#less Face Foliage so it’s easier to draw

[codgod-moved]

actually since i mentioned i remade my mc skin i’m making u guys look at it (the top one is the old one for Comparison)

i wanted to try a different shading style and i figured i probably shouldn’t use commissions to experiment too much + i wanted to revamp my skin anyway so. voila

[giorno-plays-piano]

Crow's Marriage

Pairing: crow!Peter Parker x reader

Warnings: yandere-ish Peter, slight obsession, allusion to dubcon, nudity, stalking.

Words: 2.5k

Summary: Stumbling upon a young crow while taking a swim in the pond, you realize there's bound to be some misunderstanding between the two of you.

P.S. Both Peter and reader are adults.

Btw, I was feeling sick while writing it, please forgive me any mistakes 🥲

_________

Dropping down to the ground with a battered notepad in hand, you whistled as you gazed upon the magnificent Tree of Life in all its glory, its mighty branches spread so wide that they seemed to extend to the very sun, and its lush foliage almost completely covering the sky above you. Goosebumps ran down your spine. You have finally found the finest specimen of this rarest species, the Tree of Life some people believed went extinct ages ago.

This will be the most amazing discovery of the century, you thought as you started making quick notes before drawing a sketch of the tree, inhaling the heavenly aroma spread by the foliage - it smelled like mint, lemons, and freshly-mown grass. 

With a passion for botany you developed in your early childhood, you spent your adult years at the Royal Academy, devoting all your time to the study of rare species of plants and trees, wishing to find those elven berries and fae’s elder trees and wolfhooks by yourself. It took a long time to persuade both Academy’s professors and your family to acknowledge your trip to the wildlands and sponsor it - you were convinced you were about to make a fantastic discovery the moment you took a step outside of the kingdom’s border. Of course, you were very naïve that time, but you didn’t regret your journey even the slightest bit. If anything, it was an honor and the most exciting adventure you have ever had.

Besides, thankfully, with your funding you could afford staying in the hotels or renting a little cottage, so travelling became much less hard - there were days where you could kill for a bucket of warm water, but most of the time you stayed not too far from human or fair folk settlements, taking care of your earthly needs. Not that you remained being a hothouse flower kind of lady you were in the Academy, but you didn’t look wild either, and most fair folk treated your like a respectable traveler, much to your satisfaction.

Talking about satisfaction, you remembered an old elf saying there were several lovely little ponds near the mighty tree trunk where you could take a quick bath - thanks to the nature of the Tree of Life, the waters were warm, and many talked about their healing qualities. You were determined to figure it out yourself as you stood up from the ground, grunting from the pain in your sore back, and headed over to the tree, still a little unsure if it all weren’t a dream.

Finding Tree of Life... everybody would be talking about it the moment you submit your notes to the Head of Botany department.

The closer you were to the Tree, the easier it was for you to lift your feet off the ground. You had to fight the urge to write it down in your notepad, afraid the effect would disappear if you stopped paying attention to your surroundings. Gods, you were really there! You were standing near majestic Tree of Life, touching its trunk! The Tree was so enormously big that it would take you at least several hours to just walk around it, and you couldn't suppress a giggle as you imagined faces of your professors when you'd show them your drawings.

Come to think of it, a whole city could be hidden somewhere on its branches, covered by the foliage, you said to yourself, raising your head to stare somewhere up, searching for this invisible city you would fail to find, of course.

When you finally reached the ponds, pretty pools filled with nearly crystal-clear water, each pond separated by the large roots of the Tree, you could barely contain yourself, stripping and leaving your clothes on the huge grey stone before slipping into the warm water. It felt heavenly, just like you expected it to be. No bath with milk, rose petals, and pink salt could even compare to this little pond with its shiny waters: you could swear they warmed up when you stepped inside as if the Tree itself was granting you comfort after your long journey. Truly, you had never stumbled upon anything as magnificent and magical.

It was hard to tell how much time you spent in the pond, washing away the sweat and dirt and giving a much deserved break to your sore body. You never admitted it to anyone, but your travel was tiring you beyond measure. Staying here even for a couple of days sounded like having a little vacation. In the end, you still had to complete your research, so it wouldn’t be a waste, anyway.

As you lied in the warm waters, surrounded by pretty water lilies and being deep in your thoughts, you almost missed the sound of flapping wings somewhere behind you, only opening your eyes when you heard someone’s quiet laugh.

There was a man standing on a large grey stone where you left your clothes and a bag you carried. He wore clothes of shiny black leather made so well that any tailor in the capital would turn green with envy at the sight of a jacket and pants fitting so snugly at the body of this stranger. But it wasn’t his clothes that riveted your gaze, but the huge, coal-black wings behind his back - they were so big you wondered how come you didn’t hear the man flying down to you. 

