#just lamenting the landscape of games at the moment.

[sapphic-haymaker]

man this morning im so sad that Limbus is a gacha, obviously i'd prefer that to it not existing at all. and i do not fault project moon at all for the decision. This industry sucks and gacha is the safe way of securing funding. It makes sense for an indie studio of 20 whole people.

but sitting here, having spent all my saved up gacha resources since launch on an attempt on the New Shiny Toy and not having got it, It's snapped me out of the honeymoon phase a little. I love this game, i love this world, i love the writing, i love the characters.

But getting a big reminder of how Gacha is fundamentally predatory and that this will likely happen again hurts. I played a ton of a Gacha before getting into ProjMoon's games and god was LCorp and Ruina back to back such breaths of fresh air. Two completed, finished pieces of art that quickly rose to be some of my favorite games of all time. I'm pretty sure i fell off of Gacha due to those games completely hooking me.

and I want more! Project Moon makes incredible stuff! I wanna support these people and their art. But even if Limbus is much more generous and skirts a good chunk of icky gacha stuff, it still is one at the end of the day. So now i'm faced with the choice of: don't get to experience more of the media i've fallen in love with, or be subjected to the inherently manipulative practices of live-service games.

I'm going with the latter, obviously. Limbus is still a very good game and i want to support Project Moon. But it's definitely going to sting a tiny bit knowing that the game will never be as good as it could've been if it was a complete product like their previous two entries.

[pedropascallme]

The Weather Ain't Been Bad

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: “You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) p in v sex, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, Damien is a biter but we knew that, lots of begging and even more praise, Damien likes getting his hair pulled but we knew that. If I missed anything please let me know!

“You look dumb.”

“I’ll literally—look at me, look at me. Shut up.”

You listened to Shayne and Angela argue in the back seat, their back and forth had started as a game of I-spy and quickly devolved into improvised insults on hour one of the drive after a patch of traffic resulted in a lack of things to spy.

“Literally nothing you say could ever affect me I don’t care about anything you have to say to me.” Shayne deadpanned and you heard Angela let out a shrill sound as she tried to climb out of her seatbelt to punch him in the arm.

“Hey, you know what would actually be really fun?” Damien, driving, looked back at them through the rearview mirror, “If you guys would, uh, shut the hell up?”

You laughed quietly; head propped up on the window as you watched the California landscape go from dusty highway to snowcapped trees. Hours long car ride aside, you were happy to be making the trip. It had never occurred to you that upon Anthony’s return to the company there would be a renaissance of Smosh content that didn’t have to do with the main channel, but when they announced the return of the Winter Games you felt a swell of joy—it was nice to be part of something that went back so many years and still continued to entertain the masses, especially when that something made you feel a cathartic sort of nostalgia.

And now, sitting in the front seat and listening to your friends threaten each other in increasingly ridiculous ways, watching Damien’s hand on the steering wheel, it went beyond simple nostalgia: It was pure ecstasy. The low hum of music on the radio paired nicely with the long road ahead, and you leaned back, closing your eyes for a moment.

You felt a hand on your knee, giving you a short squeeze. You opened your eyes, grabbing Damien’s hand and squeezing him back.

“What?” You playfully pushed his hand back towards his body, and he gripped the steering wheel.

“You’re my GPS, you can’t fall asleep.”

“I could navigate!” Angela leaned forward, elbows on the center console.

“You—you would get us lost in your own house, you psycho.” Amanda piped up for the first time in several minutes, placing a hand gingerly on Angela’s shoulder and laughing.

“Hey!” Angela turned her attention away from the front seat, pushing against Shayne, who had started laughing at her expense once more.

Damien glanced at you from his peripheral, as if to silently lament about your friends in the back seat, and you glanced back, smiling.

You appreciated the moments you got to spend with Damien. It wasn’t like they were rare; since you’d joined the cast, he was always someone you’d found a sort of reliability in, and a shared sense of humor went a long way. He was always a beacon of tranquility amongst the chaos of the office. He could be just as rowdy as everybody else—and often was—but he was always able to weed out when somebody needed a moment to recalibrate, and it felt like he knew what you needed before even you did sometimes. But he seemed to have that effect on most everybody, and you didn’t want to push too hard for something that might not be there, despite how happy you were to feel his hand on your back when he guided you through crowded spaces, or to hear him say your name in that faux-crestfallen way when you cheated in cards.

