense, watching over her, protecting her, something very unlike Death himself - in a way he is selfish for this being. 

The funny thing is - he has no contact to her in any way, shape or form. He does all he can to protect her. So he never speaks to her and vice versa. But it’s a presence and it’s prominent.

Here’s a snippet: Death glanced over towards his old friend as the young girl slowly stepped out under the rain which refused to let up for anyone and watched it pound her body. She stood there under the roaring of the rain, letting it soak her olive drab, her hair, her boots, running down her thin fingertips before dripping back into the Earth. Death watched her curiously, almost with a pitiful edge to the way he watched her, as she slowly backed up and pressed her back up beside the edge of the barn and slowly slide down it, the rough edges digging in through the thick wool of the olive drab, as her bottom hit the grass below her. She didn't move, she barely blinked, she just let the water run over her being as if she didn't feel a single thing. Death softly positioned himself down beside the young woman, sitting right beside her as the two oh-so-numbly looked out into the falling rain, splashing into puddles below, creating muddy pits in the grooves of the street. It was humbling, in a world so dark and grim. Death's comfort was what sent her to sleep as the rain drowned her whole. 

thanks so much for the ask jj!! <3

[sheriffofmagic]

Im always a big slut for hurt/comfort, so if you made it Vang0Chainz I would perish. Also Burger Chainz trying to enculture Vang0Bang0 by having a movie marathon that turns into a sleepover. Also what if Burger knew Vang0 before he lost his memory but promised Vango that he'd never tell him who he was before. im also tipsy lol im jus throwing spaghetti places. i love your blog btwww

I was going to go to sleep but i saw this ask and had to start writing immediately (must have some weird dumb pavlovian response to vang0chainz) anyway this is super dumb hopefully, maybe you’ll enjoy it. it’s almost 5am and i didnt proofread this so its definitely a huge mess but uhhhhh here’s the trash you ordered

---

“Will you stop fussing?” Vang0 says, snappier than he intended.

Burger Chainz pulls back from where he’d been inspecting Vang0’s hurt shoulder, a mix of hurt and embarrassment on his face.

“It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been shot,” Vang0 continues, “at least… I don’t think it is. Muscle memory or somethin’. Anyways, I mean it. I’m fine. And you hovering over me like I’m about to drop dead isn’t helping.”

Vang0’s not fine, obviously. He’s been shot which, muscle memory or not, stings like a bitch and more than anything makes him mourn for his jacket which there is no salvaging from the burn marks. A shame really, the chrome color had nearly matched that of his hair. He’d been thinking of turning it into his signature look, perfect for merchandising. Oh well. He wasn’t dead so that was a plus of sorts....

They were at Vang0 and Burger’s place (technically Vang0’s but Burger was there so often the distinction hardly felt necessary anymore) and, aside from the bullet wound, this was a pretty typical Saturday night. The TV providing a low din of noise to fill the empty spaces of whatever inane conversation was taking place between the two of them. Tonight was more tense than usual. Vang0 Bang0 was not a strong man. High charisma, low constitution. All that. Hiding pain wasn’t exactly in his repertoire but ignoring it? That he might be able to manage, especially if it stopped his massive cyborg friend from pulling the kicked puppy look for the next couple of hours.

Night City wasn’t exactly known for it’s premium broadcasting, most nights after midnight channels tended to switch to the same things. Classics. Vang0 didn’t care much for it, looking back at the past, even the fictional past, wasn’t really his thing. Burger Chainz, though, Burger Chainz loved them. Tried to hide it, Vang0 knew, but he’d referenced them often enough that Vang0 picked up. Vang0 was observant like that, even though he pretended not to be.

All this to say, it was after midnight, Vang0 was the one in pain, and yet Burger looked like he was the one on the verge of a breakdown. Vang0 took pity on him, the kind he only indulged in when the streams were turned off and the hour was late and he could pretend he and Burger were just normal friends, “What’s this one about again?” 

Burger looks startled for a moment then glances briefly between the TV and Vang0, “Uhh, it’s a rom-com. He’s emailing another kid from his school but he doesn’t know who it is.”

Vang0 bites back a sardonic comment about how if this kid really wanted to know who his secret admirer was he could cross reference the dialogue patterns and… yeah maybe he can see why he’s not the most fun person to watch movies with and- oh. Burger is still talking.

“-things were different back then, ya know? People weren’t so… nice.”

Vang0 laughs, “You think people are nicer now?”

He gestures to the wound in his shoulder and Vang0 rolls his eyes (Eye? Can monochrome robotic eyes roll?) “Well, not bad folks maybe. Criminals still aren’t great. Prone to violence and all that. But normal people? Yeah I think they’re better.”