Damn, you were in deep, deep trouble, you thought as the man gave you a toothy grin, watching you humbly covering yourself with your palms as much as you could.

“Don’t hide,” he told you with a predatory smile, getting down on his knee and staring at you intently. “You’re pretty.”

He had a handsome face, and his quaint dark eyes changed color as he moved his head, turning either deepest shade of black or amber yellow, like a tiger's. The young man was slim and tall, and apart from the giant wings and his eyes, he looked very human to you, much more human than any of the fair folk. Who was he? Was he living somewhere on the branches of the Tree of Life, hidden by its leaves? Judging by young man's mighty wings, he could easily fly to its top.

“I-I am sorry to bother you,” you mumbled, ashamed of meeting a local in such circumstances, “b-but could you hand me my clothes, please?”

The man cocked his head to the side as if considering your request. Judging by the fact he was completely clothed, it was unlikely his kind preferred walking around naked. But then again, he was certainly a male, and you had no idea if the females of his kind would wear anything at all. It might be the case, actually, since the stranger picked up your garments and, instead of handing them to you, threw them somewhere to the tree, making it impossible for you to reach them unless you left the pond, completely bare.

You gasped, trying to hide in the water from his gaze. Maybe he looked like a decent human, but he certainly didn’t behave like one.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you my clothes instead,” he smiled, taking off his leather jacket with ease since his wings just slipped through the fabric as if by magic, and then extending it to you, waiting patiently until you moved in his direction, praying that he didn’t see your breasts or other parts of your body beneath water.

Was it some kind of local tradition to share their clothes with a stranger? Although it was a little suspicious, you didn't find it in you to argue, happy to have anything at all to cover yourself up - the man was eager to watch you, very much unbothered by your naked form. Apparently, his kind had different rules of decency compared to yours.

"I am Peter of Eastern Crows," the stranger said, smiling, inviting you to come closer as you nervously took a step forward, water dripping from your body as you covered yourself with your palms. "What's your name, woman?"

There was something animalistic in the way he called you a woman, but you decided to let it go, unaware of local customs. In the end, it was you who was in the wrong, barging in his territory without figuring out who lived there. Of course, you knew goblins often settled close to the Tree of Life, and you were prepared to meet them, but you could never imagine to stumble upon a flock of magic crows.

Hopefully, you didn’t make Peter angry with your careless actions, jumping in the pond before asking for his permission.

Telling him your name, you quickly snatched his jacket and pulled it on, feeling rather uncomfortable - you were drenched, and leather did little to absorb water, making you feel rather odd. Besides, the jacket was too short to hide your private parts, and you were left half-naked, regardless, meaning you had to keep timidly covering yourself with your hands.

But before you demanded him to hand you over your pants, the crow jumped in the water all of a sudden, making you choke on air as you stumbled back, afraid he would do something improper to you. You were suddenly aware he might consider you being naked in front of him some form of invitation, and it couldn't be good for you. Damn, why did you go in the pond without considering your surroundings? Just because some elf told you it's nice to take a swim there? How insane did you have to be to do that? You were an experienced traveler, but you still got so excited upon seeing the Tree you had forgotten any safety rules! Gods, if Peter mistook your actions as a sign of affection, you didn’t even want to think what he could do to you. You had to explain him the situation immediately.

"You are so, so pretty," he chanted, not caring about soaking his shoes and pants as he moved closer to you, forcing you to retreat further in the pond. "Don't be scared. I promise I'll be kind to you."

The more he talked, the more you realized he was under impression you were offering yourself to him. Shit, it was getting really dangerous, you thought as you felt water coming up to your chin as you stepped back - this pond was deeper than you thought.

"I'm afraid there's a misunderstanding," you mumbled as you saw Peter's pupils growing wider. "I'm just a traveler who wanted to take a swim. I have no intention of staying here and troubling you. Just give me a moment to get dressed, and I will leave."

His eyes darkened, "You don't like me, is that it? Because I don't look strong to you, right?"

Although you couldn't care less about the way he looked, half-way in the water with his wings completely drenched, you thought it would be unwise to voice your thoughts. Apparently, Peter was feeling a little self-conscious, and it was best not to provoke him.

"I'm strong enough, I swear! I could carry you on my back for two whole days without a stop! I'll... I'll build you a nice house up there, on the Tree. And I'll feed you good food! I promise, I'll bring you only the softest fruits and the sweetest honeydew you've ever tried!"