He turned his gaze back to the road, and you found yourself leaning against the window again, passively looking at his reflection in the trees that darted by, and thinking things that you decided should remain unsaid.

~~~

The house was gigantic, and even that was putting it lightly.

In theory, you recognized that you worked for a multi-million-dollar company, but it was more than a little weird to be standing in the doorway of a house big enough to hold at least 20 copies of your own apartment inside of it.

But you understood the want to splurge; it had been years since the last Winter Games, and even longer still since there had been a Games with Anthony. It was exciting, and even before you had gotten to the cabin-style mansion, there had been a buzz in the air; cast and crew alike vibrating in anticipation of a vacation-like period where things would be more akin to camp than to work.

Filming started immediately, and you barely had time to think about what exactly was happening before you were back in front of a camera.

Shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the cast, Ian and Anthony made picks for their respective teams; it was easy to forget that you were in a new space—it was like you’d never left the office, still in good company and laughing until your cheeks hurt. You donned the bright blue shirt that had been handed to you, and wondered how many raunchy, snow-related jokes you’d have to hear over the next week.

“Be honest with me,” you put the shirt on over the one you were already wearing, joining the side of the room with the rest of your teammates, “Are we gonna lose?”

Damien laughed, “With that attitude? Probably.”

Maybe the best part of the trip was the fact that this year marked the first time that everybody got their own room. You’d heard the stories—not that they were all that bad, but it was nice to know that even when surrounded by your friends for two weeks, you’d still be able to duck out for some private time in your own space.

Except that your room was freezing.

You hadn’t noticed it upon your arrival, coat still zipped up and adrenaline on high, but once you had showered and readied yourself for bed, you recognized the deep, unwelcome chill in your bones. The source evaded you; the windows were closed, the ceiling fan was completely still—it was a frustrating end to a long day.

You gave up, putting on a heavier sweatshirt and deciding that locating the source of the frigid air was a problem for tomorrow. There had to be extra blankets somewhere, and you tried to recall whether there had been any on the couches downstairs. Even if there weren’t, getting out of your room and regaining a little feeling in your fingers sounded appealing.

You quietly exited your bedroom.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, you shifted your weight awkwardly from side to side to avoid any sudden creaks from the old wood. The house was silent—save for the wind outside that howled against the windows every few moments—and you didn’t want to disturb the peace.

You had barely made it off the last step, rounding the corner to the kitchen, when you heard a voice call your name. You flinched, hand flying to your chest in a brief moment of panic, not suspecting anybody else to be awake, let alone downstairs, while you were roaming the halls like some kind of restless spirit.

“I’m sorry—did I scare you?” The familiar sound of timely apologies, whispered from across the room. You felt your heart settle. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Damien,” you took measured breaths, “scared me.”

“Sorry,” his voice was low. He stood behind the kitchen island, hair messy, and it was clear he was struggling to sleep as much as you were.

“It’s ok,” you walked towards where he was standing, leaning over the island to grab at his arm reassuringly before letting go; his skin was warm against your palm, and even in the dark of the room you were unable to tear your eyes from him. “I didn’t think anybody else was up.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not by choice,” he sighed, “my room is a sauna.”

“You’ve got your own room, you couldn’t just strip down?” You raised your eyebrows, teasing him, trying not to think about how he might look spread out on his bed with nothing on.

“There are only so many layers I can take off until it’s, like, my skin,” he smiled, and you broke out into a quiet laugh.

“Well, my room is freezing, so,” you collected yourself a little, “I came down looking for more blankets, but if you wanted to switch…”

“Is the window open?” He furrowed his brow, seemingly concerned by your discomfort.

“Not even a crack,” you clarified, “Your room sounds like a dream to me right now.”

You didn’t realize how it sounded until he let out a snort, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You know what I meant.” You rolled your eyes, and he reached over the counter to brush his hand against yours in a gesture of peace.

You stood quietly together, enjoying each other’s company and the calm of the house. You let your hand remain under his on the granite, and he didn’t make any moves to separate from you.

“Thanks for being a good sport about navigating,” Damien ran his other hand over his face, tired after the seemingly endless day. “I know it probably wasn’t your first choice.”

“Yeah, well. You better thank God we’re on the same team, otherwise I’d use 'competitive determination' as an excuse to get back at you for keeping me up." You shot back jovially, “But, you know…it was nice to help you out.” You paused. “I liked it, actually.”

He shot you a small smile, which you returned, and the two of you let silence fall again.

“How about I see if I can find the source of whatever it is that’s making you so cold?” He tilted his head, sincerely offering to help you, and you could never say no to an offer like that.

You could never say no to Damien.

“That would be nice.” You curled your pinky into the palm of his hand before turning to lead him to your room.

You were friends, always had been upon your entrance into the company; he was an undeniably important presence in your life for that very reason—he was there. He was always there when you needed him. He was supportive and kind and stupidly funny, and, yeah, incredibly attractive. But that didn’t mean it had to be something more. Just because you looked forward to the days he came into work with dark stubble that contrasted with the silver of his hair, just because you forgot the rules to certain games sometimes because you were too focused on the way his sleeves fit around his arms, just because you loved the way his eyes trailed over your face when you told him a story and he got just as animated as you did—it didn’t have to be anything more than friendship.

But realistically, despite your insistence to your friends and to yourself that you considered Damien a great, strictly-platonic friend and nothing more, you knew what you really wanted.

You knew you wanted more.

And despite the innocent context under which you were bringing him up to your room, there was a surge of adrenaline that coursed through your chest while he trailed behind you.

“Jesus,” he pushed his shoulders back upon opening the door to your room, goosebumps pricking his skin. “Some weather we’re having.”

“I told you,” you pushed past him, kicking a stray pair of socks into the corner. “You still think you can fix it?”

“They actually call me Damien “Fix-It” Haas,” he cracked his knuckles, “Don’t look into it.”

You smiled, shaking your head, spreading your arms out to signal that he could poke around freely.

It took him approximately ten seconds to locate the thermostat behind a curtain.

“Are you serious?” You kicked yourself for missing what should’ve been so obvious.

“I’m Damien,” he went straight-faced, “And this says sixty-five degrees—how are you not frozen solid?”

“Pure will.” Your head fell back in exasperation, “How did I miss that?”

“You’re tired,” he softened, “It’s been a long day, y’know, and I bet a lot of people are too dumb to look behind curtains—”

You cut him off with a curt but soft shove to his chest, and he grabbed your hands after they made impact, both of you semi-delirious from lack of sleep and falling into a fit of giggles. He removed one of his hands from you, leaning back to change the thermostat.

“It’ll heat up eventually,” he started, “What number do you want it at?”

“Warm.”

“So, that is not a number,” he smiled at you, “I’ll put it in the seventies.”

“Thank you,” you wriggled free of the grasp he still had on your wrist, “My hero.”

You stood facing each other for a moment, neither of you ready to part for some reason.

“I should go to sleep,” you finally spoke.

“Yeah.” He agreed, voice sounding raspier than it had before. He started to walk towards the door while you leaned back onto the pillows on the bed.

“Damien,” you didn’t know what you were doing, or if you should be doing it, but it felt only logical in the moment, “Stay.”

You watched him freeze in place, turning back to look at you.

“I mean…if your room is uncomfortable to sleep in—what, are you gonna sleep on the couch?” You continued, rambling to find reasoning behind your sudden offer, “You can just stay here tonight.”

“Seriously?” He scanned your features, trying to figure out if you were serious or if this was just a joke that he hadn’t caught onto yet.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not fair that you have to spend the night in discomfort. Especially after you fixed the temperature in here.” You felt a red heat rising in your ears, but you soldiered on, still waiting for a yes or no. You watched as he turned to walk towards the door again, and your heart sank a little, before he closed the door in front of him and walked back to you.

“One hell of a sleepover—one bed, no snacks, and you don’t even have a Wii,” He feigned disappointment.

“But I hear when mom goes to sleep, they bring out Kevin’s mom.” You smiled, digging your heels into the comforter, and he laughed at the callback.

He sat on the mattress, leaning back on the pillows with you, and you used it as an excuse to angle yourself towards him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder.

“I can sleep on the floor. If you want…” He whispered, and you felt his fingers trail up your own hand.

“No,” you turned to look at him, still on your back but suddenly very aware of the proximity to which you were lying next to each other, letting him continue to run his hand along your arm. “It’s still cold in here.”

“I can turn the heat up—”

You watched as he traced the curve of your elbow with his finger before letting it fall back to your hand, “Damien, stop being a gentleman. Just share the bed with me.”

“Ok.” He stopped moving, gaze falling on you and swallowing shallowly. You laced your fingers with his. You were certain he could see your heart beating through your ribcage, or at the very least he could see the way your pulse bounced in your wrist. “Yeah, ok.”

You didn’t undress, didn’t even get under the covers, but something felt so intimate; a shift in the air. Maybe it was the new warmth that permeated throughout the room, but it was different, in the best way.

It felt like more.

He didn’t touch you, didn’t even graze your back when you turned over to get comfortable. But you felt his breath on the back of your head, rustling your hair and drifting over the back of your neck.

Your eyes stayed open, unable to let sleep take hold despite the tranquility; the moon bounced off the snow and caused a dim light to trickle through the window, and you were wide awake.

You shifted again, turning back over to face Damien. His eyes were closed, and you watched the subtle movements of his body, chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

“It’s creepy to watch people sleep.” He whispered, and you bit your tongue, unsure of what to say. Busted. He opened one eye and broke into a small smile. “Are you gonna murder me?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” You whispered back, nearly letting the sound of the wind outside drown you out.

“I could take you,” he propped himself up on his arm.

“Is that a challenge or a blanket statement?” You raised an eyebrow, “Because I wasn’t going to murder you, but those are fighting words.”

“What do you think?” He was goading you now, waiting to see if you’d back down from whatever this was, if there was a line you were going to draw.

“I think I could kick your ass.” You sat up on your knees.

“Yeah?” He looked at you, skeptical. You couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t tell what this was, or what would happen if you crossed the physical boundary into his space.

You threw caution to the wind for the second time within the hour. 

You launched yourself towards him, and he let his arm fall to the side, lying on his back as you clambered to straddle him. Grabbing his wrists, you pulled his hands above his head, letting out a small huff of victory.

You couldn’t recall a time where you’d ever been this close to Damien before. There was a pool of heat in your stomach that you tried to write off as a burst of energy—adrenaline hitting in the middle of the night—while you rationalized being in this position with him. With your friend. It was just wrestling; a playful act among companions. You’d seen people do it all the time in the office. Courtney put Spencer in a headlock the other day—you’d seen her do it to Ian the day before that. It was fine. It wasn’t anything other than roughhousing.

It didn’t have to be anything more.

“I told you.” You gloated.

“I was in a vulnerable position. This is hardly what I would call a fair fight.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I’m being a sore loser?” He smiled, all teeth, and you were about to respond, tell him that you had won, fair and square, and that if he wanted to lose again, you’d grant him the rematch he clearly wanted so desperately.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, knee between your legs and one hand pinning your wrists above your head just as you had done to him.

“Never let your guard down,” He laughed, and you bit back a smile.

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s what a sore loser would say.” He taunted, and you thought you felt his grip tighten around your wrists.

You looked up at him, unsure where to go from here.

Surely, you’d separate, turn over and away from each other, fall asleep, and then act like nothing was different tomorrow—because nothing was different. Nothing had changed. This was nothing.

But you liked the way he looked like this; his knee caught between the V of your own legs, the muscles in his arm tense from the grip he had on you, his other hand planted on the bed at your side, just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of it. You watched him swallow.

“Tell me to let go,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. “Tell me to let go and I will.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound. All you could do was stare up at him, before you reminded yourself to speak, to say anything, to finally reveal what it was you wanted.

“Kiss me.” You were worried he wouldn’t hear it over the wind, words coming out small and breathy, but you saw the way the muscle in his jaw clicked.

He was on you instantly, colliding with you in a frenzied kiss. He let go of your wrists, and your hands came down to trail over his back, pulling him closer to you by the back of his neck. He bit at your bottom lip, and the sharp sting was counteracted quickly by the way his tongue darted over it, exploring you while you whined underneath him. He licked into your mouth, and you sucked at his tongue before letting his exploration continue, your hands reaching under the back of his shirt in an attempt to get closer, to let him suffocate you with his attention.

He pulled back, lips pink and cheeks blushed, his hand coming to hold your jaw and encourage you to open wider. He spit into your open mouth, before pushing on your jaw, encouraging you to close it. You did, swallowing his offering before opening your mouth again, sticking out your tongue as proof of your deed.

“Fuck,” he growled, hand still on your face when he reconnected his mouth to yours. It was needier now; sloppy and wet, and you could taste him perfectly like this, your spit mingling with his, licking into his mouth to get as much of him as you could.

He trailed down your body, leaving kisses on any skin available to him. The collar of your shirt exposed your clavicle, and he bit into the skin around it, sinking his teeth into you just enough for red marks to appear, before sucking a bruise onto the skin of the bone.

“Camera,” you reminded him haphazardly, “Nothing the camera can see—” You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling hard to ensure he listened to your warning, and he groaned at the pressure, removing his mouth from you.

“Right,” He was breathing hard, thumb rubbing circles on the bruise he had just made, low enough on your chest that your shirt would cover it—a secret between the two of you. He leaned back down, lips wrapping around the pulse point below your ear and peppering gentle kisses on it. You ground your hips onto him, his knee still planted between your thighs, stabilizing his position, and you felt the fabric of your pajamas catch perfectly on your clit, letting out a soft moan.

Damien watched, lips parted, as you bucked your hips against his thigh; some area of his brain wanted to let you continue, let you bring yourself to the edge by using him like this, but that was outweighed by the part of him that wanted so desperately to be the one making you cum; he wanted to make you fall apart, wanted to see how pretty you looked when he was making you feel good.

He moved his leg, effectively straddling you, and you let out a whimper of discontent, disappointed by the sudden loss of friction when you had been so close to what you needed.

“I know, baby,” his voice was cloying, clearly finding your whines enticing in a twisted sort of way; call it sadistic, but he didn’t want you putting in any work—he wanted to be in charge of all your pleasure. “I’ll let you finish, I promise,” he licked a stripe up your neck. “Tell me what you need.”

“Want your mouth,” you were quick to answer.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, I want your mouth on me Damien—please.”

“You want my mouth?” He nipped at your jawline, “Want me to fuck you with my tongue?”

You nodded, entranced by how devious he looked, pupils blown out, swallowing the moon’s reflection, silver hair messy from being pulled on and falling over his eyes, skin flushed pink; you were absolutely overcome with need watching him at his most primal.

He moved further down your body, situating himself between your legs and tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of your pajamas; you lifted your hips when he began to pull the fabric off of you, slowly, and you tried in vain to push your pants off faster.

“Uh-uh,” he moved his hands to cover yours, “be patient.”

You removed your hands from the flannel waistband, placing them over your chest and trying to crane your neck to watch him. It felt like an eternity before he finally let the fabric pool around your ankles, sliding them off with help from you kicking gently against the air. If ever there was a time to be thankful that you didn’t sleep in underwear, it would be now.

Moving back towards your core, he pulled your legs over his shoulders, still concentrated on making you comfortable even while most of his focus was on your naked cunt.

“Do you always get wet this quickly?” He let you hook your knee behind his head, looking up at you from between your legs.

“Shut up,” you felt suddenly embarrassed, as if it was only now, with his breath fanning your spread legs, that he had become suspicious of your attraction to him.

“That’s a no, then?” He smirked and your embarrassment dissipated when you saw the prideful smile.

Damien’s eyes shifted then from your face to your inner thigh, turning his head to suck marks on it just as he had on your neckline. He bit into the supple flesh, just hard enough to leave an outline of his teeth, before kissing bruises onto the same spots. You let out a contented sigh, and he squeezed your other thigh before turning his head again to repeat the process on that side. Licking stripes up your legs and into the joint of your thigh, he stopped short of where you wanted him, letting out a hum every time you exhaled in frustration at the lack of attention your cunt was getting.

He liked riling you up, seeing your brow furrow and your cheeks redden in frustration at not getting what you had asked for.

He relented when you started whispering pleas of his name, hand buried in his hair and pulling gently at the roots for him to use his mouth on you like he had said he would. You gasped at the contact of his tongue on your clit, the way he flattened the muscle to slide over you before moving it in slow circles over your bud. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, holding them over his shoulders and pulling you closer to him when he finally started licking circles around your hole.

“Fuck—fuck!” you couldn’t get another word out, too focused on the way he dove into you and lapped up your slick. He was messy but masterful, letting your juices and his spit trail down over the curve of your ass while making your back arch off the mattress, hand still in his hair and unsure of whether you wanted to push him down further or pull him off due to the overwhelming sensation.

The sounds were pornographic, wet and filthy, and when you pulled harder on his hair he let out a low growl that displayed his pleasure while heightening your own.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he groaned into you, spitting onto your dripping cunt before indulging once more in your taste. You became aware of the way his hips ground into the mattress with every flick of his tongue and every mewl you let out. “Cum for me like this, baby, can you do that? Let me taste it?”

You threw your head back at his words, pressure building in your stomach at the way he clearly got so much enjoyment from making you feel good, paired with the way his teeth grazed your clit, sucking on you until you saw stars and then pulling away to do it again. One of his hands fell from your leg, and he brought it to your cunt, spitting once before pushing two fingers in. You squirmed, moaning, as he curled them towards him and fluttered them over the spongy spot inside of you. He dragged his tongue over your clit one more time, and you were catapulted over the edge, dizzy with lust, pleasure coursing through you like an electric current.

Damien moved back up the bed, hugging you to him while you trembled with the aftershocks of your orgasm, muttering words of praise.

“Did so fucking good,” he kissed the top of your head, “Such a good girl—was that ok? Are you alright?” His thumb ran over your cheek, and he dipped his head down to leave kisses in its wake.

You let out a shaky breath, adjusting your position to throw your leg over his side before wrapping your arms around him to pull him down for a kiss.

“So good.” You muttered, tasting yourself on his lips. You rolled your hips against his lazily, reaching down to trail your hand over his evident bulge. “More.”

“Yeah?” He groaned, taking in the way your hand felt on his clothed cock.

“Please.” You looked up at him through your lashes.

He reconnected his lips to yours, moving slowly and swallowing your sounds.

“You want me like this?” He whispered, hands sweeping over your body, “Gonna let me fuck you into the mattress?”

Your hips bucked on their own accord, and you nodded feverishly. He sat up, pulling you up after him, and reached under the hem of your shirt to help you remove it. He got distracted by the sight of your chest, the swell of your breasts and the way you looked at him expectantly.

“You’re so pretty,” he almost laughed, absolutely delighted by you, as he leaned down to suck a bruise on the valley between your breasts. He nipped at the pillowy skin, teeth skimming your nipple when he took it into his mouth, barely putting pressure on it until your hand flew to his hair in a gesture to make him continue, to give you more. You whimpered, sitting on your knees with his face pressed against your chest.

He stood up, removing his shirt quickly before untying the cord of his pants.

“There’s really nothing sexier than a man in pajama bottoms,” he made a face as he fumbled with the knot of the string, finally undoing it with a sharp tug.

“I’d have to agree.” You shot him a smug look and he shook his head, smiling. He situated himself back on the mattress, pushing you onto your back and kissing your neck. You let out a quiet yelp when you landed on the pillows, laughing softly. You still felt dizzy, the entire situation leaving you completely shocked but admittedly thrilled, and when you saw him looking down at you, you felt words leave your mouth before you could filter them.

“I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

Damien smiled again, kissing your forehead before dipping down to trail kisses over your jaw. “Me too.”

“So, uh,” You let your hand wander down his body, stopping at the base of his cock and teasing your fingers around it, “You gonna fuck me into the mattress now?”

He grabbed your hand, and in a parallel to the situation that got you here, pinned it above your head.

“Is that what you want?” His pupils swallowed his irises, giving him the appearance of someone completely lost in desire. It made you greedy for more.

“Yeah.” You breathed.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“No. The whole thing. Say it.”

“I want…” You felt dirty saying it out loud, and that was half the appeal, “I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“That’s right. You gonna beg for it?”

You liked him like this, so cocky and domineering. It made you feel breathless, head swimming with what was to come. Dominance looked good on him.

“Please, Damien,” you swallowed, squirming slightly in anticipation.

“C’mon, you can do better than that.” He practically scoffed, “Beg.”

“Fuck me, please,” you felt yourself growing frustrated, and you could feel your heart beating in your cunt. “I was so good—I’ve been so good, please, I’ll take what you give me I promise just—please, please fuck me.”

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your wrist fisted his cock, and you tilted your head to watch him stroke himself while he lined up with your entrance. You whined, hoping that maybe it would make him move faster.

“What did I say about being patient?” He chided, and your head fell back onto the pillows.

“Please, Damien.” You couldn’t have hidden your eagerness if you tried.

“One more time.” You felt the tip of his cock between your folds, collecting your slick and nudging your entrance.

“Please—yes!” You gasped when he pushed his hips forward, eyes rolling back slightly at the way he filled you completely in one stroke.

“Good girl.” He grabbed your other hand, now pinning both your wrists down over your head, giving him a full view of your body underneath him. “You feel good? Worth the wait?”

You nodded your head, mouth open and eyes wide, mesmerized by the stretch and the feeling of him seated deep inside of you.

“Tell me—use your words,” His own patience was wearing thin, and you could tell he was waiting for the opportunity to fuck you the way he wanted to.

“Feels so good, Damien,” you nodded again, “Move—fuck me, please.”

He exhaled, content with your answer and subsequent request. He drew his hips back far enough to nearly pull out of you, before slamming back against you and bottoming out completely. You let out a moan, and his free hand covered your mouth.

“Gotta be quiet, baby” he whispered.

You nodded underneath his hand, remembering all the other people in the house, and he pulled it away from your mouth before pushing two fingers through your lips.

“That’ll keep you busy, right?” He smiled and you moaned softly around his fingers, tongue circling them behind your lips.

Damien copied his initial sharp thrust, pushing into you with enough force to move you up the bed repeatedly, watching the way your breasts bounced with the movement. Letting go of your hands briefly, he brought one of your legs up to his shoulders, deepening the position, and you whimpered around the fingers in your mouth.

“God, you’re fucking perfect. Sound so pretty, baby” he groaned, grinding his hips against you to get a feel for how deep he was inside of you, “So pretty letting me fuck you like this.”

He took his fingers from your mouth, toying with your nipples and using the residual spit to lubricate his movements. His other hand left your wrists, focused now on holding himself above you while he drove in and out of you.

You squirmed under him, overstimulated and needy, and your newly freed hands grabbed at whatever they could hold onto; one gripping his arm, nails leaving crescents in his skin, while the other fisted the sheets, and Damien took note of the way your face contorted when his thrusts became rougher.

“You like that?” His voice was as kind as it usually was, but with an edge to it now, driving into you hard. “That feel good, baby?”