“Well aren’t you optimistic.”

Without missing a beat Burger replies with a wry smile, “Well, I have to be don’t I? With you around. Gotta cancel out that negative energy.”

Burger goes back to watching the TV, a slight uptick in the corners of his mouth. Vang0 can only look at him half dumbstruck, half distracted by the pain (getting shot really does hurt).

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Burger Chainz glances toward him, unsure, “Mean no offense. Just- you kind of assume the worst. About situations. ‘Bout people. Sometimes, even ‘bout yourself, if it’s not outta line to say.”

“It is.”

“Okay.” An awkward silence. Punctuated by the sounds of the film, too loud to be filling this space. This isn’t the conversation Vang0 wanted to be having. Not now. Not ever, if he could help it.

“How is it wrong for me to assume the worst? Huh? People do the worst all the time. We see it every day. You see the world we live in? You want me to be optimistic here? After everything I’ve gone through?”

Burger finally looks away from the screen, for once there’s no tension in his brow, only sureness. “I don’t want you to be anything other than yourself but goin’ through life thinking every shadow is out to get ya isn’t much of a way of livin’.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of all people that I have good reason to be distrustful.”

“You don’t. I-” he sighs, “I just wish you’d be willing to things as more than just black and white.”

“Oh forgive me if I’ve had some encounters,” he gestures to his shoulder, “that paint Night City in a bad light.”

Burger hesitates, “Does it hurt?”

“Obviously.”

“Right…”

They lapse into silence again, both of them staring at the screen but Vang0 can tell from the rigid set of Burger’s shoulders that he’s not really paying attention. He’s too on edge. 

It’s not until after the emotional turning point of the film that Burger Chainz breaks the silence. The kid’s friends have all abandoned him, over something stupid Vang0 presumes despite not having paid much attention to what was going on. The kid was angry. Alone. And then the resolution starts and he’s so not alone anymore.

“It can’t all be bad though, right?” Burger asks tentatively.

Vang0 raises an eyebrow at him though which he means to convey Uh well, it is. In case you forgot I was shot by a person in your dumb city just a few hours ago. But which Burger Chainz apparently interprets as… honestly Vang0 has no clue how that man’s mind works.

“I- I mean. It’s not all bad all the time. Aside from the getting shot thing. Not great.”

“Can’t forget the memory wipe.”

Burger’s eye darts around the room, “R-right that too but- But. It’s not all bad. I mean, it’s pretty bad but think about it. You have an apartment and your fans and a sorta job and Dasha and- and me.”

He pauses.

“And that can’t all be bad. I’m only sayin’- the whole world ain’t out to get you, only part of it.”

This shouldn’t be comforting. At all. It should be unsettling. It should make Vang0 want to laugh bitterly and spout some brilliant sardonic response about the world being a cruel place that doesn’t care about people like him. But the music in the movie has shifted to something more hopeful. But it’s the late hours of the night where things like hope are less dangerous to feel. But Burger is looking at him with a soft look in his eyes. Like he really believes what he’s saying, the sap, and like he wants Vang0 to believe it too. He doesn’t but for just a second, Vang0 wants to. He wants to believe in a world with gentleness, the one Burger seems to be able to see where no one else can.

He sighs. Not a defeat. Not an agreement because Vang0 never yields. But an acceptance.

Vang0 tries to release the tension from his shoulders as much as he can, schooling his face into something less jaded. If anyone deserves to believe the world isn’t all sharp edges it’s Burger.

He looks between Burger and the screen, “So do these kid’s friends suck or is that just me?”

There’s a flash of disappointment across Burger’s face, but he’s never been one to push especially not with Vang0. If he drops the subject, Burger will follow. The flash is gone in an instant and a small smile grows across Burger’s face, any residual tension drifting away with it.

“Definitely not just you, they suck. You might’ve missed it but earlier they-” 

And he semi-listens to Burger re-explain the plot of the movie he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to but he finds it capturing him more now. His attention is locked somewhere between the play-by-play and the actions occurring on screen. It’s the resolution now and everything seems to be coming together just a little to easily. The friends are back and the school is welcoming and the crush is confessed and everything is wrapped up too neatly for Vang0 to feel satisfied. There’s still a panging ache in his shoulder. His head is still chattering away as it has been since he woke up. Still there is that faint voice urging him to pull away. To focus on what he’s good at and make content and be alone and convince himself that that is enough. But the volume is so low that the old pop tune playing over the credits doesn’t feel abrasive. Burger is leaning in towards him slightly, conspiratorially, as if talking about this dumb classic is as important as mission details. There’s a smile on Burger’s lips that reaches his eyes. And Vang0 is content, for this moment, to pretend that happy endings are enough.