Restless, he moved in large steps, forcing you to retreat further until you suddenly stumbled on a slippery stone, covered with algae, and immediately fell into the water with a loud cry, scared as hell because you could no longer feel the bottom beneath your feet. You knew how to swim, of course, but Peter grabbed you before you could break the surface yourself, dragging you away from the pond so fast you had no doubts about him being a very strong crow.

As you were coughing and spitting water, he gently put you on your knees and slapped you on the back several times until you started to breathe properly, sprawled on the warm surface of the stone. Gods, he scared you to death. Of course, it was stupid to think you could drown in such shallow pond, but you were happy you were out of water, nonetheless.

"It's alright," the crow said, gently patting you on the back, one his wings gracefully covering your naked buttocks and legs. "I'm here."

It took you a couple of minuts to get a hold of yourself as you lied on the stone, slowly regaining your breath. Damn, it was one hell of an adventure, you could tell for sure. Out of all your travels, this certainly was the wildest one, you thought as you opened your eyes and stared at the winged man who was watching you with worry as he lied next to you. He was probably nervous about all this, too.

"I'm good," you exhaled, tired. "It's ok, really."

He muttered under his breath, "Thank goodness!"

Nevertheless, you couldn't find the strength to get up and gather your clothes, staying on your spot for a little longer as you inhaled deeply, feeling warm and smooth surface of the stone beneath your palms. You just needed to catch your breath before you would explain Peter it was a pure misunderstanding on his part about you putting yourself on display for him. Surely, he would understand. He was an intellectual, not some silly goblin with no brains. He would understand it was all one big mistake.

"I'm so sorry," the crow mumbled as he gently patted your back, and you thought his leather jacket you wore suddenly got dry as if by magic. "I should have been more careful. I didn’t know you're so fragile, but I'll treat you better, alright? Give me a few minutes, and I'll bring you to my home and dress you in warm clothes, and then we'll eat something sweet."

You let out a groan, opening your eyes to stare back at him. "Peter, I can't become your mate."

"Surely, you can!" His eyes went wide as he protested. "Crows take human wives and husbands, you don't need to worry about that! Besides, you showed yourself to me so I could choose you, and then you took my clothes, so it means you aren't repulsed by me either. I know you must still think I'm unreliable, but I can take care of you, I promise!"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you thought it's getting harder and harder to explain Peter he got it all wrong. You had no idea how to convince him you were just a simple botanist traveling the world, and, worse, it really looked like the crow wouldn't be easy to deal with.

"You'll be one of our flock before you even know it!" He exclaimed happily, and you felt his lips on your forehead as he caresses your back ever so gently.

Well, it will be a hell of a job to get things right, the two of you thought at the same time.

____________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @melodierin @yeolliedokai @what-is-your-wish @lou-la-lou @saraaras17 @mansaaay

[yandere-daydreams]

God please can I get anything with Rook hunting down his escaped darling? This man has a thing for chasing you down you cannot convince mo otherwise

I’ve been meaning to write a special headcanon/scenario post about Pomefiore to celebrate the release of Chapter Five, but,,, this’ll have to do, for now. I’m doing a disservice to the best dorm, but hopefully, some Rook content will delay by inevitable shame.

Title: The Hunt.

TW: Violence, Kidnapping, Strong Predator/Prey Themes, Implied Stalking, and Mentions of Death.

~

You really used to think Rook was just on the extravagant side.

That’s how it’d seemed when he first introduced himself, dropping to one knee and pressing his hand to his chest, declaring something loud enough and incoherent enough to draw the eye of every onlooker within earshot. Some of his actions were questionable, his gaze often leaning towards the unnerving side, but you’d never thought he was villainous, he hadn’t seemed to want to do harm. He meant mischief, as far as you could tell. He didn’t try to hide the way he watched the more particular members of the student body, but he never took anything beyond a picture. He never made a secret of his fondness for you, but his affection was a fleeting thing - he’d said as much himself a dozen different times. You figured Rook would move long as soon as something newer and shinier came along. You thought he was just having fun.

You supposed you weren’t wrong. He had been having fun. He was still having fun.

It just wasn’t fun for you, anymore.

“Mon cœur,” Rook called, the familiar term of endearment stretching into something twisted, something perverse as it echoed through the lifeless woods. The forest surrounding the Pomefiore dormitory was always dark, always daze-like, always horrid, but tonight, it felt especially misleading, as if the trees themselves were uprooting and rearranging to guide you in any direction but the one that’d lead you away from your hunter. That’s what he was now, really, your hunter. Rook had a way of making his prey feel like pets, of making you feel like a partner rather than another trophy for him to decapitate and mount on his wall, but all of those blissful lies and domestic fantasies had dissolved into thin air the moment you slipped out of your chains and threw yourself out of that elegant, stained-glass window of his. It’d been a stupid move, in hindsight, you were only doing damage to yourself and giving him a blood-trail to follow, but a lifetime of picking crystalline shards out of your skin would be less agonizing than another minute spent in his captivity. You just wished his footsteps hadn’t fallen in-tempo with yours so quickly.