Your moans were increasingly high-pitched, and all you could offer was a jumble of reassuring whines. You pulled him down by the back of his neck, lips meeting for a feverish, passionate kiss. He bit your bottom lip, keeping it between his teeth and tugging at it, before letting his tongue push forward into your mouth.

You moaned into him, his cock pushing against your most sensitive spot. You arched your back, silently begging for more, and he followed your unspoken instructions, fingers finding your clit between your bodies and kneading tight circles over it.

You let out a ragged cry of his name, cunt squeezing around him as you came; he pulled you into him, arm wrapping under your body, to kiss you fervidly, groaning at how you felt clenching so tightly around him.

“That’s right, baby, cum for me,” he fucked you through your high; long, deep strokes at a much slower pace bringing you back down to earth, “Good fucking girl.”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, drowsy and overstimulated, happy to be enveloped by him.

“Where do you want me, baby?” His thrusts picking back up slightly, eager for his own release.

“Anywhere you want,” you kissed up the side of his neck, whining at the feel of his cock as he dragged his hips back before sinking back into you, “Wanna make you cum, please.” You rubbed your cheek against his, the friction from his short stubble soothing you.

“You want me to cum for you?” Even now, he kept teasing, “My good girl wants me to cum for her? So fucking greedy.”

You whined, wordlessly, trying to move your hips to match his thrusts, intent on pleasing him the way he had you.

“Spit,” he offered you his hand, and you licked his palm before spitting into it.

He squeezed you tight, using the arm still underneath you to lift you up slightly and get a few last thrusts in as deep as he could manage. Upon pulling out, he fucked his fist with the hand you had prepared for him, spilling over your cunt. You whimpered at the feeling, and the thought of his cum mingling with your own between your legs.

Breathing heavy and uneven, Damien took a moment to collect himself. He leaned over the side of the bed, finding his discarded shirt and grabbing it; he wiped between your legs, careful to go slow and gentle over your more sensitive spots. He threw the shirt back over the side of the bed when he deemed you properly cleaned up.

“Thank you,” you spoke up, nuzzling into his side.

He hummed, kissing your head and moving stray hairs from your face. “Was that…it wasn’t too much, was it?”

“Damien,” you looked up at him incredulously, “It was perfect.”

“Not too rough?”

“The perfect amount of rough.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Did you mean what you said?”

“That I wanted to make you cum?”

“Well—mm. Kinda gathered that that was the truth. No, I mean, when you said you’ve wanted this…for a while.”

“Of course I meant it.” You fidgeted with the fingers he had draped around your shoulder. “Did you mean it when you—”

“Yeah.” He cut you off.

“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”

“What were you going to ask?” He quipped.

“Now I’m not telling you.” You rolled your eyes, playfully turning away from him. Damien used the hand he had on your shoulder as leverage to pull you back against him, and you landed against his chest.

“Did I mean it when I said I wanted this, too?” He finished your question for you, “Yeah. I meant it. One hundred percent, I did.” He pressed his cheek against the crown of your head, “Was worried that wanting more was a, I dunno, like a…thought it would make you uncomfortable. So, I just—not that I don’t like being your friend—but I tried to behave myself. Y’know? Even though...” His gaze flicked over your face, "I always wanted more."

“Is this where you tell me that you orchestrated this whole thing by turning down the heat in here?” You joked, tired and satisfied and so utterly content that he, too, wanted more than the friendship you had cultivated with one another—thrilled that you had been on the same page all along; the initial paranoia over the implications of being attracted to the other, and now basking in the relief that your affection was mutual.

“I’m flattered that you think I have that kind of forethought. But no,” he laughed. “Just got lucky.”

“In so many respects.” You giggled, listening to his heartbeat against your cheek.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” He held you tighter, as if a loose grip would cause you to slip away from him.

“Thanks for staying.”

[lynnarang]

A Family Found 6

Fleeing from home and love, a hunter spends her final mortal days stifling her bloodlust and drowning out the voices from beneath her skin.

Days turned into weeks turned into months of solitude. After escaping the witch's estate, she had set off to travel as far as she could manage in as little time as possible. She couldn't risk any of them seeing what she was becoming.

Part of her still pretended it was because she was afraid she'd hurt them, and while that fear wasn't nonexistent, the main thing driving her was… shame. She'd entered their lives, become someone they felt they could grow close to and rely on, and now she was falling apart.

So she ran, avoiding the main roads and all signs of civilization, eating meager meals of small game and foraged berries each evening, all while the whispers scratching at the insides of her skin steadily grew louder.

The voices spoke truths and lies that would break a mortal mind.

Her sleep was restless, each evening plagued by nightmares of unfathomable landscapes populated with horrors far worse than any she had hunted…

Horrors she sometimes glimpsed in her own reflection

She'd been warned of such dreams during her apprenticeship, by the graying huntress with the confident smile she once called teacher.

The Old Blood gave great power to those who partook in it, but it also demanded a heft toll in return.

Witchblood.

A powerful witch could keep a hunter's thirst sated for a decade or longer, but it was rare for a hunter to be desperate enough to go after one and even rarer for them to succeed. Most chased witchlings or hunted in packs, merely staving off the inevitable.

When a hunter of the Old Blood failed to drink sufficient Witchblood, their mind deteriorated while their body… What was it she had said would happen to their body?

It was so hard to think these days. What had once been mere whispers now sounded like constant chatter.

Claws around her stomach dragged the hunter back down to reality. The thirst had grown so strong, even though her body was physically healthy she felt like she was dying with each step. She needed to drink, needed to bite into a witch's jugular and gorge herself on their warmth.

It wouldn't be so hard. She knew the way past the wards, the dolls wouldn't raise an alarm, and somehow she knew that even if she realized what was happening the witch wouldn't even resist as her teeth sunk in. She just had to-

With a loud crunch, the hunter realized she was standing over a hastily cleaned campsite, her own from some nights ago. How long had she been lost in her hunger that she'd turned around completely and made it this far back? Hours, days, longer?

"It's no good…"

She mumbled aloud to herself, her tired voice slippery and wrong. If she continued traveling who knows how long it would be until she found herself turned around again. This would have to be far enough. She reached back to take off her travel pack and froze.

Her arm, if it was even hers any longer, was much larger than it should have been, covered in coarse matted fur. Blood dripped from claws that should have been where her fingers were located.

When, how, where…?

She screamed, but it came out as bloodcurdling roar.

Everything was wrong. So wrong.

Hadn't the sun been up moments earlier? Whose blood was she covered in? What was this hideous scent waving through two sets of nostrils? She reached for the game she had been roasting moments earlier, and felt her mind and stomach lurch in unison.

When she had skewered this and put it over the fire it had been a rabbit, but now she clearly saw a human arm, blood glistening in the moonlight. Nononono, that was wrong, wrong wrong wrong.

She couldn't- that wasn't what she-

The voices grew louder, shouting over her thoughts.

One and many, many and one. A language she shouldn't know, words that her throat shouldn't be able to form, and yet, and yet, and yet.

Everything broke at once.

A beast wailed and lamented for reasons it couldn't remember, teeth sinking into flesh that was nowhere near enough.

In the inn of a nearby town, a terrified merchant bolts inside, covered in the blood of the rest of his caravan.

"A beast! A horrible, foul beast lives in the duskwood forest!"

"A beast? Here?!"

"Someone get the doctor!"

"Call the hunters! Don't let it get away!"

The beast knows it will be hunted, but it does not flee. Its body is not done metamorphosing, its mind not fully restructured. A harmonious chorus strings itself through its thoughts now, emitting from its throat whenever its flesh parts to let it sing freely.

A song of rebirth.

Somewhere and nowhere, both close and far, a witch hums along to the tune, a pair of dolls trailing behind her on each side.

Finally, she was on the right track.

[fyx-ation]

A Meandering Ramble on FFXVI

Firstly, if you haven't played the game yet or haven't finished the game yet, I suggest scrolling on. If you want a recommendation to play it, the best I can give you is a 7/10. Worth playing. Not the best thing on the market in the same territory but refreshing (I might use that word a lot going forward) and holds interest very well. Like a page-turner of a book.

That said, the rest of my ramble will be behind the cut to spare spoiling others.

Huh. What a strange little game. I actually just finished it, though I do need to go finish the chronolith things at some point. But I wanted to strike while the iron is hot, so this might be all over the place. I usually try to provide some essay-like structure when I write about a game... But I'm not really feelin' it since I've been working 5am shifts for a while and my brain is fried.

I have not read or watched any other reviews or summaries or impressions of the game. I didn't want my opinion to be tainted by bias because some creator or another loved or hated it.

It is Very Pretty. But perhaps not in a PS5 sort-of rock your eyeballs way. It handles like the Witcher III and Final Fantasy had an off-putting love-child. By that, I mean just the walking around and interacting with things reminds me of Witcher. Casual conversations are overheard from NPCs, and occasionally one that will actually speak to you (Clive) even if they aren't offering a quest or incentive. Facial animations, weather/landscape animations. Very Pretty but maybe a smidge outdated? How is that possible? Everything is lovely! But a little stiff if it's not an important, scripted, you-can't control your character here, sort of scene. The ones that aren't separately rendered cutscenes but still have extra polish? Yeah, not those.

You know what else this game reminds me of? Mass Effect (or Dragon Age). There's no open world to explore. There are pocket maps that you can return to from your Normandy Hideaway, but usually you're just sent there to do a mission quest or hunt or something.

So, let's deconstruct that a little. I think and hope that the producers of this game looked at what has been working and what has landed with the fan-base like a sopping wet diaper. Open world fatigue? Absolutely real. Stamina bars? Fuck right off. Pacing the game out with enormous, unskippable BS like a car ride because the plot is paper thin? Nope!

Does it work for a Final Fantasy game, though? See, this is where the conversation gets choppy. (While I didn't interact with reviews, I did see some plumes of smoke on the horizon in the form of thumbnails and the like). Some people are ride or die "this ain't MY final fantasy." Worse, some are like "this isn't a JRPG q_q."

Personally, I let that ship sail years ago. I loved the old turn-based games, don't get me wrong. I lament there aren't that many on the market anymore. But I've moved on. 16 is probably the biggest departure so far from that. Excluding the online games, they've been moving away from that format since 12. 13 was the last to have party members who you can actually control. (I'm not counting the 7 remake here, either) 16 doesn't have a party system. You can't swap Thane Krios (my space boyfriend) in when you fast travel from your hideaway to the next story beat. It's just the protag and whatever side piece is relevant at the moment, and that side character just does their own thing.

Do I like it? Ehh.... yes and no. Clive doesn't talk to himself or them much, so I feel like a lot more banter was needed. I could see why they left it out on the battle maps ("Hey, Clive, remember when were playing checkers and mom kicked the board because oh hello Mr. Behemoth."). But in city hubs? More banter, please. Even more conversations like the newer God of War games have would be most welcome.

And controlling just Clive? It's fine. I am A-okay with it. Combat's really fun, even when I'm not playing at my best and half-dozing on the couch. It's better than holding down the circle button (15 shaming is my kink). It's all amazingly refreshing in comparison to SE's other departures from turn-based battles. It's the first one so far (again excluding ff7r) to actually succeed at doing something different.

But I would not recommend the game to anyone on that alone. If they were looking for a hack n' slash pew pew magic pew game, I'd suggest the newer God of Wars first.

This is where I'm on the fence about how to judge the game as a whole because it isn't SPECTACULAR. It's good. Combat's good. Story is decent. Side characters are interesting (though some are woefully under-cooked, including Jill, whom I often compared to a piece of cardboard while talking to friends). Pacing a HUGE improvement from previous installments, though the last few hours of the game are weirdly smooshed into sidequests which aren't really sidequests because they are invaluable to the story and the game expects you to do them.

However. The world-building, which is very nice, is padded with lore directories just to clarify shit to people who have no idea what the fuck is going on or who have maybe missed or forgotten details that flesh out the motivations of everyone on the two continents. Did you forget who was fighting who while Clive was was off kicking boxes? Boy, do we have the right solution for that: it's LORE DUMP MAN and his faithful sidekick MAP TIMELINE WOMAN. I'm not saying they are bad things... just... odd. Heavy-handed? I love it when games offer some sort of journal to keep me on track or remind me of things, and yet they feel like they were put in this game because things are a bit blurry for the first third. They throw a lot of names at you, a lot of factions, and a lot of talk of different battles that you don't even witness so the only way to clarify all that is to be given Baby's First Overview. I think that might be indicative of a small failing on the game's part. Lots of telling with little showing often leads to lore dumps in RPGs, because it's critical that you understand for the sake of the story. Weirdly, there actually aren't a lot of exposition dumps in the actual gameplay. I guess they couldn't find a happy medium.

It's late. Gotta get up at 4, so I'll bring this ramble to a close for now. I'll talk about tone and themes later, probably.

Is it worth $70 and satisfying? Mostly. If you like button mashing combat and fantasy, sure. If you're a die-hard FF person, sure, but bolster your expectations as it doesn't really fit that mold. Anyone else that's curious, I'd say wait for a sale or promotion.

TBC

[kachimera]

So... the netflixvania nocturne alleged leaks.. (warning me negatively and incoherently yelling below) (emphasis on incoherently)

First the leaks are not confirmed and i really hope it's just a troll, so while i speak of them as if they were to happen, i cant give a proper critique and hopefully,really hopefully im just being a negative saltshaker and i'll get proven wrong when it releases.

But Jesus

What. The. Fuck.

They had to add "complexity" by including historical events (happening in the other side of the continent mind you bc apparently eastern europe isn't interesting enough for this show ?) bc "the games too simple" :) but they needed to simplify said historical revolution into "white rich men bad" through cucking Richter both in personality and literally (Nevermind that one of the social sectors in favor of the revolution was the bourgeoisie nor that many noblemen were in favour of the revolution and that Richter's fam was hated for centuries until a hundred years ago). I can't say im knowledgeable in history but i feel it's just gonna be added as edgy flavor without nuance, and what else to expect from the writers whose fav excuse for ignoring the game's themes is "oh but those were simple old games with no text".

I can't also wait to see what stale flavor of church bad we will get this time (i need to remind you all that this show got me defensive over the portrayal of christianity n virtue in the games, and this is abt japanese games were you just fucking throw crosses like boomerangs at monsters (as our Lord intended) and with criticism against it too (how many gals got branded as witches and burned again ? ))

And ofc Annette chooses to leave her priviledged guy for...Dracula. the fucking old rich white warlord Dracula, that's very revolutionary, very cool n edgy and not to mention completely in touch with her character in the games /s. It's like the complaints abt the Dracula book adaptations that ruined Jhonnatan's character and made Mina a reincarnation of Drac's wife to justify her wanting to bang her abuser :) . Even if it's used as a way to highlight Drac's manipulations or something similar i doubt it could work.

And then Richter (look at how they massacred my boy) gets corrupted not bc of him fulfilling his destiny and feeling he has no purpose anymore all due to his upbringing, bearing the weight of his family's legacy and the cycles of violence and hatred the whole series is themed after nooo he sad bc he had to kill girl who cucked him :( (It also feels like an attempt to mirror the "my wife died now im bad" Dracula shtick with a Belmont but Lament of Innocence already did this 1420952 times better)

And dont even mention Alucard n Maria fucking like jesus motherfucking christ i get some ppl ship it but it's gonna be ultra gross specially with maria being 17 during SoTN and with the sensitivity this show has treated sex before. Like the one sex scene that isn't rape is gonna be with an underage girl and an adult man with an enormous power imbalance yipee (and also completely ooc to his canon portrayal)

This l is what i mean abt the show portraying an amoral landscape for the sake of coolness and edgyness. It feels like a way to spite the game fans further at the expense of the show (which i hope im wrong at)

It saddens me a lot bc despite my beef with netflixvania it was my introduction to the series and it had many awesome moments, and i was hopeful nocturne would improve upon it's predecessors and make me love it.

And if they're fake leaks then the troll who wrote them deserves an applause for making me write this lol

[zorkaya-moved]

"..." - at it again, aren't you? This time Intel had been gathered beyond that which a certain elf had mumbled in-between her common blabbering. To think someone would consider this entire endeavor to be the perfect moment for a joke -! [agitated, aren't we?]. Yes! Because it had been a waste of time; precious moments in which minutes worth of preparation for the journey forth into the Deep End had been lost. Maybe she should have talked to Raven first?

... Perhaps.

" why didn't you tell me?" simple enough question, phrased calmly yet nevertheless stern enough to convey urgency [well, you know the answer; she is probably rolling on the floor out of laughter somewhere]. "you might have time to kill but I don't."

@vakinari

The small prank seemed to work rather well when she comes back to the Elysian Realm, Elysia giggling softly when she tells about the truth revealed and Mei’s reaction. Even Mobius got a laugh out of it. The fifty thousand years would make any person yearn for any type of entertainment, sim or not. Zarina was never a good person nor was she someone who would act nicely to someone who was short on time. It didn’t matter to her. The reason for Raiden Mei to be in World serpent didn’t make things better or worse from her perspective. Even if she could understand her approach and her urgency, but Sokolova was a selfish person who did not care for others. Mei was a person who was just fun to tease right now. The core of the Ice was returned to her and she was already back in full action, but she would not yet showcase her fully arsenal of powers. Not right away, there was still time for adjustments. The girl from before who was consumed by this gem’s power was weak, unable to draw the true powers from within the gem by fighting against it and even killing a boy in her rampage. The lamenting spirit of ice was already fueling frost’s embrace, Zarina knew the sensation of lose all too well and it’s why the power listened to her. 

This is why she met with lightning with a self-assured smile, a hand on her hip and a wave of her hand. The growl coming from another was nothing but spectacular. It seemed she finally learned and found her. It was entertaining for her. There was no need to explain herself or speak more of their first meeting. A name was given, but there wasn’t much asked. How polite of Raiden was to be like that, she was a good young woman with a noble heart. A heart the Herrscher of Ice never had to begin with. Nobility was an empty word and standards in battle would only hold back, she was a child of the underworld and she brought herself up from hellish landscapes from the Previous Realm where everything that is happening in the current feels like a child’s game. When Honkai is gone, does she really think they - Herrschers - will be allowed to remain? As if. Or so the woman thinks to herself as she holds back her laughter at the confrontation. 

“ It’s not I who trusted so blindly in what she hears within World Serpent, ” Zarina shrugs to agitate the other more, finding the best performance happening right before her. A theater of life will never get boring if you know what strings to tug and dance with. People are puppets in the flow of life and time, they are all independent agents who will wither and die only to repeat their histories one by one. An existence she’d watched for countless years. Did anyone else tell Mei wo she truly was? Possibly not, at least, not exactly who she was. Did Mei forget that World Serpent was not her friend even if they were allies? Raven was a mercenary. Grey Serpent was an informant. Jackal was a scientist with no morals. Kevin had only one goal in his mind. Elysian realm was also a place where morality didn’t matter as much... to certain individuals. Ah, but Elysia loves this young maiden and her blossoming noble flower of a heart. So will Aponia and Eden who appreciate the nobility she shines with. Ah, Hua must trust her as well, the simulation. Who else would find her fun? Mobius would be delighted to experiment on another Herrscher. E

ither way, Mei was now standing before her and not looking in her best moods. Does it matter? No. It never did. Whatever her reaction would’ve been, it was interesting and fun either way. Fifty thousand years turned her into an indulger, a provocateur. “ Why didn’t I tell you? Because it wasn’t fun for me. Do you really think everyone will give you the information you want? Yikes, sparky, missed the mark there. Didn’t birdie tell you how mercenaries work? Everything has a price. ”

Zarina claps her hands together then, fully changing her attitude compared to what it was before. The elegance is still there, but it grows much colder. The nicknames are given without a second thought to continue her charade. It’s so different compared to Elysia’s attitude of genuineness or Mobius’ obvious malicious intent. There is cold and there is apathy in the next moment, a soft sigh leaves the woman who drops her smiles and her comedy. If there is anything, it’s obvious she does not see any opponent in the woman who stands before her. It’s not arrogance, it’s analytics and it’s a deduction made through the reports she was given by Jackal. The subjugation of the Herrscher of Ice proved her enough. How cruel one could be, the winter’s embrace is a merciless one. Will there ever be spring blossoming within that heart? Ah, but there must be a proper introduction, correct? 

“ Since you’ve given me a spectacle to enjoy, I will answer your question. Everything aside from it, we can wager later on, ” she responds rather curtly now, shortness of the answer will be beneficial for them both to erase all unneeded edges that will only prolong this moment of true introduction. Grey Serpent never trusted the Herrscher of Thunder and neither will Zarina, but there are differences between them. She could understand why the betrayal will happen without any doubts. When one with such high standards and morals joins an organization like this, it is merely a ticking bomb. It’d be best to learn as much about this one as she could. For the future. 

It might seem familiar to the one who carries lightning within her. The power of a Herrscher is obvious upon first showcase. Something beyond others’ understanding. The open palm emits a cold pale blue light before the crystal of ice floats above. The power repressed within the icy crystal is enough to make one understand that Ana Schariac truly did not reach the same heights in terms of control over this power. Sokolova would feel how the familiar sensation would seep back into her veins, the temperature would drop and the floor around the Russian would be covered in frost. It all happened in a second before she snapped her fingers on her free hands that took all the cold back into her body and only let the solitary crystal float above her hand. This presence unlike Schariac’s is oppressive, cold, and stern. There is no soft cries of a maiden within these snowflakes, there is no hesitation, there is no kindness that once belonged to a Valkyrie. The one who stood before Herrscher of Thunder was - without a doubt - someone who did not possess even an ounce of mercy or hesitation, a person who have killed and never cared. Even if the world will be destroyed, will it change the frigidness of her glowing golden eyes? Possibly, not. 

“ Ah, I must thank you for retrieving something that belonged to me back when everyone was still alive. That girl Schariac got so easily consumed, didn’t she? A pity. Thought I wouldn’t be taking this back any time soon. A proper introduction this time, ” she exhales, closing her eyes before opening them again to look straight at Raiden. Once the hand on which the crystal was levitating on was closed, the crystal would shatter and disappear. “ My name is Zarina Sokolova. I was the one who stood between the government and our leading scientists like Dr. MEI, Dr. Mobius, Vil-V, and the one who created Flamechasers - Elysia. But I am also known as the Previous Era’s Herrscher of Ice. Does that answer now satisfy you? Any other question you might have? I’ll give another free one since I am feeling quite generous. ”

After all, unlike the simulations, she was very much alive and not asked to help ‘successors.’ Mei wasn’t her problem and wasn’t someone she ‘had to’ answer to. A whole new other troubling person who’d witnessed the end of the previous era. What a conversation now it will be. 

[lurxii]

The Thrill and Challenges of F1 Fandom

Imagine the roar of engines, the blur of speeding cars, and the palpable excitement in the air - welcome to the world of Formula 1, where fandom isn't just about cheering for your favorite team; it's a lifestyle. As an avid Ferrari fan, I've lived through the highs and lows, the victories, and the heartaches. In this blog, we'll dive into the fascinating world of F1 fandom, exploring everything from the adrenaline-fueled community spirit to the occasional pit stops of online toxicity.

The Essence of F1 Fandom

Formula 1 fandom transcends traditional sports viewership, creating a global community united by a shared passion for speed, strategy, and the thrill of racing. This diverse group of fans experiences an emotional journey with each race, living through the highs and lows alongside their favorite teams and drivers. The essence of F1 fandom lies in this deep emotional investment and loyalty. The fandom is unique in its blend of tradition and cutting-edge technology. Fans respect the rich history and legacies of iconic teams while embracing the latest advancements in motorsport technology. This mix of past and future adds an exciting dimension to the fan experience, offering a window into the evolving world of high-speed racing.

Social interactions also play a significant role in the F1 fan experience. The sport is a social catalyst, bringing together friends, families, and online communities. Fans bond over race strategies, share predictions, and celebrate their favorite moments, creating a sense of community in person and digitally.

Brand Loyalty and Community Spirit