“You really should come out, (Y/n).” His voice was calm, projected with the all the tranquil serenity of a man who already knew he’d won. It wasn’t close, it wasn’t deafening, but the fact that you could hear him at all was damning. It meant he’d be able to hear you, too, even if you had no plans to announce yourself so blatantly. “I know you love your games, and I do want to play with you, but staying up so late is bad for your skin, no? And you must be so tired, dear. If you put an end to this silly show of defiance now, I may even let you sleep in my bed, rather than the cage where you belong.”

You didn’t respond  - you wouldn’t have, even if you hadn’t been hiding. Pushing forward, you drove yourself to run faster, to escape both his cage and his bed. There was a clearing in your path, a spot where the leaf-canopy broke apart and the ground grew barren, harsh moonlight seeping in like an unwanted thought, but you skirted around it, following its borders until you found the spot where the foliage was at its thickest. You didn’t think as you forced yourself into the narrow space between branches and trunks and vines with so many thorns, you had to wonder if you’d die of blood loss before Rook got a chance to wring your neck himself, only pressing a hand over your mouth and doing your best to control your panting. You just had to stay put for a minute. You just had to give him time to move on. Then, you’d be able to circle back and beat on every door in Pomefiore until someone recognized you as the student who’d gone missing weeks ago. Then, you’d be safe.

Rook, on the other hand, had no reason to tuck himself away. He stepped into the large clearing without hesitation, letting out a long, labored sigh as he idly glanced towards his surroundings. He must’ve begun his chase as soon as he noticed you’d gotten out, his intricate wardrobe cut down to little more than a black shirt and an insulated, camouflage jacket, both doing leagues more to block out the biting cold than the simple button-down shirt you’d been given to wear. He hadn’t had time to choose a proper weapon, either. Rook preferred traditional bows, the kind without cogs or cables to alleviate the tension of the draw, but he was carrying a simplistic compound bow tonight, made for efficiency and speed rather than enjoyment. Made for maiming his target, rather than indulging them in their rebellion, an arrow already knocked and ready to be drawn back at the first hint of an opening. “Perhaps I should call you mon ange, instead, considering you’re so eager to fly away.” Another sigh, this one accompanied by a graceful turn on his heel and a smooth survey of the forest. His eyesight was good, but it couldn’t be that good. You could barely see your hand in front of your face, where the shadows were their deepest. “Wouldn’t it be easier to come out on your own? You know how much I hate having to drag you home.”

Liar. That dirty, filthy liar. He’d already dragged you away from Night Raven, he’d already dragged you away from your classmates and your family and your friends, and all because he was under some deluded, pathetic notion that he’d only be able to love you - truly love you - if he nailed you to the ground, first. His gaze wandered, he was the one who couldn’t be trusted to keep his promises. He’d just wanted to ensure you’d still be there, waiting for him with open arms, when he got back from all his many expeditions. He’d imprisoned you, and he’d delighted in it, reveled in the joy that came with a source of companionship he’d be able to bleed dry. He was only unamused now that you’d refused to let him cut you open.

You could feel your cheeks begin to flush in anger, your nails curling into your palms, but that did little to stop Rook from going on. Always going on, never stopping. You hadn’t realized how much you hated the sound of his voice until you’d been forced to listen. “I’ll admit, I’ve been busy, lately. Have I been neglecting you?” He laughed, the sound airy, non-commital. As if it suddenly didn’t matter if you came out, as if he suddenly didn’t care. “This is childish, is it not? I mean, I never thought you would stoop so low just to buy for my attention.”

It was so little, it was nothing, just a shift of your weight in the barest hint of a reaction, but dried leaves and twigs seemed to crack under your feet as if you’d thrown your biggest tantrum yet. You reacted immediately, scrambling to free yourself from your constrictive hiding place, but Rook was so fast, he was so ready. It was all you could do to catch a glimpse of his bow as he took aim, your efforts to escape from his line of fire turning out all-but futile. You pressed yourself against the nearest trunk, but in the end, he was the one who faltered, his arrow barely grazing your bicep, cutting through your sleeve but only leaving a thin, red line in your skin, the shallowest wound he’d ever inflicted. You allowed yourself to smile, you allowed yourself to laugh, but Rook didn’t move to fire again, only slinging his bow over his shoulder, slotting it into place as if he wouldn’t need to use it again. Not on you, anyway.

“You really should come out,” He said, one more time. “These kinds of things tend to get rather ugly when they’re not given the proper treatment.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what he meant, but before you could gather up the confidence to ask, something sharp and frigid pounded through your injured arm, stretching from your fingertips to your shoulders, and out of reflex, you glanced towards the cut. A pale, lilac fluid was smeared across your skin, dripping from the small wound, the color so faint, you hadn’t noticed it before. The same shade of purple that coated his arrowhead, even after it’d buried itself in the ground.

Oh.

That made sense. For Rook, at least.

You hardly tried to resist it, your body buckling under its own weight, crumbling until you were little more than a mass of stained clothes and writhing limbs, every part of you contorted in agony so vivid and bright, the darkness seemed to dissolve, kept at a faithful distance by an unmoving wall of white-hot pain. It was relentless, it was ruthless, and it only got worse as Rook’s calloused hands took hold of your tense form, lifting you off the ground and pulling you against his chest, cradling you as gently and as tortuously as he could. His hum was liked a needle to your ears, the click of his tongue as fatal as a dagger to the back of your neck, but even then, you knew it wouldn’t kill you. No, no, that’d ruin Rook’s fun. That’d be too merciful for him. That’d be too kind.

And to think, you’d almost forgotten the flare your hunter was capable of.

[pascalispretty]

As Yet Unsaid

Frederick Chilton x Female Reader

Rating: Teen 

Warnings: Mention of nudity, that’s about it. 

Summary: Frederick spends a Saturday morning in bed, attempting his crossword puzzle while you sleep next to him. Unfortunately, he gets a little distracted. 

Happy Valentine’s Day to @lannister-slings-and-arrows​. You have her to thank for this tooth-rotting fluff. (ao3). 

The first time that Frederick had gone to view the property, tucked away at the end of Montgomery Avenue, he had known that it was the one for him.

Not just because of the location- close enough to Baltimore that he didn’t have far to travel for work, or social events in the city, but far enough away that a lush, verdant wall of foliage cut the property off from any hustle and bustle.

Nor had the lure been in the wine cellar tucked discreetly on the lower level, or the elegant sweep of the spiral staircase, though he greatly appreciated both features. The thing that had drawn Fred the most to the house he now occupied had been the windows.

There truly was an abundance of windows, allowing sunlight to pour in. After spending so much of his day at the hospital, with its dim hallways, and thrumming fluorescent lights that gave him headaches and made his eyes hurt, coming home to so much natural light made it easier to separate his home from his work.

Fred was particularly thankful for the windows that morning. He had woken slowly, still half asleep as he reluctantly slid out of bed in search of coffee. It was only when he had returned, cup in one hand and New York Times tucked under his arm, and pulled the curtains back that he realised how pretty you looked in the late morning light.

You were still fast asleep, still lying on your side from where Fred had been curled around you as you slept. You were bathed in the sunlight that poured through the windows, looking so peaceful and relaxed that Fred was half-tempted to abandon the paper for now and wrap himself around you to try and go back to sleep again.

Instead, he slides into bed beside you, taking a sip of his coffee before setting it on his bedside table. Your back is to him, your bare shoulder just peeking out from beneath the covers. His eyes lingered, all too aware that you were naked under the sheets, claiming that he ran too hot for you to want to put pyjamas on. 

Fred sets the paper in his lap, and leans forward carefully until his lips just barely brush your shoulder. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to waking up to you, to spending whole weekends with you, to your presence adding much needed warmth to his house. His home. 

When he straightens up again, he plucks the Montblanc pen off his bedside table and flips straight to the crossword. His weekends almost always start with coffee and the crossword, except on the rare occasions that you wake up before him and are in the mood for something less staid and more sportive to start your Saturday with. 

While you sleep steadily on, Fred fills in the blank squares, occasionally tapping the pen thoughtfully against his lips while he considers his next move. Some of the answers come easily- really, who doesn’t know the name of the estate in Gone With the Wind?- while some require a little more thought. 

It’s not until he gets to seven down that he gets stuck. 

The coffee is almost all gone, and were he not so comfortable, he’d consider getting up to fetch another cup. He has one letter, an ‘A’ in the penultimate square, but none of the words he can think of have an ‘A’ in that place. 

Even after he’s put it aside, and swept through a dozen other clues, his eyes keep returning to the empty squares of seven down. It frustrates his perfectionism to leave it blank, and he’s far too proud to look up the answer on his phone. 

You shift in your sleep beside him, and Fred finds himself staring at the curve of your bare shoulder as though the clue he’s seeking might be hidden on there somewhere. Without thinking, he rests the very tips of his fingers against your shoulder blade, almost as if to convince himself that you’re really here, tucked into bed with him. 