One of the most notable aspects of F1 fandom is the fierce brand loyalty. Fans donning team colors, flags, and merchandise are a common sight at every Grand Prix. This loyalty isn't superficial; it's steeped in a deep connection with the team's history, drivers, and ethos. Take Ferrari fans, for example – a group I proudly belong to. Our commitment goes beyond the cars; we form emotional attachments to our drivers, cheering their every move while often playfully lamenting the team's strategy decisions. F1 fans don't just watch the sport; many actively contribute to its culture. From fan-made content like blogs, podcasts, and art to organizing meetups and discussions, the fan community is a hotbed of creativity and engagement. This involvement sometimes also extends to activism, where fans advocate for issues like diversity in motorsports or environmental sustainability.

Navigating the Challenges of Toxic Fandom

However, like any community, F1 fandom has challenges, especially in online spaces. The anonymity and distance provided by social media can sometimes fuel toxic behavior. Heated debates can escalate into personal attacks, and the competitive spirit can sometimes overshadow the respect for rival teams and drivers. It's a reminder that while passion is the heart of fandom, sportsmanship should always be its soul.

The recent F1 season has been a spectacle of Red Bull's dominance. This storyline has added extra excitement (and frustration for us Ferrari fans) to the narrative. Their strategic prowess and top-notch performances have reshaped the competition landscape, challenging other teams to up their game.

Conclusion

Being a part of the F1 fandom is like riding a perpetual wave of adrenaline and emotion. It's about celebrating the sheer talent and technology on display, the strategic mind games, and the unscripted drama of each race. For us Ferrari fans, it's a journey of unwavering support for our drivers, even as we playfully critique the team's strategies. At its core, F1 fandom is about being part of a community with a deep love for the sport, transcending geographical and cultural boundaries. In this high-speed world, every fan's voice adds to the chorus, making Formula 1 much more than just a racing series; it's a global phenomenon.

[creek-cryptid-deluxe]

Fun facts about my partner (because it occurs to me that I've not really described him here beyond amazing & severely adhd riddled):

• he is about 5.5 ft tall (we wear the same clothes & shoe sizes; his students thought it was hilarious & absurd that he wore my converse high tops for 3 days when his pumas finally died) with brown hair streaked with gray that is just past his shoulders. He is the very definition of barrel chested & has a full beard (that's also streaked with gray). He has a deep gravely voice with a THICK Texas accent (think south dallas area because texas accents vary).

• he is covered in tattoos all of which are in black ink & all but 2 of which he did himself

• dude is an insanely talented artist but his preference is Turner-esque landscapes. Man can literally sketch or paint anything & is working on resurrecting his painting livestreams. He enjoys teaching and making art accessible to everyone & is currently a middle school art teacher.

• loves musical theater (he was singing songs from Chicago while feeding the cats this morning)

• massive history nerd

• Carrie Fisher was his 3rd cousin (even prior to knowing that, he was a star wars nerd)

• loves LOTR, hockey, Star Wars, a variety of video games & only OG Star Trek (he's currently playing a game where he's a shark with a jet pack & lasers??)

• loves fantasy football because it's all just statistics & competition but only agreed to be in his league because he was allowed to design his own team's logo/helmets. He never watches football nor has the desire to but is intensely competitive. (So competitive in fact that after watching Good Omens, I text him good news that next morning followed by a gif of "Can I get a Wahoo" & he lamented for a week about wanting to be the first to use that gif. Now 7 months later if I bring it up, he rants for 10 minutes.)

• used to play hockey as a goalie.

• loves his chickens... possibly more than me. Like if it came down to eating chickens or me for survival, I don't fancy my chances.

• spent his entire adult life married to 2 women (one right after the other) who were both basically the same abusive narcissist in different physical packages. Poor man still has ptsd nightmares & because he has kids with both we have to deal with both on the regular.

• has adhd so severe that even with medication it still borders on debilitating. Most websites, forms, and admin stuff frustrates him to the degree that he gives up almost immediately. Dyslexia doesn't help. Even before we dated, I was his admin. I came over to help him sign up for insurance & such all the time.

• that last fact makes him react with awe, terror, & the conviction that I'm magic due to the sheer volume of shit I can accomplish & the fact that I generally know where everything is at any given moment. I am the keeper of the stuff.

• he is the most genuinely kind human i know. I've seen him run across the creek behind our house to help people he has never spoken to without a moment of hesitation.

• he is theatrical & flamboyant enough that despite knowing he has kids & a female life partner, his students still openly ponder if he is gay. This isn't helped by things he says. (A student is acting afool & so he says he will become besties with their mom. Kid replies that mom is married. He comes back with "So? I'll be besties with him too. Heck I'll kiss your dad if it results in you doing your actual work. I don't care.")

• is one of those rare teachers that genuinely cares. Like he always provides a refuge, a safe space, & snacks at this middle school in a lower income area. He legit spent 3 days sobbing when the dickhead principal didn't renew his contract because he "doesn't want to leave his kids". The kids found out, staged a walk out protest. He heard about it when it was happening because nobody could break it up, went out there & told them all that he appreciated the thought behind it but what he really wanted was for them to go back to class. They all immediately lined up to hug him & then went to class because he has that level of respect & pull with them. This didn't help his principal's unfounded & intense dislike of my partner.

• he can fix nearly anything but is somehow always floored by my ability to fix or build things. (I watched him rebuild our washing machine when it went on the fritz but he is stunned by my changing out shower heads and skim coating walls and removing shitty backsplash tiles/adhesives or building a cat enclosure) He claims that my smattering of skills makes him want to learn a bunch of those skillsets to "catch up" but that by the time he does, my skill will have probably progressed further in that area. He really enjoys my particular art/craft style because it's so different from what he does & it inspires him.

• loves to be out in nature but is often amused & a bit confused about my passionate rants regarding plant life. (Fucking invasive ass chinese privet has taken over wooded areas. Fuck that noise.) He is impressed by my vast botanical knowledge & likes that when we go out to get reference shots for his paintings, I'm drawn to different perspectives in the same area because it makes him look at things differently.

• will beat a joke/bit into the ground. (He can't sleep in clothes lest he flop around like a tuna in a net at 3 am. However for the last month every time I remind him to take off his pants he says "But [Dr M], I get hot & the pants wick the sweat..." Every. Fucking. Night. If i hear the phrase 'wicks the sweat' one more time I will lose it. He also referred to The Cranberries as 'Sheryl Crow' last night & I nearly beat him to death with a chunk of granite.)

• has an amazing smile that's contagious so it's hard to commit acts of violence during said bits because of the glee on his face.

• is absolutely absurd but with a deadpan/dry delivery that makes that absurd thing semi-belivable. Like when he was on leave from work & when he came back told each class something new about where he was. He can improv absurdities so well.

There's probably far far more but I'm not fully caffeine yet so. That's what you get.

[bonjour-rainycity]

Late in the Night | Part One

Prompt: Unrequited love/the love is requited, they’re just oblivious (Content Challenge Day 5)

Pairing: One-sided ( or is it ;) ) Female Reader x Legolas

Rating: G

Word count: 1847

Warnings: None

Challenge participants: @game-ofthe-company @grunid @themerriweathermage @errruvande @the-reformed-ringwraith @awkwardkindatries

A/n Hello hello, and happy Day 5 of my content challenge! As always, you can find the challenge’s masterlist here and my personal masterlist here. 

I’m making these last three days into a mini-series, so here’s part one! Also, for this story, I’m going with the “girl wakes up in Middle Earth” plot, but LOTR doesn’t exist in her world. So she doesn’t know anything about the characters or their journey. She just kind of fell through a portal between worlds. Y’know?

Translations (I think): Taur-e-Ndaedelos — Mirkwood // Eryn Galen — Greenwood

Reader’s POV

“And Miss Y/n, what will you do once this is all over? Will you go back home?” Pippin stops to let me catch up, bringing me into step with him and Merry.

I purse my lips, not wanting to give too much away. The others know that I have a bit of an, erm—strange— situation, but they don’t know that I haven’t got a home in Arda. We’ve had at least ten variants of this conversation already, and each time, I’ve managed to avoid participating. It seems my hobbit friend, though, is done letting that slide.

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “I haven’t really thought about that much…” Just in case there’s no ‘once this is all over’. “But I guess I would find a human town somewhere and build a life. I’ve learned quite a lot on this journey, so maybe I could make a living as a guard or even a seamstress, seeing how often I mend your clothes,” at this, I throw a teasing look at Gimli, who blushes. Out of all of us, he’s the most prone to non-battle related injury, and I often find him trudging back to camp with a rip in his sleeve after simple tasks like collecting firewood or refilling his canteen.

Pippin ignores my joke, and now I realize that I have the concern-laden eyes of all four hobbits. “You…would not go back home? You wouldn’t see your family?”

I sigh, avoiding Gandalf’s gaze. He said I was free to tell my companions that I am not of this world, but I haven’t yet worked up the nerve. The stress of figuring out how I got here, why I’m here…it’s too much to burden them with on this perilous quest. I stifle a little laugh, my exhausted mind finding humor in the situation. Maybe that’s what I’ll do ‘once all this is over’. I’ll tell them that I’m practically an alien.  

Lost in my thoughts as I was, my silence drew the attention of Gimli and Boromir, and now I have six sets of concerned eyes regarding me. Great. I try to speed the conversation along so we can get to someone else. “Well, I haven’t seen my family in quite a long time…I think they think I’m dead, actually, and for all I know, they could be too…” This thought troubles me greatly, and I hurry to replace it with something else, forcing my voice to sound cheery and hopeful.“But that only means that I’m free to go anywhere—explore any place I like.”

Pippin looks quite heartbroken at my words, and I scramble to think of ways to fix it. But before I can, he grips my hand tightly in his, and I feel Merry mirror his actions on my other side. They look up at me triumphantly, smiling brightly. “You can come live with us, in The Shire,” Pippin declares, to which Sam nods earnestly. Frodo, as always of late, seems distracted, but offers me a distant smile.

A laugh of shocked joy escapes my lips, and I look between my valiant hobbit friends with possibly even more affection than before. “Do they even allow that? Big Folks moving into The Shire?”

“Sure they do,” Merry brushes away my concerns, appearing quite assured of himself.

But Pippin only shrugs, seemingly having not a care in the world. “And if they don’t, we’ll just sneak you in.”

“Gondor would be happy to host you as well,” Boromir adds, surprising me a little. We haven’t talked much on this journey, so it’s nice to know that he sees me as enough of a friend to invite me to his home.

Feeling much better, I squeeze Merry and Pippin’s hands. “Thanks, you guys. Really.”

{***}

We stop when it gets too dark for most of us to see.

“We are too far from Rivendell’s borders for me to feel comfortable.” Aragorn shakes his head slowly as he considers our surroundings and the potential risk we face. “I would ask that we keep a double watch tonight, and for many nights to come. Y/n, Legolas?”

Legolas—the only one of us who seems to have an endless supply of energy—jogs to a tall rock a couple hundred meters from camp, and begins to climb. I’m a bit slower to follow.

In the past three weeks, Aragorn has put me on watch eight times, the most only after himself and Legolas, and definitely more than our other companions. Sam shoots me an apologetic look and quietly promises to bring us dinner as soon as it’s ready.

I grab my cloak and follow Legolas’ path, trying to keep my annoyance to a minimum. After all, it’s not the worst thing in the world…staying up most of the night with Legolas, just the two of us.

He hears me coming and turns around with a welcoming smile, lowering a hand to help pull me onto the boulder. His hand is so warm in mine, so solid, and I find myself wishing he wouldn’t let go.

But of course he does, taking his hand from mine the moment I’m settled next to him. I tuck my hands into my cloak, trying not to lament the loss. Regardless of my quickly-growing feelings towards my elven friend, he has never given me an indication that he sees me as anything more than that, a friend, and I need to respect that.

He fixes me with a raised eyebrow, somehow both looking at me and the landscape over my shoulder. “Are you alright with staying awake tonight? It has been a while since you slept fully.”

I freeze, caught in a sudden burst of happiness. He noticed that? Has he been paying attention to me?

Legolas continues, and the fledgling hope that perhaps my affections for him aren’t as one-sided as I thought comes crashing down. “I could speak to Aragorn. It is no issue for me to stand watch alone.”

I briefly close my eyes, berating myself for my stupidity. He’s not commenting on your well-being, he just doesn’t want to have to be alone with you for the next five hours. He must somehow know of your feelings and wants to discourage them — because really, why would an elf want to be with a human?

I purse my lips, desperately not wanting him to know I’m upset. “No, it’s okay, thank you though. I’ll do my part.” My words come out a bit more cooly than I intended, but that’s just as well. Best to seem unattached.

He nods, giving me a funny look, then turns to look back out on the vast expanse of trees.

Nearly an hour passes in silence, then Sam visits, bringing dinner with him. Aragorn had managed to find two rabbits, so we eat well tonight. I savor it, knowing we might not be so lucky tomorrow, or the day after next. As usual, Legolas chooses to eat standing, not willing to sacrifice his careful watch over our surroundings. Knowing he’s got it covered, I sit down on the rock with Sam, having a make-shift picnic. Still, I keep my daggers close and periodically take note of the sounds of the forest, just in case. Sam entertains us with stories from his childhood and of life in The Shire. At a tale of how he and Frodo found themselves running from a furious farmer in the middle of the night, even Legolas cracks a smile.

But eventually, the food is gone and Sam is stifling yawns, so he bids us goodnight, leaving me alone with Legolas once again.

I stand, brushing the dust off my leggings, and take my place next to him.

His eyes never leave the horizon, but I hear his voice, soft, quiet, and almost hesitant-sounding. “Is it true that you haven’t a home to return to?”

I’m a bit caught off guard. During that conversation earlier in the day, Legolas was all the way at the front the group, leading with Aragorn. I didn’t know he’d heard that. “Uh, yeah.” I nod, trying to project a confidence I don’t really feel. “It is.”

He goes silent, and stays silent for such a long time that I think that’s all the conversation we’ll have. But then, he speaks again, his voice steady and deliberate. “My home, Taur-e-Ndaedelos, is not safe right now.”

“Oh.” I blink. Is he opening up to me? I try to respond delicately, not wanting to accidentally discourage him from sharing his feelings in the future. “I am sorry. That must be very difficult.”

He waves off my apology, meeting my eyes for the quickest of moments and then turning once more to the landscape before us. “My people get by. I only meant that, perhaps…well, if we succeed, and the Great Evil is defeated, Taur-e-Ndaedelos will be safe, and might even be called Eryn Galen once more.” He shifts from one foot to the other, something I’ve never seen him do. “You would be welcome there.”

A smile—the widest one I’ve managed in a while—spreads over my face, and try as I might, I am unable to reel it in. Because even after all this is over, when the time would come naturally for us to part ways, he wants me still in his life. I’ve always figured that it would hurt me to be parted from him, but I never dreamed that he would feel the same way.

Legolas seems to grow agitated by my silence, and turns to look at me with a measure of stress in his brow. But once he sees my reaction to his words, the lines in his face soften into a grin of his own. “Gimli is similarly without a permanent dwelling. I have extended an invitation to him as well.”

Oh.

Of course.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at myself, feeling incredibly stupid. Of course I would read into his words. He didn’t mean anything significant by them, he was just offering me a place to stay, like he obviously would to any of his friends. Because he is a kind, good, and noble ellon.

Of course he doesn’t feel the same way as I do.

I was silly to hope.

I try to keep the smile plastered to my face and not let him see my crushing disappointment. That would be horribly embarrassing, and I’m not sure I could take the pity that would surely be on his compassionate face if he had to verbally express his disinterest.

“That—” my voice sounds annoyingly weak, and I clear my throat to correct it. “That’s really kind of you, Legolas. Thank you.”

There’s a question in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask it, only nods once and returns to his watch of the forest.

For my part, I try to turn all of my focus to the task at hand, reminding myself that, even if he never loves me back, I am truly lucky to have such a wonderful friend.

A/n See you all tomorrow with part two! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day! Also, let me know if you would like a tag.

Masterlist

Next part

[jamaisjoons]

intro: her mini #6 ⤑ knj | m.

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 you enter namjoon’s life in the most unexpected of ways, but will you be able to stay, especially when he comes with three adorable but chaotic children, even more chaotic best friends and a bitch of an ex-wife? not to mention your own emotional baggage. 〞singe dad au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: single dad!namjoon x marine vet!reader

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: fluff 

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 2.5k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: none really, reader n joon r incredibly sappy and i both hate n love them, there's some kissing but rly this is just soft fluffiness uwu

➵ 𝑎/𝑛: i lowkey hate half of this but yolo it is what it is

⏤ beta read by my girlfriend @peekaboongi​ // commissioned in exchange for blm donations

⇥ Main Series Masterlist

On Hoseok’s birthday, you find yourself on a private yacht in order to celebrate. As usual, you’re surrounded by Namjoon, his sons, as well as Yoongi, Seokjin and, of course, Hoseok himself - who wanted a quiet dinner in order to celebrate. Though, realistically, a quiet dinner with three children isn’t exactly possible. Ship coasting on the gentle waters of the Han River, you enjoy the mellow, lightly chilled, breeze wafting through your hair. Despite being at the end of winter, thanks to the space heaters littered around the deck, you barely feel the cold wind.

“Noona can you help me with this?” Jungkook asks from his seat beside you - his sweet voice pulling you out of your reverie. Shifting your gaze to him, you note the way he’s pointing at the large prawn sitting on his plate - the crustacean marinated in garlic butter as it glistens under the waning sunlight.

With a kind smile, “Sure, Gukkie,” you reply before reaching over. Easily, you break off the head of the prawn before squeezing the meat out the shell and placing it onto his plate.

“You did that awfully easily, ____” Hoseok comments as he swallows down the morsels of lobster he’s chewing on. Gaze shifting to him momentarily, you casually shrug your shoulders before turning to help Jungkook deshell the rest of his prawns.

“Me too, Noona! I can’t eat my clams,” Taehyung pipes in from beside Namjoon. And shortly after him, “And my crab!” Jimin calls out from next to his twin.

Angling your head to both of them, you frown slightly - a little confused by their requests. “Have you never eaten seafood before?” you question, a small, puzzled frown marring your lips. Taking pity on the twins, you watch as Yoongi and Seokjin pull their plates besides them - helping them clean their seafood. Simultaneously, Seokjin lets out a little snort before turning his attention to you.

“Are you kidding? With Namjoon as their father?” Seokjin playfully teases, sending a pointed glance towards your boyfriend. For a moment you frown, not really understanding his words, and then, it dawns on you; your lips forming a perfect ‘o’. Namjoon doesn’t like eating seafood. Nonetheless, from your right side, you hear your boyfriend huff.

“It’s not my fault I don’t like eating seafood,” he mumbles under his breath, his lips pursing into a small pout.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t feed your sons seafood - there’s no reason they should miss out on it,” Yoongi butts in, and though your concentration is firmly on Jungkook’s food, you can clearly hear the playfulness in Yoongi’s voice.

“Yeah, Namjoonie, you may not like seafood, but your sons do,” Hoseok chimes in with a snicker. Done with deshelling Jungkook’s food, you turn your attention back to the adults, only to notice the slight tinge on Namjoon’s cheeks and the amused smiles on Yoongi, Hoseok and Seokjin’s faces.

“You don’t know if they like seafood or not, they’ve barely eaten it,” Namjoon tries to argue, and you shake your head slightly, already knowing he’s fallen into their trap. As soon as those words escape your boyfriend’s lips, you watch as identical, wry grins creep onto their faces.

“Oh really?” Hoseok questions, an impish twinkle in his eyes. Brown eyes alighting with mirth, he directs his attention to the boys, “Jiminie, Taehyungie, Jungkookie, do you like seafood?” Hoseok questions. Finally catching on to where this is going, a look of exasperation colours Namjoon’s face as he sullenly takes another bite of his steak.

Hearing Hoseok’s question, the boys immediately beam with bright smiles before nodding ecstatically. “It’s Hobi-hyung’s favourite so I like it lots!” Jimin replies, his cheeks puffing up as his eyelids form little crescent shapes.

Instantly, Hoseok begins cooing at the oldest twin, “That’s a good boy. Here you go, you can have a piece of my lobster,” he says while picking up some of the meat and passing it onto Jimin’s plate. Seeing the large chunk of meat, Taehyung and Jungkook immediately perk up.

“Hobi-hyung! I like seafood too!” Taehyung and Jungkook call out at once, causing Yoongi, Hoseok and Seokjin all to guffaw at once. From beside you, however, Namjoon lets out a defeated sigh with another shake of his head.

“I can’t believe my own sons have betrayed my like this,” he dramatically mutters under his breath. An inkling of pity runs through you, and reaching your hand out, you comfortingly pat Namjoon’s thigh.

“Not only your sons, but your girlfriend too,” Seokjin says while pointing his knife towards your plate, where small, empty oyster shells sit on the edge of it.

Pout deepening, “I can’t believe you too, babe,” Namjoon laments, causing you to quirk an eyebrow.

“And why is that?” you question, the corners of your lips twitching in amusement.

“Because! You’re a marine veterinarian! How can you work with them and then also eat them… especially when they’re so cute,” Namjoon replies, and though you want to laugh, the soft look on his face - from his adorable pout to the way his cheeks are tinged in embarrassment - prevents you from doing so.

“You know I mainly work with marine mammals right, Joon?” you gently point out, then after a brief pause, “Besides, I just like seafood,” you continue while patting his strong thigh.

“Maybe you should try some, Namjoon. Here, I’ll even give you my prawn,” Seokjin says while holding out the large crustacean towards your boyfriend. Immediately, a look of horror crosses Namjoon’s face as he baulks. Rolling your eyes, you chuck your cloth napkin at Seokjin in playful ire.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough, let Namjoon eat his steak in peace,” you say. Turning his attention to you, Seokjin levels his best puppy dog eyes at you; but you simply roll your eyes and send him a pointed glare, causing him to give in with a chuckle.

“Thanks, ____. You’re the only one who supports me here,” Namjoon sighs dramatically before leaning over and pressing a kiss to your temple. Angling your head, you smile brightly at him, and instinctively, you move to press a kiss onto his lips. However, immediately, Namjoon jerks back before his nose crinkles in mock distaste. “Absolutely not, you’ve been eating seafood,” he teases, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

The moment the words fall from his lips, your jaw drops open as you gape at his - surprise written all over your face at his rejection. When you hear Yoongi, Hoseok and Seokjin begin snickering from opposite you, you quickly shut your mouth before lightly smacking Namjoon’s thigh. Bottom lip jutting out, you huff, “That’s the last time I defend you,” you mumble under your breath. With a light chuckle, Namjoon leans in before pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip.

“I was only joking, Angel. You know I love kissing you no matter what,” he says, his voice low as his breath fans your lips.

Face softening at his words, you roll your eyes before acquiescing to him. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat your stupid steak,” you reply, causing Namjoon to grin and smack a wet kiss onto your cheek.

The rest of the dinner passes smoothly - the boys taking over the conversation as they ask a hundred and one questions about everything and anything under the sun. Eventually, however, the conversation pauses, in order to sing Hoseok a happy birthday while he cuts the cake before the eight of you share your dessert. As you continue enjoying the evening, the sun slowly fades behind the horizon, the sky darkening as night falls over, which brings you to now.

You’re currently standing at the edge of the deck - leaning on the railing while you look out at the landscape. Indolently, the yacht moves over the water, the large skyscraper buildings that make up the metropolitan of Seoul gently flitting by. The sun has completely set now, and the dark of the night only draws attention to the bright neon lights that pass you. A fresh breeze blows through the air, causing goosebumps to prickle at your skin. It’s cooler now, the crisp night air wafting over your skin as a shiver runs down your spine. Instinctively, you nestle further into Namjoon’s coat, relishing in both the scent and warmth of the large woollen jacket.

Idle chatter murmurs through the air as the conversation continues between the adults, though, you barely participate - more than happy to simply watch the landscape pass and soak it all in. Somewhere along the deck, you can hear the twins and Jungkook running around; playing a game of tag as they try to entertain themselves. Closing your eyes, you take in a deep breath - smelling the fresh air around you - before exhaling deeply. Suddenly, however, you’re broken out of your thoughts, when you feel someone tug at the hem of your dress.

“Are you okay, Noona?” Jimin asks as he looks up at you in worry. Heart clenching at the concern etched onto his delicate features, you grace him with a smile before nodding.

“I’m alright, Puppy,” you reply. Jimin frowns for a moment, his head tilting to the side - almost as if he doesn’t believe you. However, after a couple of moments, he relents with a nod. Instead, he raises his arm for you to pick him up. Bending over, you easily lift him into your arms, the small boy tucking his head under your chin as he directs his gaze out to the river.