He had more or less resigned himself to bachelorhood, yet you had been a very welcome interruption. If having you here spending the weekend with him and sleeping beside him, means he can’t mutter to himself or listen to Handel while he does the crossword, he’ll consider it a very small price to pay.  

When Fred pulls his fingers away, he realises he had still been holding his pen. A little black line, barely a half inch long, has been left against the smooth skin of your shoulder by the accidental slip of his pen. 

He glances back at the crossword, at the clue he’s wrestling with, before looking back at you. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he leans forward and gently turns the inked line on your back into a love heart.

The psychiatrist in Frederick wants to examine the gesture, to pull it apart and dissect it; is he drawing on you as a desire to mark you? Has he chosen a heart because he knows he loves you, but he’s reluctant to admit it to you just yet? The frustrated crossword enthusiast in him puts it down to idle doodling while he tries to figure out the elusive seven down. 

Beside the first, he finds himself adding another heart, slightly smaller this time. He freezes when you shift, the nib of the pen still pressed at the point of the heart. To his relief, you’re not waking up yet; just getting comfortable, your legs bumping against his under the sheets as you rearrange yourself a little. 

He waits a few minutes, just to confirm that you’re still asleep, and then goes back to his doodling. Part of him is tempted to attempt an anatomically correct heart, a stark reminder of his undergrad days at Harvard, copying the diagram out of a page of Grey’s. He resists the urge- you might not be best pleased by the little heart-shaped doodles when you wake, much less by an anatomically correct one.

Seven down still eludes him, the word he’s looking for right on the tip of his tongue. If you were awake, he’d ask you. He knows he’s seen it recently, and that only frustrates him more. 

By the time it comes to him, you have a little constellation across your shoulder blade, a whorl of carefully inked love hearts outlined on your skin. Frederick can’t help himself; he bows his head again to press his lips against your shoulder. 

He nuzzles a little closer, drawn in irrepressibly by how good you smell. Something unmistakably you, it lingers on his sheets long after you’ve left and finds him pressing his face against the pillow you’d used when you’re unable to spend the night. It’s only accented by your perfume, and the sweet smelling shampoo you use- 

Frederick sits bolt upright in bed, scrambling for the paper that he had let go of to kiss you. You stir sleepily beside him, but he’s too busy scribbling in the answer to notice. 

“Fred?” You ask, your voice still thick with sleep as you turn slightly to face him. 

“Argan! I knew I’d seen it somewhere. ‘An evergreen tree known for its oil’.” He crows, more to himself than to explain anything to you. With seven down filled in at last, he can finally put down a definite answer for five across, and more solutions slot into place. 

You roll your eyes affectionately at him once you realise his excitement was due to a crossword clue. 

“I’m going downstairs to grab a drink, and then shall we watch TV in bed for a bit?” You ask, trying to stifle a yawn. One of Fred’s luxurious robes is hanging off the back of the bedroom door, and you go to slip it off the hook. 

“Whatever you like.” Fred beams at you, though you’re sure it’s more to do with his glee at finishing the puzzle- in ink, no less- than anything you’ve done. As you tug on the robe, you happen to catch a glance of yourself in the mirror, and you freeze when you spot what looks like a dark smudge by your shoulder. 

Frowning, you step closer to the mirror for a better look, only to realise that it’s not a smudge at all. While you slept, Frederick has drawn love hearts across your shoulder. You peek up at him, but he’s still engrossed in the paper; he hasn’t noticed that you’ve spotted them. 

Your stomach swoops at the sweetness of the gesture. Frederick had undoubtedly come across as an asshole when you had first met him; you were glad you had decided to press past that awkward first impression. Deciding not to draw his attention to it, you smile to yourself as you slip out of the room, still covered in the love hearts Fred had left behind. 

[darkpoisonouslove]

Prey on the Heart

Summary: Valtor is on the hunt when his hound makes an unexpected discovery - Griffin is on the premises and defenseless against his rage over her betrayal. Valtor has to decide what catch he’s after - her head or their love. AU.

CW: Blood, dog bites, injury neglect, non-graphic violence and sex

This has been an outlined idea for almost 11 months. It was supposed to be an entry for Whumptober last year but I managed to turn it back into romance instead of torture somehow. I never got around to writing it unti today the universe conspired to bring it into existence and I am so happy to have finally finished it!

Love Again by Dua Lipa is giving me feels for this AU so give it a listen if you want.

The tufts of yellowed grass barely rustled under his feet as he followed the hound south. A little further and they'd leave the borders of the Coven's estate for the uninhabitable wasteland his mothers hadn't bothered to purchase even at the low cost of Obsidian land.