“Noona? Are there dolphins in the Han River?” he questions, as he points out at the large body of water, and you can’t help but chuckle at the curiosity in his tone.

“No, Puppy. Han River is made up of freshwater, and while there are a few freshwater dolphins, most of the species live in saltwater,” you reply easily.

Jimin nods under your chin, but before he can open his mouth again, “Noona!” twin cries echo across the night, and the two of you are joined by his siblings. Taehyung and Jungkook come up to either side of you, Jungkook looking up with a small pout as he notices his older brother in your arms. However, rather than saying anything, he simply shrugs it off after a few moments, and turns his attention to the river.

“What about sharks? Do you think sharks live in the Han River?” Taehyung asks.

“Or maybe stingrays?” Jungkook pipes in with his own, and you laugh lowly at their questions. Clearly, they must have overheard your conversation with Jimin. Nonetheless, before you can reply, you’re joined by the rest of the party.

“How about orcas?” Seokjin questions with a squeaky laugh as he joins you.

“Hmmm, no, but maybe seals?” comes Hoseok’s playful addition.

“I’d like to think giant tortoises live in the Han River myself,” Yoongi says with a sage nod. You know all their additions are completely whimsical, yet you can’t shake your head at their teasing antics.

“Hmmm, what about whales, ____?” Namjoons asks as he comes up behind you, and with his question, you let out a deep sigh of fond exasperation, causing all of them to chuckle. Within your arms, Jimin begins fidgeting, making you bend over and put him back on the desk.

With Jimin out of your arms, Namjoon uses the opportunity to wrap his own arms around your waist before pulling you into his chest. Warmth encasing your back, you exhale deeply and nestle further into his frame. Silence falls over the atmosphere, with only the gentle whirring of the yacht’s engine and the soft sound of water rippling breaking the calmness. The eight of you stare out at the open river as the ship begins making its way back to the marina.

“It’s really pretty out here, isn’t it?” you ask quietly, your words barely audible. In fact, your voice is so low, that only your boyfriend hears you. Bending his head, he nuzzles his nose into your hair before taking a deep breath.

“Not as pretty as you,” comes his reply. Despite the cheesiness of his words, you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your lips. Twisting in his hold, you wind your arms around his thin waist while looking up at him through the thick of your eyelashes.

“I could say the same about you, you know,” you teasingly backfire. The corners of his lips twitching, Namjoon bends his head and drags the tip of his nose against yours, causing your eyes to flutter at the ministration.

“Are you saying I’m pretty?” he asks, the deep timbre of his voice tremoring through the air as his warm breath washes over your face.

“I am, indeed. In fact, I think you’re the prettiest,” you respond, making Namjoon snort in amusement. Puckering his lips, his peppers your mouth in soft kisses, making you sigh in contentment.

“I think we’ll have to agree to disagree then, because I think you’re the prettiest,” he replies, each of his words broken up by even more of his gentle pecks. Once he’s done speaking, Namjoon places his lips fully onto yours, the thick petals of his mouth slotting perfectly against yours. Tongue flicking out, he licks the seam of your lips in a bid for entrance, but rather than giving it, you pull away. Namjoon frowns at your actions, his eyebrow quirking in question as you grace him with a lop-sided, mischievous grin.

“I thought you didn’t want to kiss me because I taste like seafood,” you remind him. The moment the words fall out your lips, Namjoon’s frown morphs into a playful smirk.

“Hmmm, but you taste like wine now,” he says, before once again dropping his lips onto yours. This time, you’re unable to resist him, and immediately, your mouth parts open in access. Using the opportunity, Namjoon’s tongue slips between your teeth; the silken appendage sliding along yours tantalisingly.

Your kiss only lasts a couple of moments, before suddenly, “Ew, Daddy! Noona! Gross,” and, “Honestly, can you both go two minutes without eating each other’s faces?” echoes through the dark night. Face flushing with heat, the two of you instantly break apart. Reflexively, you bury your face into Namjoon’s chest: in an attempt to hide your mortification, while your boyfriend simply holds you tighter in comfort.

“Hey, ____?” Hoseok calls, and hearing the faux innocence in his voice, your eyes narrow. Turning your head from Namjoon’s chest, you look over at him with a quirked eyebrow. “It’s my birthday you know… So I think if anyone deserves a kiss, it should be me,” he continues with waggling eyebrows. With a blank stare, you gaze at him, your brain slowly processing his words. It only takes you a few short moments, but once you do, you can’t help but snort.

“Sure Hoseok, why not,” you sarcastically remark - already knowing he’s only teasing you. Waggling his eyebrows harder, Hoseok puckers his lips dramatically before making kissy faces at you. However, this time, before you can say anything, you find your boyfriend huffing.

Wrapping his arms tighter around you, he levels a small glare at Hoseok before tilting your body away from his best friend. “Yeah, birthday or not, I don’t think so.”

a/n: ᵘʷᵘ thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it! please lemme know what you thought if you did 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

[lallemcnt]

i've got nothing to lose (with you)  🌊 (4.7k)

let's see: eliott and le gang on a mini get-away outside of france, inspired (superficially) by the scottish highlands; this is very much a piece centred on eliott's thoughts and feelings, everything else is secondary.

or, a pining, friends to lovers au

A house on the river with a white chipped window overlooking green valleys of soft-petaled ivory rose caninas fighting for land with the stone brambles and butter-yellow honeysuckle. Within minutes of their arrival, Eliott moved a rusty looking bottle-green desk directly in front of this window, as though compelled from an outside force. The valley demands his undivided attention at a time where the sky is in a perpetual state of change, transitioning from colour to colour as though indiscriminately picking shades on a colour wheel; specks of fuchsia accidentally blending and bleeding into a rust-orange and a startling red, colours which never turn out quite so captivating on a phone camera. Dusk recalls the beauty of the day, unwinding time and caressing the flowers that dare to grow at higher altitudes. Eliott sits there on what once was a rather plush seat, but now torn down the middle so he can feel the wooden foundations beneath him. Admiring the landscape as he cracks open the spine of a new notebook he uncaps a black pen. It hovers there with possibility for a few minutes until Eliott sighs and recaps it resting his face in his hand staring out the white chipped window.

Footsteps echo above him, muffled voices and slamming doors. He tries to find some inspiration within these movements and sounds but all ideas elude him. It’s been like this for the past two months so when Basile mentioned his parents had a little place a channel away he thought it fateful, fortuitous; a change in scenery from the humid city, away from the lungfuls of pollution to the countryside, a different country; a different language and culture — the endless opportunities for observation. He thought nature would spark something, get the ideas storming, the pen flowing, but he’s an empty machine. No feelings he can scratch out on paper or phone despite being told by everyone he’s ever loved that he feels so much. That he is an endless vacuum of emotions. He even bought a stupid notebook when he’s used to writing down ideas on the notes app on his phone. Maybe an alternative medium would strike an unknown area of his brain filled to bursting with worlds unlike his own. But, he’s being hard on himself, they have only been here a day. He has time.

A knock at the door has him looking over his shoulder before glancing once more out the window.

“Hey.” is all he says.

The door creaks at the hinges as footsteps pad towards him. The tips of fingers against his back almost makes him sigh out loud. It’s not a purposeful touch, it’s the simple act of fingers curling round the frame of his chair accidentally grazing his t-shirt, eliciting painful butterflies in his stomach. Eliott has imagined that touch filled with intention and it’s all he can do not to slip his hand over Lucas’, brush his thumb over the skin and tilt his head back to gaze into those eyes. Eliott wraps his arms around his stomach instead, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Nice view.” Lucas comments.

Now this is someone Eliott could have written many a poetry collection about. Forty poems in verse regaling their childhood mischief. Lucas the leader in all their make-believe games from the moment they ate their last spoonful of cereal until the moon was in full bloom, their parents having to threaten their separation for the rest of the holidays if they didn’t climb down from Lucas’ treehouse. He could lament over Lucas’ hair darkening from a dirty blond to a chestnut brown during which first kisses were had, Eliott broke his elbow falling off a skateboard and Lucas was there, leading him aside and letting him cry — insisting that he didn’t think any less of Eliott whose cheeks were flushed and stained with tears, hands clenched into fists from embarrassment. He had cried numerous times in front of Lucas, but this time had an undercurrent to it, a vulnerability marked by the changing of tides and secrets of the night; seeing Lucas began to evoke new sensations he hadn’t felt since his first kiss — a nervousness that had his hands shaking and his stomach turning. Eliott Demaury could craft twenty-one sonnets about this boy’s hands and the journey of emotions he has encountered over the years since his realisation. Though something about it doesn’t feel right, using pen and paper to express these feelings. The sentiments morph, become corrupted and lose their potency. They become the words at the end of a sentence squished in, overlapping each other, and cut off at the end, no room for them. No place for them in his heart. He believes those words are for Lucas. Someday. And only spoken among them are they meant to touch the world.

Lucas’ fingers poke Eliott’s back as he speaks. “I think everyone’s about to eat; Yann’s cooked some spaghetti.”

Dropping his head back to rest on the chair he finally meets that gaze; dark blue eyes inquiring, strands of brown hair brushing a strong nose, and Eliott responds: “Mmm, sounds good.”

Lucas shakes his head in a well, are you coming? gesture and Eliott only nods.

They continue to look at each other, searching for what Eliott knows not, only that they could both do this for years. Oh, it’s not romantic, though the scene has all the players and the setting to forge a wondrous story of fate and destiny, no such eventuality could Eliott lay claim to when it comes to Lucas. Their staring contests are the makings of legends, they could stare for France at the Olympics. That was Lucas' idea when they were twelve, to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. If only Eliott could telepathically communicate his love through his stare, he would be saved from the mortifying ordeal of laying his soul bear for Lucas to potentially stamp on, to do with what he will. The odds were not in his favour.

The next moment Lucas is grabbing him by the wrists tugging him to his feet. “What were you doing?”

A loud sigh. “Trying to write.”

“Ah.” A voice filled with understanding and sympathy.

“Yes.”

“I have no words of encouragement. Knowing you you’ve watched a hundred videos on how to get inspiration so, for now, let’s just have some fun this weekend,” He mines the breaststroke. “If you manage to write something, if only a three word sentence then great. If you don’t well then I’ll have to reset your brain or something.”

“I guess.” He’s feeling a bit dispirited is all.

“It’s the only plan I’ve got so you can either take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take anything you give me.” It’s out before he can stop it and he has no time to freak the hell out or try and amend this faux pas because that’s when they are summoned.

“FOOD IS READY!” bellows a voice from deeper inside the house. Basile.

“Just in time.” Lucas smiles, dragging Eliott along behind him, like he doesn’t trust him to not sit at that desk, staring out the window for the foreseeable evening to come. Eliott is a dreamer after all, it can’t be helped.

All the knowing brings a small smile to Eliott’s lips, Lucas catches it and a laugh bubbles out of his throat his grip tightening on Eliott’s wrist. He wonders if that’s what love is. Knowing. For some people the learning process is what keeps them in love, and for the others who have already mapped out the insides of each other, know them as intimately as they do their own body. What about them? Is it in the relearning? Rediscovering the constellations of their mind, the breadth of their movement and the deepest, most darkest secrets at their core where the imaginary apple tree blooms from all the seeds they dared to swallow as kids.

“Idiot,” Lucas whispers.

“Yeah, you are.” Eliott quips right back.

Lucas shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Eat your spaghetti, dumbass.”

Eliott acquiesces and brushes his fingers over Lucas’ skin, where they do nothing but slightly graze, just once.

-

The evening brings them around a crowded table covered in an ugly mauve table cloth, five empty glasses holding it in place, and Eliott feels like it’s all a bit biblical. A cornucopia of sorts with the big spaghetti dish in the centre, napkins laid under cutlery, and — yes, lit candle sticks holding court at either end, illuminating the richness of the tomato sauce and the plates precariously positioned near the edges of the table.

“ELIOTT!” Basile yells the instant Lucas and Eliott enter the kitchen slash dining space.

“He made fucking placement cards.” Arthur chortles, shoving one in Lucas’ face, who grabs at it laughing.

Basile looks indignant, his ears flushing pink. He begins shepherding Yann to begin serving their food, refusing to look at the other boys, and Eliott’s heart pangs in his chest even when he knows that Arthur is only taking the piss, he means nothing by it. He can’t but help feel empathy in any given situation, because he was cursed to feel every fucking emotion in the world. He wishes there was an off switch as quick and easy as turning of the light but for your emotions.

And right on cue, “Baz, I’m joking!” Arthur grabs the place card back from Lucas and when Basile doesn’t respond, he looks around at Yann and Lucas for support, like did I misstep that badly?

“I was joking, Baz. Basile. Baz! I’ll do your stupid laundry for the rest of this trip if you open your mouth.”

Baz glares at Arthur while opening his mouth into an o shape.

“What the fuck.” he falls to his knees at Baz’s feet and throws his hands over his heart in mock anguish.

“That’s only two days.”

Relief spreads over Arthur’s face. “You prick. And for the next five days when we’re back home.”

Baz smiles. “Okay.” Just before Arthur wraps his arm around Baz's neck, roughing up his head and causing Basile to shout his head off like an idiot.

Yann and Lucas exchange an amused look as they take their assigned seats at the table. Eliott slides into his seat, taking the proffered orange juice from Baz and sighing quietly as the cool liquid hits the back of his throat.

Beers are passed around, spaghetti is ladled into ceramic bowls and bellies are satiated. It only takes five minutes before the toasts begin — it’s a slight downgrade from Shakespeare, but Eliott isn’t the biggest fan of his works anyway. These monologues do not bore him to tears, they manage the feat of the opposite; a well of innocence and love and disaster (in the best way) — and Eliott can feel his stomach cramping from the laughter to come. Baz’s excitement is an energy source of its own, powering up each boy in turn and only encouraged more by the alcohol in their veins. He thanks them for coming, his curls bouncing as he hugs each of them and kisses their temples in turn, giving a special wink to Eliott. This prompts Lucas to raise his eyebrows and air kiss Eliott in jest; Yann clutches his heart and narrows his eyes at Lucas in betrayal. But the real jester is Eliott’s heart, making a mockery of him.

-

There is something about the sun glistening on the water, the sparkles of light suggesting an underworld, and the heat and the tender breeze which fosters an exuberant vitality among these boys. Jumping into the rushing water like the rocks within aren’t sharp as nails, as fierce and demanding as deities demanding human blood. Embracing the camaraderie that comes from being complete idiots and living to tell the tale. Defying the ancient gods. Eliott has noticed his regard for his own life has drastically lowered since his acquaintance with Lucas’ school friends; they are wild and high-spirited that when their energies are fused together you have never seen a more brazen display of the human idiocy. Eliott came to the conclusion upon their second meeting that they share a single brain cell between them, no more no less. Their presence demands he shed his insecurities and feelings of inadequacy, that he be instead audacious so sometimes he finds himself retreating and requiring a few moments by himself just so he can keep up, reset and recharge.

Watching the other four attempt to kayak down the river, watching Lucas rub a hand across his throat where a collection of moles stand out against his tan skin has Eliott feeling some type of way. A nostalgia clings to him, the echoes of childhood innocence — running around with paint-stained hands intertwined, breaking the last cookie in half because they couldn't bear the thought of not experiencing every delicious moment of life together with the one person who they could just be with. The one who made them want to be bold. A time before feelings were made complicated and repressive by adult sensibilities and expectations. It’s a nostalgia breeding a melancholy Eliott feels too young to be unraveled by, because he is so very lucky to even be known quite this intimately by a person; it gives rise to a loneliness he feels no right to. He has to look away from Lucas before he gasps out loud because it will be obvious then. And he doesn’t know what he’d do if he was found out, because that’s the scary thing. He already made a mistake yesterday. He cannot give up now. He’s been good so far. Acted the performance of his life. He’s an artist. A master of repression.

But now he is in danger, at the precipice of possibility, because the way Lucas has been looking at him when he thinks Eliott isn’t looking; the tilt of his head, the softening of his brow and that gentle smile without any mischief behind it is simultaneously tearing at Eliott’s heart but also the last image he would want to see before closing his eyes forever. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened but he lost control somewhere along the way; in between the little moments when he lets himself dream, giving the reins of control over to his hapless thoughts filled with impossibilities and infatuation. Beneath the sheets of his bed where he can exist as he is. A multitude of muscles and tissue, blood and bones sinking into the safety of the mattress as his mind is whisked away by a boy sprinkling him in fairy dust and offering him the chance to fly.

It’s catching up to him now, he can feel it rising. A tidal wave promising to consume him, reveal him. His skin is sticky from the sun, it feels too tight. His throat is aching, a sob threatens to betray him. He wants to scratch at his throat to relieve the pressure; he needs to scream until he can no longer produce sound. Until he is an empty vessel incapable of such visceral emotion. He wants to tear out his hair. This loneliness so rapidly evolving into a creature of frustration, of anger. How haven’t they noticed? How can’t they see this volatile species among them? Can’t they feel the very toxicity in the air?

Eliott hits the surface of the lake hard. The initial pain of impact, welcome — a moment of distraction as he is plunged deep into the open arms of the biting cold and opens his jaw to let loose this beast of rage. Furious with himself for being so completely selfish, for having allowed this self-pity to threaten a friendship he would sell his soul to save, to keep forever close to his chest. To that organ known to most animals and at the centre of some of the most tragic and romantic sonnets found in between must-smelling pages and on the rough skin of ageing humans. Though not all the words are without detrimental consequences, Eliott feels like a letter on the verge of changing the entire meaning of a sentence. The power in his hands to rewrite the narrative so he can finally have what he has been waiting for for years. But nothing is without consequences.

Sometimes Eliott thinks about how life is made up of doing things you don’t want to do with small moments of reprieve in and amongst the mess, the stress, finding the will to carry on. The reality is that he doesn’t want to tell Lucas. He really doesn’t. He has contented himself with admiring from afar. Until it gets to be too much. He would rather know him in this way, as a friend, till his last breath than compromise a relationship that has given him more than he deserves, more than he has ever been able to give back. A bond that sets his blood racing, his heart soaring and his body an ardent vivacity of courage and pure, uncorrupted joy. Like a river discovered on a blisteringly hot day, where your fingers have swollen up in the clutch of the silver rings you wear and you want to strip off every piece of clothing clinging to your sweaty skin and it’s that instant relief, that feeling that you could live in the water forever. Your hair soaked and plastered to your neck and the sun that was only seconds ago unforgivably hot is now a blissful pleasure against wet skin. Lucas is solace in a world that too often demands him to not be himself. To just be okay at its call.

Here’s a not quite secret: Lucas knows.

Floating to the surface, his back to the sun, Eliott folds his limbs inwards as the pressure for oxygen begins to sing in his veins. Calling him back to the present to face the world he has made. The first breath is purely human instinctual relief at the intake of a luscious breath of air. The second slows his heart down a fraction. The third is coincides with a minor skip of a heart beat as Elliott shoves wet hair from his watery eyes and sees lean muscled shoulders. Get the fuck together, Eliott. He pushes himself out of the water and it’s as though he wasn’t listening before, as though his thoughts blocked the functionality of his ears, because as soon as he leaves the water laughter pierces the air, cut short when Eliott flops down beside Yann.

Yann immediately reveals that Lucas has an idea, and Eliott’s groan is an automatic response, he throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the sun.

“So Lucas was thinking—”

“—I was thinking we should race down that hill—”

“—You mean mountain.”

Lucas scoffs. “It’s hardly a mountain.”

“No thanks, I’m cool. You guys can though. I’ll chill here.”

Eliott’s bent knee collapses to the floor as Lucas kicks at his leg. “What?” he asks, annoyed.

“I’ll do it if you do it.”

“Ha, yeah right.”

“I promise. Eliott, I swear I’ll do it.”

“And where has trusting your word ever got me, Lallemant?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Pinky promise?”

Eliott laughs.

“Spit shake.”

That’s basically kissing is Eliott’s first thought. “No thanks.”

“You’re acting like you don’t trust me.”

“I literally do not trust you.”

At Lucas’ hurt expression Eliott feels more defensive than guilty like he normally would. He’s tired of this day. He wants to sleep for twelve hours straight.

“It’s a fucking mountain. I don’t want to die.” he gestures emphatically to the mountain. Arguably, the distance is not far but Eliott’s not the biggest fan of running at such a steep, vertical angle. Knowing him, he would twist his ankle and break an arm versus the rather athletic Lucas and Yann, co-captains of a baseball team. “I have a headache.” he adds, not looking at either boys’ face.

Closing his eyes once more and longing for the privacy of the river; the secrets beneath the rolling surface of the azure water, conversation becomes muffled as Eliott finds his stasis. Lolled by the constant rush of water, Eliott is ignorant to his environment, though not frightened when his vision turns from a burning blood-red to a muted orange. He blinks an eye open and Lucas is there, a slight furrow in his brow, his lips a firm line.

He whispers, “You okay? We’re gonna be over there.”

Eliott nods.

“Okay.” Lucas brushes one hand through the hair framing Eliott’s hair, his long, callused fingers moving carefully. He finishes with a pinch of Eliott’s chin and sprints away, Eliott assumes, after Yann.

What if he let it all go? What if he let himself look at Lucas and touch his hand? Could he do it without having to justify it to himself and the world?

-

Lucas’ bedroom sits two doors down from Eliott’s at the end of the hall. It has a white door with blue accents like every other door in this house and it’s slightly open. It’s a sign Eliott decides because he needs one to do this. He needs every last ounce of courage available to him because everything is about to change. Whether it is small or life-shaking, and he doesn’t have to do this. But he does.

One step. He watches his foot take the next and next and three more until he is two steps away from being seen. That is if Lucas is on his bed, but if he’s only the other side of the room, then Eliott has more time to second guess this endeavour. He doesn’t know which to wish for. He is one step away and no Lucas. A breath out, his stomach clenches. Okay.

Walking into the room with all the confidence he doesn’t possess, Eliott bounces onto Lucas’ bed  and leans up against the wall, and there the other boy is reading a book for school in a wooden rocking chair by a dusty looking mirror, half concealed by a brown throw. Meanwhile Eliott is being sucked in by the loveliest mattress his butt has ever had the pleasure to rest on. The duvet smells like Lucas.

“Fuck, this bed is so much bigger than mine.” he announces, shuffling down onto his back.

Lucas wiggles his eyebrows. “Lots of star fishing has happened there.”

“I bet.”

He has made it this far. Maybe with Lucas engrossed in his book it will be easier. The first part anyway, because he has no doubt Lucas will either try to avoid eye contact all together or shut the conversation down within seconds because he doesn’t like Eliott in that way.

“I like you.” Eliott clarifies. His throat tightening. He can’t believe he said it, he’s not known for being the most loquacious about his feelings. Despite being sensitive and greatly empathic, this does not extend to how he treats himself. Vocalising his turmoil is new and uncomfortable; he doesn’t feel like he can breath better, there’s not relief in it. He counts to ten and tilts his head up to examine Lucas who is staring intently at his book, his face a mirror of shock and fear. But Eliott’s not exactly sure if it is shock at his love or the act of the revelation itself.

Lucas clears his throat. “I don’t want things to change,” closing his book around his finger to hold his page, he licks his lips as his shoulders curl in slightly. Eliott is a hurricane, wrecking devastation and warning signs are blaring in his head to get out, get out, get out! “I do know that I like you.” And then all is quiet in his mind as he lowers his head back to the mattress. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; folding them behind his head then across his stomach, the puzzle pieces not fitting. His stomach is clenched in preparation for a fall, for someone to jump out with a camera and say he’s been punked, for Lucas to bust out laughing and divulge his prank to the boys. He was expecting rejection so this is new and he can’t quite believe it. This isn’t going according to plan. Lucas isn’t supposed to say I like you. What the hell is happening.

Sitting up, Eliott can feel his face tightening and he’s confused as he gets to his feet, drifting towards Lucas’ bedroom door like a lone breeze. The light catches Lucas’ hair, lightening the tips to a golden brown and Eliott’s heart is in his throat, his jaw clenching he needs out of this space. He’s almost out the door but Lucas has somehow slipped in front of him, framed in the doorway and he fills the frustration building up.

“Hey.” Lucas’ voice is soft as he searches Eliott’s face, taking in his fists at his sides and the pronounced jaw line. He reaches up and rubs gentle circles just beneath Eliott’s ear; taking one of his fists in his own hands, he runs a callused finger over knuckles and under to where fingers are curled inwards. Lucas is not met with resistance because Eliott’s fingers unfurl and Lucas is slotting his own in between and Eliott is losing his breath, it’s been stolen, he can’t get it back and his eyes are near to welling up.