The rainless summer had left the otherwise infertile ground dry and cracked, no prints marring it's hardened surface. The hound was relying purely on her animal instincts and despite the boost from his magic, his senses couldn't catch up. He was barely keeping up with Violet herself glancing around for a trace on the foliage of what she'd sniffed.

He caught a strangled scream without the need to strain his ears. It was loud and clear despite the attempt to muffle it. He'd thought it was an animal the hound had shot after but that scream... It was a human voice. A familiar voice.

He followed the sound, steps hurried and heavy on the ground to chase away any game in the vicinity but he'd have his prize regardless. Unless he was dreaming or under one of mother Lysslis' illusion spells.

He called the dog back to lead him to where she'd left her victim. He'd seen Violet do her thing under Lysslis' training. Whenever she got her teeth into something, it wasn't getting away before she let go. And it wasn't getting away after that either.

Violet's teeth had a wet red tint to them, muzzle damp with blood and saliva as her nostrils expanded voraciously with every breath from the heavy copper smell. She circled him frantically and dashed forward only to run back to him in an attempt to prompt him to catch up with her speed. At least she was happy with her find.

An unusual circle of trees formed a perfectly lined up clearing in the forest. Stepping inside it left him face to face with a lone tree in the middle that was keeled over and charred. It must have been stricken by a lightning but its sturdy, forked roots had grounded it deep in the soil to make it the only thing standing in the clearing.

Leaning on the other side of it, partially concealed by its thick trunk, was none other than Griffin. Her hands trembled as she tightened the knot on the bandage she'd wrapped around her bleeding calf. She hissed when the dirty rag she'd torn from the hemline of her tattered and muddied dress constricted the tender wound Violet had left in her wake. And to think Griffin had been the one who'd gifted him the hound when she'd still been a pup that had fit in the palm of his hand. Valtor had even named her after Griffin, the striking shade of her hair coloring everything from his sketches to the very dreams his subconscious concocted. If she hadn't left so soon after presenting him with the puppy, Violet may have remembered her scent. Not that that would have given her a chance against Lysslis' conditioning of all hunting dogs, including Valtor's personal hound.

Griffin's eyes pinned the hound where it was pacing from one side to another behind Valtor's legs with her tail wagging and her labored breaths filling the silence of his own lungs. The sight of him had Griffin's whole body tensing as her hands hit the tree bark behind her back and she scrambled to her feet.

Her movements were lagging from the pain and panic dripping from her hunched form. Her hair fell down her back matted with red where she'd brushed it back with bloodied hands. Large chunks of unrefined obsidian crystals were strapped to her wrists with clumsy threads of silver into bracelets that ran up her arms under her sleeves.

She'd made those herself–in a hurry–her magic pulling the crystals and metal straight from the core of the planet. They would have impeded any other witch considering his own mothers' magic was notably subdued by the large deposits of obsidian under the planet's surface but not her. Crystals were one of her areas of expertise–and the reason why she'd walked into his life–yet even her knowledge had failed her along with her luck. She'd made it to the very edge of the territory controlled and owned by the Coven under the protection of the black crystals she'd adorned herself with to ward off dark magic but still not far enough.

It had been fear cutting off her magic to prevent her from fashioning herself a bandage the way she'd crafted her protection charms. Her golden eyes were wide like pits of inextinguishable fire and her chest wasn't moving to push the ample cleavage her dress left exposed into the forefront of his mind. She'd had an easier time drawing breath with the weight of his head nestled over her ribcage, over her heart beating steadily with the promise of her presence.

Valtor's step forward echoed like a gunshot in her body. Her back pressed into the tree, muscles pulled taut with compressed energy readying her to pounce.

"Run." His first word to her. He could have lost a bet that it would be a vile curse in a lost language only she could understand. "I dare you." She'd turned her back and left unprompted. If she still abode by that logic, then she'd have to stay.

Griffin swallowed. "You're going to hunt me down like an animal?" Her teeth gritted as she strained against her eyes slipping from his form.

His fingers clenched to white around the cold metal of his shotgun. Her jaw would have been dust in his grip where he wanted it to tip her head back and pin her gaze with his. She'd forced him to endure far greater pain being the one left behind. She hadn't earned the right to writhe and scream in agony.

"Violet here is an animal," he extended his hand and the hound pressed her head into his open palm. She always obeyed his calls, never running off where she wouldn't hear him and come back. "She is loyal and dependable which is more than I can say about you." He may have named the dog after Griffin but he'd raised Violet to never follow in her footsteps.

"So I am less than an animal to you, too?" Her gaze darted to the dog and back – to the piece of herself she hadn't stolen from him.

Valtor frowned, hand stilling between Violet's ears to make her rub it in his fingers insistently. He ignored her.