They drift towards the bed, Eliott floating, not registering any physical movements beyond their intertwined fingers, the soft pressure of Lucas grip on his own hand is a masterpiece. He is sitting down, in the middle of the bed and Lucas is sitting on his knees on top of the blankets, their hands hang in the space between them.

“How about this,” Lucas says, decisively, his gaze drifting from their hands. He shifts forward moving closer to Eliott, “We try. We don’t force anything. If it doesn’t feel right we stop, because I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Eliott. Fuck, that’s what terrifies me most. But I think we would both regret it if we didn’t try and I really fucking want to. Eliott?”

Right, he needs to speak. Say something. He shifts closer to Lucas, not quite believing what he’s hearing. Unlacing their hands he brushes his free hand through Lucas’ hair before pulling him in for a hug. Breathing in his scent which is tangy from the citrusy soap they’ve all been using, but the underlying cedar-wood, jasmine and toothpaste is there and it feels like safety. “You like me, too?” his voice is low.

Lucas’ laughter vibrates against his chest bringing a smile to Eliott’s lips, he pulls back and pecks Lucas’ forehead before returning his face to his neck and Lucas tightens his hold. And he swears he hears him say so much. Eliott knows he is in love, but this is enough for now. He would broach that later on. This he would trade for anything. The feel of Lucas in his arms, their chests pressed against each other, the feeling of Lucas’ plush lips against his neck and the warm feeling in his stomach. He is in elated shock and nothing can touch them, they have fallen into their pocket of space and time, they are safe.

“How are you this warm?” Eliott wonders aloud, pulling back from the hug, his eyes darting to Lucas’ lips. “Can I kiss you, Lallemant?”

Lucas reclaims the space between them, securing his ankles behind Eliott’s back, he quirks an eyebrow and presses his lips together. Eliott is bewitched by those lips. What secrets and answers do they hold? Are they as soft as they appear?

“Okay.”

And Lucas is leaning forward, his eyes flickering from Eliott’s eyes to his lips and back again, he brushes his nose up the side of Eliott’s and back down again. His eyes lock on Eliott’s blue fading into a lighter blue-grey. Eliott can’t help but brush the tips of their noses, then he slants his mouth upwards, tipping his chin and this is new, because whenever he imagined them kissing, him kissing Lucas, he was always leaning downwards because of their heights, but here Lucas is sitting in his lap with this lips hovering just millimetres above his own and it’s everything he has ever wanted. The second brush of their lips is lost completely to the thunderous sensations of the first and it’s vertigo from here on out.

[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: Series | Mafia!AU | Crime!AU | Angst | Romance/Fluff | Smut

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence (bloody violence), Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,327

Tag List: @prisczero, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @unoriginal-username15432, @halussali, @shrimpmsg, @ggukkieland​

AN: And here we go...

Chapter 57: Boy Meets Evil

“But in order to be free from this crime, it’s impossible to forget and give up.”

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

One Week Later Incheon – Sungui; Nam District South Korea

Hoseok and Seokjin stood side by side as they looked at the large, gray building in front of them. They parked their car at the end of the long road, surveying their surroundings. The morning sky was overcast and shrouded the landscape in hues of grays; desaturating everything. Autumn was already upon them and foliage that was once fully in bloom would soon begin singing their songs of lamentation as they died.

It was the season for beginnings to come to an end.

The old factory was worn from years of neglect. Rust spots were speckled over the iron and there were a few spider cracks along large windows on every side. Several other sedans were parked nearby, presumably Jade Fang members. Hoseok cast a critical eye over them, his gaze meeting Seokjin’s. They both nodded, stepping in sync as they approached the large metal double doors.

His hand went out to reach for the handle, pulling it open. The hinges screamed from abuse, crying for attention. The sound wailed through the expanse as the bottom portion of the door scraped along the concrete flooring. Seokjin followed closely as he entered, pulling the door closed behind him. The ambient noise of the city quickly transformed into that of a tomb.

Their footsteps echoed over the wide space. Hoseok took note of the many wooden crates that lined either walls, giving access to a variety of blind spots. The factory had a single floor that was one big open space. High above it, catwalks ran along the rafters all leading from the factory manager’s office: a metal cube suspended at one end of the warehouse. Abandoned shelf scaffolding broke up the empty space. Crates and pallets were strewn around, making decent hiding places.

He frowned when a few of Changkyun’s underlings looked at him suspiciously – each of them armed with bats, pipes, and knives. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he smirked while shaking his head. It was obvious that Changkyun didn’t trust him and that was fine. After the damage he’d caused, Hoseok couldn’t blame him for taking precautions against him.

Even if this was supposed to be a general meeting.

“Jin Hyung,” a voice called to them, causing both men to halt in their steps.

They looked over to the right where another portion of the factory broke off, seeing Wonho reveal himself. He flicked his tongue out over his lip ring, grinning like a man who’d just won a high stakes poker game. Hoseok slowly blinked as Seokjin situated himself to his right.

Wonho stopped just a few feet short from them. “I didn’t expect you to be here. I figured it would be Namjoon-ah like usual.”

Seokjin shrugged. “Yeah well, we’ve decided not to be so predictable.”

They watched him peer around them, as though he was expecting more people. “The others?”

“None of your business. Besides, he asked to meet me, did he not?”

Hoseok flicked some of his hair out of his eyes, watching the smirk on Wonho’s face grow a little more. There was a small flame of anger that continued to burn in his chest. But he didn’t say anything. He waited for Wonho to look at him, bowing his head in respect, before giving a gentle sigh.

“Where’s Changkyun-ah?”

Without breaking their gaze, Wonho raised his hand up and pointed toward the large metal stairwell that led to the manager’s office. Hoseok started to make his way to the stairwell, but stopped when Wonho side-stepped into his path. He cut his eyes at him, his brows knitting tightly. He was in no mood to play any sort of games right now. This was about business.

“Sorry Hoseok-ah,” he said, holding his hands up in a mock show of surrender, “gotta search you. Boss’s orders.”

Hoseok looked around at the armed men in the warehouse before meeting Wonho’s gaze. “…are you fuckin’ serious?”

Seokjin took a step forward but Hoseok held an arm out to stop him. He rolled his eyes, lifting his other arm so that Wonho could frisk him. No one moved, however, and this irritated him.

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with, huh? I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, moving toward him.

It didn’t take long for Wonho to search him. The clothing he wore was loose-fitting around his torso while his pants were a slim fit. It made movement easier for him, but would have been obvious had he concealed anything on his person. After the search was finished, he stepped to the side to let Hoseok through. He heard Seokjin move only to take note of the sound of him being stopped. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Wonho was now impeding his brother’s path.

“Wonho-yah,” came Seokjin’s even tone, “move.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jin Hyung. Hoseok-ah has to go on alone.” He grinned. “You can keep me company instead.”

“It’s okay, Jin Hyung,” reassured Hoseok, “I can handle it from here.”

Seokjin didn’t seem satisfied with this, but he shook his head. He knew there was no stopping Hoseok now that he was set to take care of things once and for all. This would be the last time they would have this altercation with their former brothers of the underworld. Timing was crucial.

Hoseok ascended the stairwell slowly, the iron steps rattling under him as he moved. Both hands were in his pockets as he walked, his eyes continuing to look at all the various angles of the factory warehouse. If he knew Changkyun as well as he thought he did, then his other upper-tiered members were scattered around outside. They would be on the lookout for anyone to try and shake things up.

But he already had an ace up his sleeve for that.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the office stood. To the left, a grated walkway led out over the floor, spreading into catwalks that sprawled the entire place. There was a small square window on the door smudged with dirt. He knocked loudly, the sound reverberating off the walls and bouncing back to hit his body in small tremors. When the door opened, it was Shownu standing in the doorway. They stood silently, almost gauging the other, before he shifted off to the side to allow him entrance. Once inside, Shownu exited the manager’s office and closed the door behind him.

Hoseok saw Changkyun nursing a cup of coffee from an electric kettle. The only furniture in the room were two heavy wooden tables. The rest of the office was bare; a thin slit of a window overlooking the warehouse floor. He watched him turn, smiling as he sipped from the mug. Changkyun held out the cup to Hoseok.

“Did you want me to make you a cup?”

“Are you repurposing this place?”

Changkyun snapped his fingers and pointed at him, a look of satisfaction clearly painted over his face. “Wow, you don’t miss a thing, do you Hyung?”

He shrugged, gesturing to the electric kettle with a simple tilt of his head.

“The market value for this place was decent. People need jobs and I just got my hands on a permit to start turning this into a mass shipping facility.”

“How long have you been working on this?”

He watched him hum, as if he really needed a moment to pause and think. “A few months now.”

“I see.”

“There’s money to be made, so why not make it?” He walked back over to the kettle where another mug sat on the table. “Did you want coffee or no?”

Sighing, Hoseok pulled the sleeve of his jacket back to look at his watch. “I thought we were here to talk business?”

“Always so serious,” he said, smiling, “you can relax. I won’t bite.”

“You killed my brothers and my sister-in-law,” came Hoseok’s slow response, “what the fuck did you expect?”

Changkyun clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth while shaking his head. “Oh, come on now. I already told you that this wasn’t personal.”

“You made it personal.”

“Wrong!” His voice boomed out over the small space. “I made a point.”

Hoseok scoffed. “Is that what you call it? A point?”

“Yes, I do.” He set the cup down on the table. “I warned you, Hyung, about how weak your defenses were when you left your power behind. The people around you were at risk the minute you decided to step into the light. Money and power talk and while money has done you some good, your lack of power exposed your neck to me.”

There was a pregnant pause that stretched between them. He wasn’t sure if Changkyun was waiting for him to respond to his statements, but there was nothing for him to say. Not yet. He wanted to hear everything his former brother had to unleash on him before he came out with a rebuttal of his own.

Changkyun moved away from the table, crossing the room to stand opposite of him. His back was now to the office window while Hoseok’s remained facing the door. They stared each other down; both attempting to read the other.

If looks could kill…

“Your business was with us, the Golden Jackals. You didn’t have to drag Eden into it. She had nothing to do with this.”

Changkyun waggled his finger at him. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How?”

“Attacking just you would have seemed personal. That’s not my endgame. Eden was an unfortunate casualty, but she was also a necessary piece that you needed to lose in this game.”

A flash of burning outrage slashed across Hoseok’s chest. For him to refer to his sister-in-law as a mere “casualty” was about as much as he could stand. But instead of launching himself across the room to lay into him, he curled his hands into fists at his sides. He couldn’t let him get under his skin so soon. They’d only just started talking.

He took a breath, a seemingly vain attempt to dampen his anger.

“So,” Hoseok breathed, “you still think this is some kind of game, huh?”

“I do.” He grinned. “And I’ve won.”

Snorting, Hoseok folded his arms across his chest. “The game isn’t over, Changkyun-ah. I still haven’t given you the keys to my kingdom.”

He watched Changkyun’s mouth form into a small ‘O’ before it spread into an arrogant smirk. “And are you?”

“They’re not mine to give.”

“I beg to differ.” Changkyun took another step closer. “You held Yongsan and Gangnam in your hands for years. You controlled those territories in a way that the other district bosses can’t ignore. It won’t be as easy as a simple gang scuffle to settle things.”

Hoseok frowned. “And why not?”

“Because you made it that way.”

He couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that slipped out of him. “So what? This is my responsibility?”

“It never stopped being your responsibility.” He closed the distance even further, reaching a hand to grasp at Hoseok’s shoulder. “Don’t you see that?”

For a while, all Hoseok could do was look back at him. This was the man he once considered a good friend; a brother. They had so many ideas for the future. Ideas to make things better. Back when everything made sense because life was simpler. Hoseok believed he could talk Changkyun into turning over a new leaf with him – of paving a road with clean hands and leaving the dirtiness of the underworld behind them. He thought that Changkyun was better suited for a life that didn’t involve crime, betrayal, and cruelty.

The hope for that began to dwindle the day Hoseok saw him murder the former Jade Fangs leader in cold blood.

It completely vanished when he cremated his family’s bodies.

“It’s still not too late, Hyung,” urged Changkyun gently, “you can still join me. Reclaim your territories and come back home. I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

Hoseok sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head slightly. “Changkyun-ah.” He lifted his head, eyelids fluttering as he opened them to meet the other man’s gaze. “I’m glad we had this talk. You’ve confirmed a few things for me.”

Changkyun canted his head slightly, his calm and welcoming expression melting into slight confusion. “What things?”

“That you haven’t changed. That you never will change.” Hoseok smiled pityingly at him. “You’re incapable of it.”

He felt his hand sliding off his shoulder, dropping limply at his side as he frowned. He didn’t say anything, so Hoseok continued.

“You’ve always been so sneaky. Planning everything so that you are always five steps ahead of the person you’re trying to overtake. You’re good at playing the long game and that’s why you always think you’ve won. That you’ll never be beaten.”

“I have yet to be proven wrong.”

“I’m a thinker too. But there are better thinkers at my side. People who retraced months of your steps in the process of doing their research. People who are better at getting into your head than I am.” Hoseok gave a wide gesture to the empty office space around them. “People who knew about your plans for this warehouse days before my arrival.”

For the first time since their conversation began, Changkyun looked perturbed. Hoseok wasn’t in the business of pouring salt into wounds, but he was done playing nice. He was done giving warnings.

He was finishing this today.

Lowering his gaze, he looked at his watch one more time. His smile grew a little bit wider as he locked his eyes with Changkyun’s – relishing in the realization that slowly overtook his face.

“And those same people found out that you had the gas and electric rewired for the building before having it turned on.”

And then the world shook violently beneath their feet from the explosion downstairs.

[strangesmallbard]

part 2 of my ideal s13 episode concepts, assuming yaz is the sole companion:

(they’re getting Very Long, so i may go back and fill out the original concepts!)

13.6 - The Angels Take Los Angeles: the vibe is very stylized, kitschy hollywood meets the ominous high stakes of the weeping angels. ep begins with yaz tardis skyping ryan, saying thirteen has been weirdly distant again. thirteen overhears, decides that they need some FUN. they wind up in roughly 1998. montage w/ music of: selfie at the hollywood sign, buying souvenirs at the big farmer’s market, the star walk (and thirteen listing every celebrity she’s met,) and finally, the griffith observatory, where they see a planetarium show. thirteen laments that they came before the samuel oschin planetarium was built, yaz leans in & whispers that’s alright, i’ve got the real thing anyway.

the day winds down, yaz decides to broach the doctor’s Mardy Mood when suddenly, thirteen sees a sculpture that definitely wasn’t built by sculptors during the depression era. they discover the angels want something stored in the observatory—a power source. thirteen is caught in grief and manages to explain more about the ponds than just “the angels are very dangerous, trust me.” yaz devises the plan that traps the angels. with help from an interning grad student who knows the building, they save the day together.

back in the tardis, thirteen apologizes for being cagey. they have a good conversation about friendship, support, and boundaries. when yaz goes to sleep, thirteen nearly calls the shadow proclamation to turn in the power source, but hesitates. she takes out her mysterious device.

final shot: a familiar figure watches the parked tardis from a distance, wistful & contemplative. she taps the vortex manipulator on her wrist and vanishes.

13.7 - Ice Age........2! yaz and thirteen on an alien planet experiencing an extinction event. the tone is contemplative, not too heavy. bright blue tones. icy landscapes. yaz brings up the possibility of global warming, but thirteen isn’t sure that’s happening this time. it’s important to note: they’re wearing giant parkas & thirteen has a backpack in the shape of a smiley face.

they wind up on a science base run by humanoid aliens. one of the scientists, a stern older woman, is a famous guest star. she advises them to move on: the scientists have exhausted all options. they’re having an “end of the world party” before the last transport arrives to them to a spaceport colony. the scientists invite yaz & thirteen to join; both are incredulous that the team is just giving up.

yaz joins the party to get more info while thirteen snoops around the base. they play card games; something similar to DDR, play music, eat dehydrated food. she offers them a new pair of eyes, and they vehemently turn her down. she learns about how a red giant stole their first planet and how this one will become uninhabitable despite their efforts. she also learns about this team-turned-family; old and young, with diverse backgrounds. when they talk excitedly about their spaceport plans, yaz is taken aback.

meanwhile, thirteen is searching for answers. we can hear the party in the other room. she tests (eats) the soil, she tests the ice. she finds an anomaly and the shot cuts to the tardis; thirteen in front of her mysterious device, carefully siphoning from the power source the angels wanted in 13x6. she shows yaz her plan excitedly. the sun, yaz, it’s too far away. if we use this to nudge the planet’s coordinates just a bit to the left, that’ll buy them time.

yaz is thrilled at first, but then hesitates halfway through planning. do they have that time? i mean, how will that affect their timelines?

thirteen is teetering on the edge of timelord victorious; this time, however, there’s no explosions or loud background music. just muffled party chatter and thirteen, tense at the shoulders. she goes: she’s run through the diagnostics, of course she has! yaz couldn’t possibly understand, this will buy time and won’t impact the timeline significantly. this will work.

yaz looks right at thirteen, asks if this is about gallifrey, what happened when she left the fam. i was there, doctor. i saw it burning. thirteen is still tense, her hands are fidgeting. it’s not the same, yaz. when we can help, we do.

yaz paces. she looks out the window. shot cuts outside to the still, icy cold planet. it’s silent. back inside: yaz sits next to her. i know it’s not, but. i’ve saved earth plenty with you. and i know these kinds of endings. i used to...not care if my own world ended before.

thirteen is startled out of timelord victorious mode. she’s awkward again, but her hands are still. her eyes are deep-set, serious. there’s no universe without yaz. she squeezes her hand and softly says i didn’t know. i’m sorry.

yaz squeezes her hand back, accepting her apology. they talk about her past a bit; the urge to keep moving forward despite overwhelming emptiness. it’s hard to celebrate something like that, she thinks aloud. maybe this is what they need to move on. maybe this is why we’re here this time, so someone else remembers.

in thirteen’s responding stare: this isn’t gallifrey. this isn’t the timeless child, sacrificed to build the timelords. quieter than usual but definitive, almost stern, thirteen says this time, everybody lives. she powers down the lab, pockets the power source, and lets yaz lead her back into the party.

montage of the party: raucous & weighty, a wake. thirteen is subdued at first, until someone challenges her to DDR. yaz challenges her next. they listen to stories about the planet, about their families. someone challenges thirteen to shots until they realize alcohol doesn’t really affect her. montage winds down into thirteen by the open sun roof, talking to guest star about the sun anomaly. 

guest star laughs, not unhappy at all. of course we found it! can’t do too much about bloody gravity, can we, traveler?

lasts shot of the party scene: thirteen watching yaz—curious, a bit affectionate, now that the lights are dim and no one can bear witness—before turning her head up to the stars. we see a flash of timelord victorious before her expression becomes oddly serene. that’s us. a couple of travelers. 

as the scene ends, the camera pans out; beautiful shot of the tardis on a sheet of ice, underneath double moons.

the next morning; yaz rushes into the tardis with an idea. the transport vehicle arrives for the team; yaz exchanges goodbyes. the doctor bounces around the console, finishing the idea: a digital time capsule that will survive nearly anything the universe throws at it. they give it to the Stern Lady Guest Star, who is bemused; she asks where they’ll bury it. yaz suggests they carry it with them.

second-to-last shot: thirteen and yaz helping the transport leave. buttons to push, etc. they wave. they watch the transport leave the atmosphere; low, but hopeful music playing. huddled together in their parkas, thirteen takes a deep breath. after a few seconds, yaz gestures with her head to leave.

last shot: wide view of the landscape, music still playing; we see two figures following their own footsteps back home to the tardis. 

we hear slightly muffled voices: think i could go for some good weather, how about space florida?

you know, i’m sort of feeling sheffield, 2021. tea at mine? dad isn’t cooking, i promise.

oi, i like your dad’s cooking. it...

fade-out.

13.8 - “Yasmin” - found footage style, we follow yaz making video diaries ostensibly for her sister to watch later. the tone starts out light: first shot is her bedroom, and we follow her all the way to the games’ room. she points to a wii remote. i beat her at mario kart yesterday, don’t let her say otherwise. (today it’s Yaz’ TARDIS.)

she enters the console room where thirteen is tinkering, goggles on and a bit greasy. there’s banter. for a moment we see thirteen as yaz sees her: hair askew, bright smile, glowing in the light of the tardis, engine grease on her cheekbone. there’s a “you’ve got something on your nose” moment.

then, of course, someone in need of help pings the tardis. well, the doctor. she gets a text that says “help us, doctor,” which is all sorts of curious. yaz flips the camera to herself and says: “alright sonya, you ready for this?” while the doctor gives a cocky grin to the camera. the tardis leaves the time vortex with a great jolt, the opening credits run.

they land in front of a rickety farm house. the gate swings, ominously. a cow moos. the camera takes the scene in; thirteen pops up to give trivia about the era, which is.....earth, approximately 2014. britain.

yaz makes a face at the camera before they open the door.

the house seems regular, aside from abandoned; there’s a plate of molding food on the table. an outfit laid out on a bed, covered in cobwebs. scans turn up a “particle curiosity” in the air, but no one who could have sent a text message.

they decide to spend the night in the house, just in case. thirteen puts up sensors. they sit next to each other on the couch; yaz sets the camera on the table and there’s some planning before the camera abruptly goes dead.

we pick up later into the night—yaz is asleep. thirteen pulls a blanket over yaz; the footage starts skipping strangely, lines and shadows and distortions. she offers apologies to sonya; the censor picked up something and she’s modified the camera.

just as thirteen starts to awkwardly smalltalk about dimensional fragmentation camera censors, there’s a piercing shriek, more distortions. yaz wakes up; there’s scrambling and then: a face, screaming, glowing blue eyes.

the genre abruptly careens into found footage-style horror. yaz gets the figure to chase her around the house, nearly taunts it, until thirteen can hold it off with a Barrier that won’t last. yaz and thirteen argue about their mutual appetite for recklessness, thirteen’s duty of care, yaz’s protectiveness. the camera is abandoned, viewing them from an odd angle. it catches thirteen’s hand reaching for yaz, pulling back before yaz notices.

through clues in the house & rebooting an abandoned iphone, they discover what happened in this house. a young woman, a teacher—vivacious and funny if her texts are anything to go by—moved into this house ten years ago. then, she vanishes without a trace.

thirteen recognizes the date she disappears but doesn’t know why. the figure breaks in, forcing them down into the basement. there, they happen upon a gruesome sight that shocks thirteen: a powered down toclafane from the simm!master arc in s4.

she realizes that the date corresponds to the original paradox—and realizes that the creature is the vestiges of the young teacher, trapped by dark matter in a paradox that shouldn’t exist anymore. yaz mentions she used to have a nightmare about the orbs as a young kid every night for a week.

there’s Plot Stuff as they figure out how to fix the paradox for good. turns out, the creature is mad at the doctor, but thirteen won’t shoulder this burden for the master. he orchestrated that and thirteen did the best she could. she’s too angry to connect; it’s yaz who connects to the young woman left in the creature. who wanted her own adventures. she’s afraid of dying for good. yaz says she’s sorry, and the creature believes her.

the camera is abandoned on the table. the distortions have stopped. the sun rises. there’s a fast forward and yaz & thirteen are at the kitchen table, drinking “coffee.” (it still tastes good, anyway.) the aftermath of an argument. they mention the master. before the camera dies again, thirteen asks yaz if she has any new nightmares. she’s soft.

the last scene: yaz and sonya curled up together on the bed. sonya is shook. yaz is like, yeah i told you it was a lot. but sonya is shook because she had the same nightmare as a kid too. she asks if the doctor meddles too much, if they’d all be safer if she weren’t around. 

yaz contemplates. she says: nothing in the universe is safe. she can’t save everyone, neither can i. but we try. and i feel safe with her. in more ways than one.

sonya teases yaz about a crush. yaz goes “no way!” but looks briefly devastated.

before they fall asleep, yaz remembers something. she asks sonya if she can borrow her phone. 

ending credits: found footage of thirteen singing taylor swift on the tardis, doing some repairs with her greasy goggles on. yaz laughs.

[bat-besties]

Rain towards morning (3)

AO3

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Platonic Roman and Virgil

A friendship grows between Roman, a lonely farmer, and a mysterious stranger. But when Virgil’s past catches up with both of them, Roman digs himself in farther than he imagined as his heroism is cruelly tested.

Warnings: captivity, compelling voice, overwork, thunderstorm, hypothermia, minor character death/murder.

Edited by the lovely @mariniacipher!

5.8k

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Roman woke up to a low voice.

The man was back, sitting on a low stool with a loaf of bread beside him, just outside the boundary. Virgil was pressed into the back of his corner, legs pulled in front of his chest. His brow was furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut as if he was concentrating.

There was a clatter of dice.

"Six, six, four. Try harder."

He didn't reply and the man sighed and noted the score down in a little book. He rolled the dice again.

"Six, three, five. You're getting worse. That’s less. Even you can get that."

He pursed his lips and turned his face away, rolling his eyes.

He made a sharp “ah” sound and held up a finger. "Don't be a brat."

Roman tensed, waiting for the spirit's behaviour to snap into something different, but apparently the instruction wasn't specific enough to have any effect. Still, Virgil looked back at the man without a scowl, and this time when the man rolled the dice-

“Two, one, three. Is that more or less?”

He barely opened his mouth. “L’ss.”

“What’s the score, then?” he asked in a patronising voice. “What’s the number? Two plus one plus three. Count up the dots on the dice.”

Virgil scowled. Shame twisted to overlay the landscape of his face like the shadow of a cloud dappling the ground. “You know spirits are above these things,” he spat. “There is no meaning in numbers connected to nothing, or being pedantic about amounts-”

“Go again.” He rolled the dice. After a pause, he raised a slightly impressed eyebrow.

"Six, six...six. Was that so hard?" The man tore a piece of bread off the load and held it out towards Virgil. "For the score."

His hands tightened around his sides. "That's not what we're playing for."

The man dropped the bread on the ground, just outside the circle, and picked up the dice again. "Your loss,” he said in a cheerfully patronising tone.

Roman didn't know what was happening but he didn't like it. He pushed himself on an elbow before remembering that he was, in fact, stark naked under his blankets. "Good morning," he said with a winning grin. "Could you possibly just pass me my pyjamas?"

The man stood up and grabbed the pyjamas between his finger and thumb, dropping them in front of him in disgust. Dried mud had encrusted them, and Roman feared the cheerful polka-dot pattern would never look the same again.

"Seriously?" Virgil said to the man. "You need to get him actual clothes now." As the man turned to raise his eyebrows at Virgil’s tone, Roman wiggled on his wrinkled pyjamas under the quilt. "He'll get pneumonia or hypothermia or something," Virgil continued. "And then he won't be able to help you at all.” He dropped his eyes, drawing up his strength from a moment under the damp curtain of his hair, before he forced his eyes up to look at the man’s. They were steady- and angry- and holding back that anger. “Please, I'm asking you to get him some clothes and shoes."

"You're the one who made the rain, aren't you?" Something in the way he spoke to Virgil specifically set Roman's teeth on edge. He thought he was smarter than the farmer, but he was cruel, not patronising. With Virgil, it was as if he didn't stop talking down to him for a moment he'd be forced to fight in the game for control the spirit had already lost.

"It's not raining now, and it's still cold." Despite his defence, the spirit still looked guilty.

"Clothes, shoes, a cloak- I never agreed to provide all of that."

"He'll work better. It will mean he doesn't get sick," he pressed.

As Roman pushed off the quilt to reveal the pyjamas in all their badly-dried glory, the man wavered. He waved a hand as if to illustrate how little he cared in the first place. "Fine. I'll get them for him."

Roman grinned at Virgil.

"If-" the man added, "-you take your reward for the dice roll."

Virgil scowled at him and the man laughed. "Well?"

Virgil ducked his head, still scowling. "Fine, whatever."

The man picked up the bread from the floor and Virgil went forward onto his knees and laid out a flat hand to receive it.

"Manners," the man chided.

"Please," he spat.

Then, when the bread was in his hand an equally vitriolic: "Thank you."

Deliberately slow, Virgil brushed it off and bit off the smallest amount he could. He leant back and glared at the man as he took another tiny bite.

"Finish it by the time I come back," the man ordered before he left, taking his dice and the rest of the bread with him. Virgil flipped him off behind his back.

Roman averted his eyes. "Um- thank you, Virgil. For the clothes."

"Don't fucking thank me," he snarled at him.

He shied back. "I'm sorry! I was just trying to be nice."

Virgil bit off a retort as his eyes caught Roman’s expression. Pushing back his anger seemed like a physical effort which involved letting out a long exhale and closing his eyes. He opened them a moment later and said: "The clothes are a right; not a gift."

Roman nodded. He opened his mouth to lament the destruction of his nice pyjamas, then decided it wasn’t the time. He picked a more neutral topic. "So… spirits need to eat, then?"

"You’ve seen me eat before."

"No, but the whole...spirit part is where I'm tripping up."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "No, we technically don't need to eat. We need to be given things- usually food."

"So it's the giving, not the eating?"

"I can taste the stuff too, you know,” he replied, annoyed.

"I mean...I didn’t know spirits could taste? But I'm glad you at least enjoyed that part of my meals!"

"Yeah, they're pretty good.” Virgil tore off part of his bread, rolled it in a ball, then threw it at the barrier. His hand automatically shot out to catch it. He shrugged and continued, “The, uh, cat analogy isn't so far off. I need people to give me stuff- offerings, I guess. And I give stuff back but like- as friends, you know?"

"Right." That did add up with his visits. "So just now he had to give you something to keep you alive?"

"That wasn't giving," Virgil corrected darkly. "That was trading."

Roman's brow furrowed. "Oh?"

"It wasn't for me. It's for me doing something for him. For the deal, or for the manners."

"What’s the difference?"

"I don't know. I don't get full. I'm not meant to trade and be bound this way; it's not good for me."

"Okay. And what was the, uh-" Roman mimicked how flat Virgil's hand had been.

The spirit gave him a savage smile. "That's because as soon as he puts his hand near me he knows I might tear his fucking skin off."

Roman's eyes widened and he laughed in shock.

"Seriously," Virgil said. "He tried to freeze all of me but my head once and I damn near bit his thumb off.”

"Sweet spitting spirits," he said. "I'm impressed."

"Thanks." He tried to hand the last half of the bread out to Roman. "Do you think it technically counts as finishing if you eat the last part?"

Roman put his hand through and tried to take the bread off him, but as soon as he tugged it away Virgil's fingers locked more tightly around it.

"Ah, sorry.”

He shrugged, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at him. "No problem."

"It would have been a nice gift," Virgil mused.

"Yeah, I guess." Roman got up fully, and began to stretch out. He let out a small, pained sound as he tried to raise his arms over his head. Virgil winced in response. "Don't push yourself too much today, if you can?"

"I'm fine," he said cheerily, gritting his teeth and attempting to make a windmill with his arms. "I'm no delicate spirit, Virgil, I'm a farmer. I'm used to hard work."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't put your back out on day two."

"I won't, I won't,” he said. "As long as you promise to try and not rain on me again?"

Virgil shifted in a hunched half-shrug. "I can only promise to try.”

"You should get up too!" Roman said. "Being bent over like that isn't good for you."

"I am not doing exercise with you."

Roman tried to reach over and touch his toes but that wouldn't happen on a usual day. "Bet you can't touch your toes."

"I'm not falling for that."

"So you can't touch your toes." Roman reached down a little more.

"I'm not falling for it."

"That's what you say, but really-"

Virgil stuffed the last of the bread in his mouth, leapt to his feet with preternatural swiftness, then folded himself in half and pressed both his palms flat onto the floor. His hair flopped down over his triumphant, upside-down grin.

Okay, so maybe Roman had baited him into that, but he was still a little put out that Virgil had beaten him.

The door opened and Virgil straightened in an instant. The man handed Roman a pile of clothes and some dirty but sturdy boots. "Be ready in five minutes."

"Sure, whatever," Roman said.

The door closed again.

Virgil turned away from Roman as he tugged on the new clothes, groaning as his back twinged and pulled. They were adequate, if a little baggy. They’d most likely been worn by some servant before. "Do you ever change clothes?" Roman asked.

"Nah."

"Fair, I suppose." He looked at his boots, looked back at Virgil, and with his back aching from pulling on his shirt considered asking his friend to lace them even as he decided that would be the shittiest thing he could do in their positions. Instead, he lifted his foot up onto the chair and carefully did one set of laces, and then the other. This did not, he reflected, as his back twinged, bode well.

"I am trying to give you luck," Virgil said, still turned away from him. "But it's not precise. I can wish for more or less, not a number of something. Numbers are…” He waved a hand through the insubstantial air. “Like the dice, they don’t work for me. The good roll was coincidence-"

"Don't tell him that."

"I'm not stupid. But still- I just...don't hope too much."

"Not exactly what I wanted to hear," Roman said brightly, standing up again. "Well, regardless..." He tried to put on a brave voice. "I'll use my ingenuity, and strength, and heroism-"

The man reappeared and Roman cut off his speech in relief. Even his acting skills and natural courage couldn’t easily maintain a brave front.

He waved goodbye to Virgil before he followed the man out to the exit again, tying his cloak and picking up the shovel as he set out into the waterlogged country once again, grateful at least for the small mercy of a clear sky.

Roman trudged out and away from the mansion. "Treasure, treasure, treasure-" he called. "Treasure, treasure- try and give me some luck, Virgil."

He decided to set out further. Reaching a grassy hillock, he figured there was as good a place as any to start.

As soon as he began, everything hurt. The cloak got in his way, and he should have ditched it once the digging began to warm him, but he didn't want to be cold again. A few hours in he had raised blisters on his hands; by noon they had burst and reformed.

On his first hole, he focused on riding through the aching and digging. On the second, he began to burn with rage at the man again. On the third, he worried about his chickens who were waiting to be fed and hoped they would be alright until his father got to them. On the fourth, there was a sudden squall of wind and it began to storm again, so he had to turn his attention back to just digging.

Night fell soon after he began to slice the turf for a fifth hole.

Roman pulled his hood up, as he had the night before, and waited outside, as he had the night before. Like he had the night before, the man opened the door for Roman, and gave Roman towels and a bowl of stew. Unlike before, however, Virgil was frozen in the corner, kneeling and with his mouth shut tight. A few instruments were laid out around his circle, along with more dice of various sizes scattered over a map.

Roman looked between Virgil and the man, who didn't offer an explanation as to what had happened. "What- are you going to just leave him like that?" he asked the man.

"Why not?"

"But why?" Roman repeated, horrified.

"He was misbehaving again." The man fixed Roman with a stern look he didn’t have the natural authority to carry. "Don't touch my instruments, understand? I'll make him tell me if you do."

"I'm not interested in your instruments,” he said. "I have something else to ask- that letter to my father?"

"Oh, yes, that-" The man carefully tore a page out the back of his research book and handed it to Roman, along with a stub of pencil. "I'll check it tomorrow."

Since he refused to thank him, Roman nodded and just took the paper. "Goodnight."

"I'll be back by morning."

Roman turned back to Virgil as soon as the door closed behind the man. "Can I ask you to come out of that?"

The spirit widened his eyes at Roman, but that could have meant anything.

"Come out of that?" he tried. Nothing happened.

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Roman thought back to the last time- was it really only two nights ago? "You can move and speak?"

Virgil relaxed. "Took you long enough," he grumbled in a rough voice.

"It was like two seconds!" He shovelled a spoonful of stew into his mouth with one hand and took off his cloak with the other. "How long?"

"Couple hours," he said. "Oh, and move his shit all you like- he can't tell me what to do with my powers, what to say, or what to think. He can't do jackshit, really." He stiffly shifted off his knees and back to sitting down.

"Plus I can also use the instruction thing,” Roman added with a nod, “which I don't think he’s realised."

Virgil tried to cross his stiff legs, using his hands to pull them into place. "So it's basically nothing. Embarrassing for him."

Roman towelled his hair down. "Trying to figure out where the treasure is again?"

"Yeah, using dice and maps," Virgil said. "It's so dumb. How was your day?"

"Oh, you know," he said. "Dug a hole. Dug another hole. And onwards on my heroic journey!"

"Sorry for the rain. I tried, I swear, but I just-"

"It's fine," he interrupted him. "It wasn't so bad today. You did well against that foul villain."

Virgil rolled his eyes again, but the corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile.

Roman handed Virgil the bowl through the barrier. "If I give you a very special single chunk of meat will that be like the same as a full meal?"

Virgil's eyes widened. "Wait, what?"

He paused, nervous. "Can I not- was that rude?"

"No, that's- that's really nice, actually." He gently picked out a piece from the top with the tip of his fingers so he didn't touch anything else. "Here we are."

"It's a special piece of meat!" Roman said. "Which I dedicate to my good friend Virgil! With no strings! Freely given!"

Virgil snickered and popped it into his mouth. "Thank you."

He handed the bowl back up to Roman, who was more grateful than he liked to admit that Virgil didn't need more than that. A full day of digging had left him famished. Some colour returned into Virgil's face. It was the pink flush of a sunset Roman noticed now, a little to the left of normal.

He hung up his cloak, kicked off his shoes and settled down with his bowl again. "So- what do we know about the treasure?" he asked Virgil.

Virgil met his eyes. "Nothing. I don't even know what it is.”

For a moment, Roman just stared at him in horror. "How can we find it if we don't know what it is?" he burst out. "That's impossible! Didn't you ever ask him?"

"Oh, no, of course, I didn't ask him," Virgil snapped. "Didn't even think to try that when I was stuck here for seasons and seasons by myself! Even when he's so easy to fight with I couldn't bring myself to ask the simple question-"

"You don't know what you're looking for," Roman repeated hollowly.

"I'm not the one looking for it," Virgil scowled. "I'm just another instrument. He doesn't think I need to know, or he won't tell me- it all adds up to the same."

"I'm never going to find it," Roman said, putting his hands on his head. "It's a wild goose chase. I can't- I don't even know what size of thing I'm looking for."

Virgil turned his face from him. "I told you to leave,” he said flatly

"And we're back here again!" Roman let his head hang back to thud against the wall. "I'm too tired for this."

"I'm not feeling guilty for something you chose to do."

"Said with the tone of a man- or, well, a spirit- who very much does sound guilty."

Virgil let out a long exhale. "Fine. I feel guilty. I didn't- I don't want to hurt anyone else because of this situation I got myself into... Especially you."

"It's not your fault you're here. And you don't have to be guilty for me, I...actually did choose to be here. Because I want to help you.” Roman gave Virgil a soft smile.

He paused, tilting his head as he thought, before he simply said, "You're a good man, Roman."

Roman burst into tears.

Virgil started back, holding his hands up. "Hey, hey, I meant that as a good thing-"

Roman, exhausted and hurt and scared, couldn't hold back his flood of hiccupping tears as the stress of the past few days suddenly caught up with him.

"Hey, uh-" Virgil held a hand up to the barrier. "Roman, it's- I'm here. You are good, yeah? You really are, goodness, you gave me food all those times and the meadow-"

At the mention of his home, the farmer only cried harder.

With that course of action exhausted, he shifted forwards and opened up his arms, an imitation of what he'd seen humans do. "Cuddles? Maybe?"

Roman shuffled over in his quilt and Virgil wrapped his arms tight around the whole, big bundle of him. The spirit’s neck was cool and damp as Roman buried his face against it, but the solid feeling of having another person holding him was so, so nice. His dad would have hugged him-

Virgil moved his arms awkwardly to pat at Roman's back and hair, trying to figure out if the renewed bout of weeping meant he was doing things right. Hopefully raining out his tears was best for Virgil's human.

After a while, Roman tuckered himself out with weeping. He came to a rest, lying his head on Virgil's chest. He didn't move, hoping that Virgil might just let him stay there. As his eyes slipped closed, however, the spirit shook his shoulder.

Roman burrowed his head under the blankets. "Mmrp?"

"I'd rather that he didn't find me like this," he said gently. "You need to reset me before you go to sleep."

Roman shook his head, not moving. "I'll wake up early and do it."

"You're a heavy sleeper," Virgil said with some regret. "And I'd fall asleep too." He pushed Roman's head off him. "C'mon."

Roman rolled off Virgil with a thud. "You're so cruel to me," he whined.

Virgil pushed himself up. "Tell me to behave."

"What?"

"It's a shorthand for the instruction," Virgil said tightly. "I don't know how the curse learns what things mean, maybe it's something about the intention of the spirit or the person ordering-"

"I don't want to say that to you," he said in a small voice.

"It's not the biggest of our problems here, Ro."

"It's extremely rude."

"I know you don't mean it, dude."

Roman shuffled out of the circle and swallowed. "Could I ask you to maybe be still and have your mouth shut?"

Virgil cut him a look.

"Fine." Roman took a deep breath. "Virgil- behave?"

Virgil went unnaturally still.

Roman felt awful. "Are you okay?"

Virgil gave him a long, slow cat-blink.

Roman breathed out through his nose. "Of course." He blinked back to him. "Goodnight. Sweet dreams."

He couldn't sleep facing the odd figure of his friend in the corner, so he turned his back to him. Placing himself between him and the door he hoped he could serve as a paltry defence. Once again, sleep smothered him in dreamless darkness.

*

A barked instruction woke Roman just in time to see Virgil, who had fallen asleep kneeling, tumble to the floor as his body responded to the order before his mind did. Up, and dressed, just like the day before, he left behind the room and Virgil, who stood stone-faced and stoic as keening wind and roaring thunder betrayed his anger.

Roman envied the scale of it. He could sass the man more than the spirit, but only for a few fruitless minutes. Then he was back at his thankless task, all alone again. And as Virgil’s rage echoed through the sky, like a cry amplified by a thousand caverns, as his tears fell in a deluge until Roman was heavy with them, as a crack in his pride was told by lightning splitting the sky, all Roman had were exhausted sobs drowned out by the storm.

His anger was so complete it began to choke him.

That evening, he was curled up again, racked with shivers which irritated his already sore muscles. "I don't know what to do with the anger,” he said, voice reined in so his irritation wouldn’t make Virgil uneasy. “I can't put it into digging- that's for him. I can't distract myself with my senses- everything's bad around me. Crying just makes me feel worse! I can't just hold it like this," Roman finished bitterly, spreading his hands as if to show the futility of keeping it contained. "I feel like I've been here for months. I've strained muscles I didn't know I had. I'm angry because everything is useless."

Virgil hummed from his corner. "Give it to me."

"What?"

"I don't like it when you're hopeless, annoying as the optimism was,” he said more tenderly than the words would suggest, “Give the anger to me." His voice was more assured than it had been for days.

Roman’s brow furrowed. "How?"

"You see that string on the desk? Take a bit of it and weave it together."

"I don't want him to be annoyed," Roman said in a small voice he despised. Things had snapped into a narrow focus and the man was at its centre

"He won't notice, okay?" Virgil shuffled forward towards the barrier. "Cut me a bit too."

Roman hobbled over to the table and used his forearm to measure out two lengths of string. When he sat back down, Virgil held his hands out for Roman to make a simple cat's cradle. He wove it clumsily, fingers stiff from the persistent cold. Once it was done, he let go. "And that's it?"

Virgil nodded once. "That's it.”

"I feel...a little better," he admitted.

Virgil took the cat's cradle off their fingers and tucked it into his pocket. "Magic of arts and crafts,” he quipped.

"Virgil," Roman said mock-sternly. The spirit tensed. He tried for a lighter tone. "Are you bullshitting me?"

"Nah, promise. My turn now."

He held still as Virgil wove a more dexterous piece, long fingers moving in practised twists.

Once it was done, his fingers had left rain on it like dew caught in a spiders web. He pulled it off with a flourish, and placed it on top of Roman's head. "Luck netted in your hair."

"You wetted my hair, more like," the farmer grumbled, but a treacherous hope kindled in his chest.

Virgil snorted.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Roman said. "Fiendish thunderer."

"Foolish...farmer?"

"Not your best," Roman took off the string and tucked it under his quilt as he lay down for the night. "I hope you sleep well, Virgil."

"You too." He curled up in his corner and lay his head onto the floor.

*

Roman set out to the fields with high hope that morning; he chose to focus on one of the holes that he'd dug before. It was so deep he needed a ladder to get up and down. However, as he began to flag, so did his optimism. Tonight, he might come back to Virgil stuck again. Or, he’d be upset- he’d have that haunted look in his eyes, and the wind would be screaming outside while Roman’s friend was reserved and silent.

His back was aching and pulling, and it wasn’t just painful, it was boring in the monotony of his suffering. No wonder Virgil was so obsessed with change and novelty. By the time the sun began to fall in the sky it felt like all he'd accomplished was disturbing the route of a multitude of worms.

But then, as the angle of sunlight slanted down, he caught a glimmer in the corner of his eye. He stopped, hardly daring to breathe. It was probably glass, he reminded himself, he'd run into that once before. His heart still thudded against his chest.

Slowly, as if the twinkle would spook and flee, he turned around to look at it.

A clear shard of something stared at him from the earth. He touched the hard edge of it with his thumb- sharp, but not nearly enough to cut- then began to work away the dirt around it by hand.

He pulled out a rounded shape attached to a long, rusting chain. He rubbed at the mud with his fingers, then bent down to wash it in one of the puddles. Dirt floated off it, revealing a multifaceted gem attached to the long chain. It was sharp and alien against the clear water.

"I did it," Roman said in a low voice. "We did it. It worked." A sunny grin split his face as he leapt to his feet and held the pendant over his heart. "We did it!" he crowed. "I did it!"

He tucked the pendant around his neck and under his shirt for safekeeping and attacked the mud-wall it had come from, seeking the rest of the treasure.

The rest of the evening yielded only mud and rock, but that didn't matter. Roman climbed up from his hole and dragged his spade and ladder back; his fatigue was helpless against his triumph.

The man opened the door, as usual. "Here you are again, useless as ever," he drawled.

He only grinned back. "I have a little something to discuss with you and Virgil."

The man frowned. "No, tell me now."

"No, later," Roman replied, almost playfully.

"Don't talk back."

"You'll want to hear this. He pushed inside and laid down the shovel and ladder.

The man, overruled by begrudging curiosity, led him back to the room, then gave him a hard look as he locked the door behind them all.

Roman pulled the pendant out from under his shirt. "Now, I'm just a humble farmer, a man of simple ways, but- Virgil? Does this not look like treasure?"

Virgil looked too startled for joy, his eyes widening as they met Roman's.

The man went still and stared at the pendant. His mouth worked for a moment before he stammered out- "How?"

He gave him a smug smile. "Lucky guess."

The man turned to Virgil. "Did you do this?" he growled, trembling with emotion.

Virgil ducked his head. "Yeah, like I've been doing the whole-"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" the man snapped. As Virgil’s head snapped upwards, the man wrenched his head back by the hair. "Don't you dare lie to me any more." Helpless, his breaths picked up as he struggled for words.

Roman stepped forwards to calm the man down. "We found it-"

The man ignored him.

"What did you do? What did you do for him that you wouldn’t for me? How long have you been hiding it from me?" His eyes roamed over Virgil until they snagged on the woven string peeking out of his pocket. "Hand that to me!"

Roman was sick of this, he was so sick, and so angry, and all he wanted was for Virgil to get out now. He just needed him out.

"What the fuck is this?" The man brandished Roman's web of anger in his hand.

"Nothing! Nothing! Nothing, I swear-" He tried to put his hands up to defend himself but the man simply barked, "Behave!"

As Virgil fell onto the floor, everything went very still for a moment.

The shutters rattled and static pricked across Roman's skin. "You said," Roman yelled, "that you would let him GO!" His voice distorted into wind and thunder.

Lightning crashed through the window, tearing a hole in the boards over it. When the flash cleared, Virgil was gone.

The man started back. "What-"

The pendant over Roman's chest crackled with power. The stark white light and howling rain which swirled inside it looked oddly familiar. He put a hand over it. "Virgil?" he softly asked.

The pendant pulsed.

The man suddenly thrust his hand out towards Roman. "It's mine! It's mine by right! I caught the spirit, I researched the stories-"

"You were never planning on letting him go after all." Rain drummed through the smashed window, beating a final tattoo onto the floor.

"Do you really think you can wield that kind of power?" the man spat. "Give it to me! I earned it! He kept that from me, the deceitful creature- think of what he could do to you!"

The farmer felt the power, dangerous and intoxicating: the storms which had beaten him, the sweet relief of rain after drought, the moment of a coin flip where all became certain, the luck caught up in his own hair. With no effort, he could just smite the man….

He shook his head. "No, I can’t wield that power."

Roman tugged the pendant off his neck and cupped it in his hands. "Come out, Virgil," he said firmly.

The spirit appeared by his side. Standing like this, he was taller than Roman, and distinctly inhuman. With wonder, he looked down at his body, and over down to where he had been trapped. "Roman," he breathed, and the breeze rushed through to caress Roman's face. "You...rescued me."

The man didn't even try to resist as Roman grabbed his arm. He pulled him out of the door and out of the building entirely, into the swirling storm. Virgil was behind him, rushing through the door, appearing in front of them in the field with a crack of thunder.

Virgil threw his head back and laughed, spreading his arms out to embrace the rain as it rushed down to him. He made a full, delighted circle, long hair sticking to his face and snapping in the wind.

Then, he turned to the man and his grin only widened. "Get on your fucking knees." Lightning split the sky into blinding black and white, silhouetting the spirit; wide-eyed and utterly without mercy, Virgil was not a thing of flesh and blood, but thunder roaring out and wind howling savagely and pouring rain.

The man dropped as if he had been compelled.

Shut your mouth, the wind hissed.

He did.

"Tighter," Virgil chided. "So your teeth are touching."

The man clutched at Roman's sleeve. He looked up at him with wide eyes full of desperation. His fingers twisted into the threadbare material as he tried to catch his attention. "You're a human too! You're a human too- won't you help me?"

"Shut up, how dare you speak," Virgil snarled. "Roman has every right to kill you himself."

He had dreamed of it, yes. But as the reality of murder drew closer, he knew with a sick certainty he couldn't do it like this, not in cold blood. "Virgil, I can't," he said in a low voice.

"Can I, then?" Virgil said, meeting his eyes solemnly. "It is right for me to do."

He nodded just once. He turned his back and as he walked away, he heard-

"Beg me not to kill you.”

"Please, please, I fed you, I clothed him, I have friends. Please. I only hurt you if I had to."

The storm laughed. "That's not good enough."

Roman walked away into the pelting rain until he heard a distant scream, and then, silence. The man had found the luck owed to him after all.

He waited, huddling under the protection of his cloak, until Virgil strode up to his side. "It's done."

“Okay.” He took in a shaky breath. “Okay.” His eyes met Virgil’s, searching for the change in his friend after the murder. He didn’t look any different. Roman exhaled. “Spirits. We did it,” he said almost in disbelief.

A grin spread over Virgil’s face. “Yeah,” he sounded tired. “You did.”

Roman put his hands on Virgil's shoulders. “I- no, you were so strong-”

"Don't do that shoulder bullshit-" Virgil grumbled, then he pulled Roman into a proper hug.

The two stood together, holding each other close, as the clouds emptied and the sun finally peeked out behind them for the first time in weeks. Roman slumped against Virgil, who wrapped his arm tight around him and rested his head on top of his hair.

As Roman pulled away, he couldn't help but wince at a twinge in his shoulder. Virgil cringed with him. "Did I aggravate it?"

"It's fine," he said with a grimace, and decided the best course of action was heading out on the walk back home. Tired and aching, he didn't get very far before Virgil picked him up from behind. "Wrong way, idiot."

Roman kicked his legs into Virgil's shins. "Could an idiot do this?"

He put him down with a sigh. "Unfortunately, yes."

He turned the other direction. "There?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Virgil raised his eyes to the sky. "I can't believe I have to carry you back."

"You do not need to carry me-"

Virgil picked him up, and Roman let out a sharp cry at the sudden shift in position. The spirit quickly adjusted. "Better?"

"Not ideal," Roman grumbled. "But fine."

Virgil set out over the fields, as the sun bathed the fields in the soft pink sky of dusk the clouds had cast darkness over too early.

[seerofmike]

31 Days of Apex: Day 3 (Mercy)

pairing: (non-romantic) Loba & Bloodhound

tags: paranoia, mentions of past character death(s)

word count: 1.5k

fic summary: Loba runs, and runs, and runs.

More importantly, she runs into Bloodhound.

ao3 link

OR

read below

Her ankles hurt.

A lot of things hurt, and a lot of things are going wrong—her bracelet is overheating on her wrist from overuse, having taken her halfway across the map while her teammates fell dead to the demon who had taken her parents from her. Her R-99’s clip is empty, and her Mozambique is a joke next to the demônio's Devotion, so she had ran from him, taking sharp breaths that filled her chest with pain—but most of all, her ankles hurt. From running. In pumps.

She wants to take him out, but a woman must know her limits, and have a sense of dignity. She refuses to die to that monster with no ammo and no plan—but currently, she can not stop running.

Loba swears she can hear him behind her—the squeaking metal of his frame that almost sounds like creaky bones, the deep, guttural rasp that makes up his voice. She thinks it might be her imagination, a part of this nightmare, but she keeps running anyways. Runs across the desert terrain that makes up this damned place, half of it which she had sunk into the ocean not so long ago.

Her trained eye spots the glint of high-quality armor through the window of a distant building, and she tosses her bracelet without a second thought. When the jump drive activates, she is now standing inside the blissfully cool building, shielded from the sun’s rays, and she takes a brief moment to cool off. 

She hates this place. Truly. She has sand where sand should not be, and she thinks to herself that had she not gotten emotional that one time, she could be back in her sand-free penthouse right now, enjoying a Mai Tai and exchanging a pleasant back-and-forth with Jaime. But no, she is here, dealing with the consequences of her own actions. And deal with them she will, but with disdain.

Loba swaps out her armor, and finds a Prowler on the ground and some heavy ammo, which she gladly discards the Mozambique for, but what she is in desperate need for is a syringe—everything hurts. Her skin burns, her shoulder has been shot through with bullets, and her ankles still hurt. She is tired of running.

But she knows she has some more distance to cover when she hears the familiar, animalistic shriek of a certain hunter. Not to be unladylike, but they are a bitch to fight alone, and she’s torn up enough as it is (and rather likes this outfit), so she sets off across the desert again, towards the very cliff she had created herself some time ago.

She jogs, each step sending a sharp jab through her legs, but she keeps running. She hears them behind her, she thinks—and something else. More blood-curdling creaking, that of which brings to mind bones and ancient evil. Loba knows he is some three hundred years old, but he seems somehow older. Rooted like a yew tree in this world, which she intends to take him out of, but if she doesn’t pick up the pace she will instead be the one buried six feet under, and she refuses to let that happen.

She spots the place they call the Salvage, hundreds of meters ahead. From there is a zipline to a Jump Tower, and she can place herself as far away from him as possible until she can face him with the full means to take him out. 

He is getting closer, she can feel it—the hair on the back of her neck stands up, and her teeth grind. She removes her bracelet from her wrist once again, and it almost feels like it's vibrating in protest in her fingers, but she throws it, as far as she can. Her father used to lament that he wished he had a son to play catch with—she feels like he would be proud of this particular toss.

The memory of him twists—she is suddenly looking down at his dead body, and in that moment, she is teleported.

The image of him bleeding out in her arms, the pain in her ankles, the way she lands—it all leads to one misstep. One misstep on the edge, and suddenly, she is falling. 

Karma, Loba supposes—falling to her death in the mess she had created—but instinct takes hold of her. Just like there is no dignity in dying to the demônio with hardly a fight, there is no dignity in falling off a cliff, even if it is her just desserts.

She twists in midair, pulls out her staff—she is too far from the edge to grab it herself, but with lightning-fast speed, she extends the staff as far as it will go, and swings her arm upwards. The wolf’s head catches on the edge, and her shoulder aches in pain from holding up her weight one-handed, but she is still alive, and that’s what matters.

She needs a moment to catch her breath, and then needs another moment to calm herself down. Her other shoulder is the one shot through, so she cannot feasibly climb up her staff, and even if she could, there was the risk that she would shift it by accident, and she would again be falling to the rushing waters below. She could reach up and snap the bracelet off her wrist, but she doesn’t know how good her throwing will be with this injured arm.

She’s about to take her chances when she hears them—familiar boots hitting the ground above her, and the deep, filtered breaths of the hunter.

There are worse people to die to, she figures. The scientist tends to play with his food, the soldier has a stick up her ass, and the runner is an idiot, so he’s an embarrassing one to be defeated by—but the hunter is dignified in their own way, much like Loba is. They have honor while others do not. She knows for a fact that they will pull her up this cliff for a fair fight, and then proceed to put a bullet in her skull.

It’s more than what others would do for her.

Loba looks up, and sees their mask—and she swears their eyes are burning red behind it, but she is sure it is her imagination. It’s fond of nightmares.

Wordlessly, they reach down, grip her staff, and use it to pull her up the cliff. She admires their strength, pulling her up with only one arm, and she rolls onto the ground, giving her shoulder a break. In the next second she is on her feet, ankles still hurting, and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Thanks, beautiful,” she says to Bloodhound, who looks down at her silently. “Or would you prefer handsome?”

“Félagi is fine,” they respond.

“I’m not sure that’s an indicator of attractiveness.” Loba unhooks the Prowler from her back, and takes a few staggering steps away from them. She glances around, looking for their team, but they seem to be alone. They pulled her up to give her a fair fighting chance, so she decides to let them draw their weapon before she fires to return the favor, but they never do. Instead, they hold out a med kit, and she is reminded of her ragged shoulder.

She doesn’t take it. “I don’t understand.”

“Revenant is still alive,” they say, and she feels an involuntary shudder at that name. “I’m aware that he took your team’s lives—and you would not be running from him unless you had no other choice.”

She doesn’t like the way they speak—like they know her. She respects them more than anyone else in these godforsaken Games, but they seem to see right through her, and she doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact.

She almost wants to turn her nose up at the med kit, but she is not a fool. So she snatches it from them none too lightly, and jams the syringe into her wrist. They touch their Longbow lightly, as if to reassure themself, but they don’t draw it. They take a few steps back from her, on the bridge that connects the Salvage to the desert.

Her shoulder is healed now, but aches slightly. She could fire her Prowler more reliably if needed, but the hunter still does not draw their weapon.

“You should go,” they say after a long moment of staring, in which she feels once again that they are seeing right through her. “I will not have such mercy in the future.”

“I would feel insulted,” Loba says, and removes the bracelet from her wrist. She trusts them to not shoot her in the back, but she’s still paranoid. She tosses it in the direction of the zipline, this time aiming well away from any edges. “I owe you one.”

Perhaps, the next time they are teamed up, she will give them the high-tier body shield first. She may even take them to dinner if she can kill the demon this match—but for now she just wonders why, as she moves along the zipline.

She thinks she can see them from this high up—just a dot on the landscape, but they are moving swiftly. She still does not understand what just happened, but she can think about it later.

For now, she has a nightmare to kill.

[tmariea]

New Constellations (ch 2)

Chapter 2 of my ATLA Big Bang piece!!

Read Chapter 1 here

Chapter summary:  Turns out, even after Zuko's lost his ship, navigation skills still come in handy. The myths just might come in handy too. After all, there's more than one type of finding your way.

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Zuko hated everything about traveling as a fugitive in the Earth Kingdom, and having parted from Uncle made it even worse, although he’d never say it aloud.  He hated the plants that were all different from back home and made his head feel like it was full to bursting.  He hated that there wasn’t much food to forage for, and wasn’t much left after the winter and the army’s requisitions (stealing) to buy.

He hated the nights too; they weren’t mild like back home, but downright cold.  Worst of all, as the landscape grew more arid the further he traveled, and it only got colder at night despite the warm days.  While his breath of fire could manage the cold, it left him with a weariness sunk deep into his bones.

Uncle was probably sitting close to a nice, crackling fire, making tea.  Hopefully not with anything that could kill him this time, because Zuko just couldn’t always be there to tell him not to drink tea made of strange plants.  Unlike Zuko, Uncle Iroh had always been a proper firebender; he’d had no unnatural pull toward the nighttime.

This time, Zuko had little choice.  Traveling by the stars was the only way he knew how to navigate in this unknown place.  He had no compass or astrolabe, not even charcoal or good paper to write on for his calculations.  As much as he hated to admit it, the only thing he had left to his name were Zhu Yan’s stories and a map he had haggled with his last coin like his life depended on it.  He hardly even trusted the map.

For days now, Zuko had been heading northwest towards Ba Sing Se, ever since he left Lee’s village.  He knew that the Avatar needed to find an earthbending master next, and what better place to find one than the capital city of the Earth Kingdom?  Even if Zuko didn’t trust the map completely, the city was so large that, if it was even close to accurate, he wouldn’t miss it.

There was a desert in the way, though, and if Zuko couldn’t find enough provisions to last him the crossing, he’d never make it.  He looked up at the sky with a sigh, wishing the constellation stories had some more concrete answers to them, like “what to do when you are a broke, exiled Fire Nation Prince chasing the Avatar with several hundred miles of sand in your way?”  Instead of magical solutions written in the stars, he caught sight of the Lion Turtle constellation.

Zuko could almost hear Zhu Yan’s voice in his head telling the story: they were great islands that swam across every sea.  They swam until mortals no longer needed them to provide a safe home.  Some settled down, growing tired and weary and stony in their old age, and became the first stationary islands.  Some, though, were too young and restless, too eager to keep exploring, and those lion turtles swam off the edge of the world and into the sky.

“The world is round,” Zuko had told him flatly. “There is no edge.”

Zhu Yan had chuckled, lamented Zuko’s inability to simply enjoy a story, and then said, “The Lion Turtle is a tricky constellation.  Be careful when you choose to follow it—it’s been known to lead you where you need to go, but not always where you want to go.”

Zuko had scoffed at that, too.  While constellations weren’t static, he had learned well that they followed set patterns in the sky, by the night and the month and the season.  He knew all the calculations, knew that you could use a map and your instruments to know exactly where you would end up by following one constellation or another.  And yet tonight, with his head as empty of ideas as his stomach was of food, it felt as if there was hardly anything left but to chase a spirit tale.

Zuko closed his left eye so he could trace the curve of the strong, individual stars that made the Lion Turtle’s shell, the small cluster at its head, and the fuzz of tiny, far away lights just above its back that almost looked like an island forest obscured by morning fog.  He pulled on the ostrich-horse’s reins and turned her in a new direction.

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Zuko could feel the heat forming behind his eyes as he stormed away from the prison tower.  He hadn’t wanted Uncle to tell him he had another potential destiny as the descendant of an Avatar.  Now, more than ever, he felt torn between home and the position in his father’s regard he’d fought so hard to gain, and the part of him that had seen the wider world and found his old views childish and wanting.

Once he’d reached a reasonable distance from the building that he wouldn’t be easily spotted, Zuko found a flat spot obscured by an outcropping of stone and began to pace.  Everything about him was restless and wound tight these days.  Being home was supposed to be a relief, but it hadn’t felt anything like that at all.

The story about Sozin and Roku that Zuko had found had not been helpful.  Uncle had not been helpful.  He couldn’t ask Mai about any of this; she was loyal to Azula, and he couldn’t ask her to deal with his insecurities.  What prince of the Fire Nation, heir to the throne, doubts his country and his people?

He hadn’t heard that sneering voice in his head in a long time; not since he was first on his ship, frightened and set an impossible mission.  

Thinking of those early days on the ship reminded him of one other person in his life who had been a teacher.  Zhu Yan loved stories and history and tradition; maybe he would have some kind of insight.  Zuko pushed down a cringe of guilt that he hadn’t sought any of his original crew members from before the explosion, other than knowing that Zhao had requisitioned them to other ships for the ill-fated Invasion of the North.  The navy kept good records, he should be able to find that information easily now.

Zuko turned and headed towards the edge of the caldera instead of back to the palace.  The naval headquarters were down the other side of the mountain, near the shore.  His status should be enough to entitle him to the name and route of the ship Zhu Yan was stationed on.  Then he could send a hawk explaining his troubles and maybe get some real advice.  He chose not to acknowledge the fact that Zhu Yan had been just as known to answer a question with a cryptic story as Uncle was to do with a cryptic proverb.

He crested the lip of the stone formation and started down the switchbacks along the cliffside, pleased at the exertion after so many days of palanquin rides.  The crunch of his footsteps found a rhythm with the rush of the waves further in the distance and the gulls calling overhead.

It was even easy enough to walk around once Zuko reached the military base.  Wearing the nondescript clothing he usually did to visit the prison tower, he didn’t draw attention like he would in his royal robes.  Sailors were businesslike, and they had better things to do than to try to see the face under his hood when the guards had already let him through the gate.

Zuko made his way towards the building where naval records would be kept, and lowered his hood as he approached the door.  The man standing guard looked surprised to see him, but bowed and allowed him to pass.  Inside was a small open space between rows and rows of shelves, with another officer at a writing desk who stood as Zuko entered.

“Prince Zuko,” the man said, showing no reaction to the sudden appearance of a member of the royal family at his desk as he bowed.  “I am Corporal Iwao. How can I be of service?”

“Corporal, I am searching for a particular naval officer and the name of the ship he is currently serving on. A Lieutenant Zhu Yan.  He was stationed with the fleet under Commander Zhao at the North Pole, last I was aware.”  Zuko did his best to keep his disdain for Zhao off of his face.

“One moment, your highness,” Corporal Iwao told him and disappeared into the shelves with a bow.

He was gone for so long that by the time he returned, Zuko was sure he had memorized every inch of the small front area.  Corporal Iwao was carrying a large scroll which he set out on the desk and began to unroll.  Zuko tried to read the title at the top, hoping it would be the name of a ship he recognized.  The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he recognized the characters for “casualties.”

The man studiously ran his finger down the list until he reached the name ‘Zhu Yan – deceased’ so that Zuko could see for himself.  There were other characters which followed, detailing the campaign and date of death, but Zuko’s mind couldn’t absorb any of it.  

“My apologies your highness, but the officer in question was killed in action during the Siege of the North.  Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“No, thank you,” Zuko said.  He couldn’t feel the words on his lips, could hardly hear them as he spoke.

The walk back to the palace was one step and one step and one step, on and on, with hardly a thread of memory to connect each to the one before it.  Zuko pushed open doors and barely registered the pressure against his skin, heard the bustle around him as if he was underwater.  When he reached the hallway to his room, there was someone waiting for him just outside the door.  He knew he should be upset about it, but trying to reach for the emotion only opened a yawning hole in its place.

“Zuzu, there you are!  I was starting to get worried.  Where have you been?” Azula said ‘worried’ like it was foreign word, and her expression was disinterested as she examined her nails.

This wasn’t the first time that Zuko just stared at his sister, unsure how to handle what this next game of hers would be.  He didn’t even have space for normal thought, much less what it would take to keep up.  

“I went for a walk,” he finally said.

“Fairly long walk.  Someone less trusting than me might not believe that.”

He didn’t feel anything as she spoke.  Not even the parts of him that were always afraid of her.  “Please go.”

“Is it so wrong to let my brother know that I care?” she asked, and then finally looked up.  There must have been something in Zuko’s face that Azula wasn’t expecting, because surprise slipped out from beneath her perfect porcelain mask.  Zuko could count the number of times he’d seen that happen on one hand, and if he had any capacity for it he would feel rather pleased with himself.

Azula examined him for a moment more and Zuko let her, standing still, feeling like the ability to even move was an ocean away.  Finally, she let out a frustrated huff and turned to leave.

Zuko pushed open the final door, had only enough presence of mind to lock it behind him, and sank down onto his bed facing the open window.  As the sun traveled across the sky, and shadows grew longer and then overtook the world, Zuko stayed in one place, only silence in his mind.

The next time he moved was out to his balcony after night had fallen.  The air was heavy with humidity and heat, almost nothing like the cool sea breezes from the nights that he practiced navigation with Zhu Yan on deck.  Zuko sat with his back to the railing, arms around his knees, and that is when the tears came.  Silent and slow and unending, until every star above his head bled into one.

Zhu Yan had loved the Fire Nation.  But in all the time Zuko had known him, he had never spoken about loving the war.  He couldn’t remember either, if he had ever asked.  But without anyone ever asking, and in fact against all Zuko’s protests, he had always shared how much he loved the fires in the sky, and stories that had been thought inconsequential for generations.

He had died for another man’s vanity.  Zuko had seen first-hand the aftermath at the North Pole.  There had been nothing gained there, no greatness the Fire Nation brought with them to bestow on the rest of the world.

He’d never hear Zhu Yan tell a story again.

How many other battlefields had been the same?  He knew so many people now, too, with voices they would always miss.  Would it be easier to count which battlefields had not left behind such pointless loss?

He’d never see Zhu Yan smile for something so small as when Zuko would listen without complaint.

Zuko thought back on the history he had read, of how even the start of the war had been for pride and had left friends lost in its wake.

He’d never again stand together with Zhu Yan on a deck beneath the stars while the world stretched wide before them.  Never get the chance to voice that he had started to hope that someday the world could look so wondrous to him too.

He wondered if perhaps that was his answer.

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When Zuko left the Fire Nation palace after the Day of Black Sun, he was far more prepared than when he had left Uncle behind on the edges of the desert.  Tucked away in the basket of his war balloon, he had plenty of rations, as well as an astrolabe, maps and star charts that he had lifted from the palace.  Of the things Zuko had stolen in his life, these were marked firmly in the ‘do not regret’ category.

After a few hours of following the Avatar and his party at a safe distance, Zuko had a pretty good idea of where they were headed.  Which was a good thing because by sunset his slower balloon had fallen considerably behind.  He lost sight of them just after the last light left the sky.

Zuko checked that the fire in the furnace was still burning steadily and dug his navigation tools from his packs.  There wasn’t much space to lay out a map in the bottom of the basket, but he made do as best as he could and crouched in the tiny amount of space that was left to start plotting a course towards the Western Air Temple.

It was ironic, Zuko thought, that the constellation which he followed tonight, the one who would lead him west, back to the first air temple he’d ever set foot in, was Siming.  The stories described them as softly beautiful spirit, who lived in the golden clouds at sunset and gathered every drifting soul into their arms as the day came to a close and sheltered them until dawn when they would prepare to enter into life anew.  Their constellation resembled a coiled fishing net.  Zuko had never touched a fishing net in real life, or one woven by the spirits.  If he chose to believe the stories, Zhu Yan had touched the net from the legend now.

Zuko took a long breath in, felt his fire rise up in his chest and released another blast of it into the furnace that was keeping him aloft.  He did not know if this is truly what happened after death, that every lost soul was scooped into a fishing net in the sky at sunset.  But Zhu Yan had believed, so for tonight at least Zuko chose to believe that his mentor had gotten one brief night to rest among the constellations that he had loved.

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The sun was setting over the Western Air Temple.  Dusk always made Zuko feel just a bit hazy, like he wanted to go curl up and savor the last patch of light like a pygmy-puma, and it had slowed Aang’s firebending energy significantly.  They had just finished practice for the day and were sitting on a ledge of the temple, legs dangling down into open air, to watch the sunset.

Aang kicked his legs idly, languid little bits of breeze trailing off of his feet and making the mists below swirl.  “Hey, this is probably a bit of a sensitive question, so feel free to not answer, but how did you do it?  You know, keep firebending after...?”

“After what?” Zuko asked.

Aang wouldn’t meet his eyes, but waved a hand in the direction of his scar. Zuko’s back tensed and he drew in a breath to yell – He was a firebender, the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, how could he do any less?   How could Aang imply he was so dishonorable as to turn his back on his bending, on his nation and heritage, on the brilliant light they were tasked to bring to the rest of the world? – And let the breath back out, sat on the impulse like Uncle was always telling him to do.  Asked himself if those were his own thoughts, or just Ozai’s thoughts left in his head.

Which was probably even more the heart of what Uncle had wanted him to do.  Zuko sent up a silent prayer to the spirits to let him tell Uncle someday that he was sorry for learning the lesson too late.

He said to Aang, “Work, lots of it.  And not the kind of work you do by practicing firebending forms, but the kind of work that takes telling your heart over and over again that it doesn’t need to be afraid, even when it wants to be.”

“Wow,” Aang replied, “that’s pretty anticlimactic.  Sounds like you just had to have a lot of patience.” He had a mock frown on his face that Zuko had learned meant good-natured teasing.  So Zuko only elbowed him a little in the side while Aang dissolved into laughter.

“I have tons of patience! But, if you want something a little more exciting, just wait.”

“Okay. Whatever you say, Sifu Hotman.”

Zuko spared him an exaggerated eye roll as he turned back to watch the sun dip below the horizon and the sky grow steadily darker. Behind them he could hear the sounds of someone starting a fire and beginning to cook dinner, and some faint conversation. Beside him Aang was doing his level best to prove that he had plenty of patience, and only fidgeted a little.

Finally, when enough stars had come out, Zuko gestured overhead and said, “Every star up there is Agni’s brothers and sisters and siblings.  The whole sky is full of fire, fire that we can’t touch or feel.  But when we use the fire that Agni grants us, it’s as if we’re just a bit closer.”

“Wow,” Aang breathed out, looking suitably impressed.

“A good friend taught me all of the stories he knew.  Would you like to hear them?”

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Thank you all so much for reading!! And make sure to check out @cianidix ‘s fabulous artwork if you haven’t already!!!