"What do you mean to me too?" Once again Griffin took precedence. Over his hunt, over his dog, over his own heart. Only his stomach sank from the prediction of what he'd hear from her mouth.

"You think I came here on a picnic with only the dress on my back?" Griffin stood steady on her feet, her tenacious nature breathing life into a smirk he had to bite back.

He hadn't given thought to the circumstances of their meeting. Her aching form in front of his eyes was everything. One blink and she'd melt away, swept up into another one of the portals the locations of which she was best at estimating. Indeed her presence on top of her disheveled state posed multiple questions he hadn't paid mind to. He was making it too easy for her to deceive him again.

"Your mothers chased me down and electrocuted me to the point of nearly frying my organs," her arms crossed over her belly to raise alarms in his head. If anything gave him the strength to best mother Tharma, it would be the rage over touching what was his. Griffin was a central part of that even if revenge was all that was left between them. That and the truth she spoke. "They kept me locked up for weeks in a tiny shoe box where I couldn't even stand up straight and only let me out last night. Right as darkness fell for me to read on the star-filled sky that it was the first day of hunting season."

There was disdain in her voice instead of the fear everyone else held for the way his mothers took beauty and strength and twisted it into despair. They had taken her love of astronomy and turned it into the herald of her death sentence. Just like they'd repopulated the area around their estate with hunting game only to have their fill of murdering unsuspecting animals.

Griffin's eyes burned so fiercely he half expected the tree behind her to catch fire. "They let me out to be your prey." And she'd dashed for the quickest route out of there. She hadn't come back for him.

"You betrayed me."

Violet sat down on her hind legs, body taut like a string and tail beating harshly into the dust. She would leap at the smallest shift in him.

Griffin was like a rock in front of him. His fire wouldn't touch her and his bullets would bounce back at him. "They are enslaving people and I didn't know I was helping them."

He hadn't told her. All he could have given her had been the illusion of a choice. She never would've picked him if he'd let his mothers force her to lay the world at their feet. It had been the only chance the two of them had had to be together.

"I had to put an end to it."

"You betrayed me!" Valtor raised the shotgun, his hands shaking too violently to aim it more precisely than just in Griffin's general direction as he stalked closer. Violet was growling on his left to keep his flank safe. "I gave you my everything. You were all I had and you left!"

All the riches flowing into Obsidian under his mothers' direction and Griffin's accurate calculations of opening portals to other planets were resources for the Coven's needs, not for his personal use. He wasn't even allowed in certain rooms of the mansion. The magic in his very veins had been embedded there by his mothers' efforts and lessons. Griffin had been the one building a little home with him in the room they'd come to share, she'd been the one putting a heartbeat in his palms only to leave him clutching empty sheets with a cold blade sticking out of his chest.

"Bursting your heart into atoms is exactly what you deserve." He stalked closer, the cool barrel of his shotgun and Violet's razor-sharp teeth were his only defense. The obsidian on Griffin's wrists weakened his magic and the shine of her eyes had obliterated his resolve to chase her down even from his memories.

Griffin's eyes hardened, hands balling into fists. "If you're going to shoot me, do it!" she grabbed the shotgun and pressed it into her bare skin.

The force threw him off balance and he stumbled forward, pushing the stiff metal into her sternum while her breath invaded his mouth with their faces inches apart. "Do not. Tempt me," he growled, his fingers twitching from her audacity to wrap around her throat and force more breath from her.

"Do it!" Griffin was still gripping the shotgun close to her heaving chest unafraid of the fire that could burst from the contact. "I knew this–seeing you again–would be the end of me. But if taking the shot is what will take your pain away, then I'm ready to go. As long as it will let you live." Her eyes lost focus and her head lulled, a small smile tugging at her lips and his heartstrings as her gaze dropped to Violet.

The dog was pacing behind him to no reason or direction. Her nose was lowered into the dirt in defeat.

Valtor forced Griffin's head back with the barrel of his shotgun until their eyes were locked together. "Do you think I'm that dumb? That I'll believe you after all your lies?" He had to watch out for the hands. One wrong move and they'd be in his chest again. Or his would be in her hair under the clink of his forgotten shotgun to draw a moan out of her that would melt him in a puddle at her feet.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, what either one of us believes." Vulnerability was sealed in her eyes like they were amber preserving history. Bullets wouldn't work on them. Shattering them would only spill the truth of his own wrongdoings. "It will not change the fact that I love you." A gasp came – from him or from her. "You can cut me open and reach inside me to feel it if you need to. It will still be there once my heart has stopped. Not even the planet can absorb it."

His hands shook as the shotgun trailed back between her breasts. The dry ground would soak up her blood instead of water and the forest would claim her body but the energy pouring from her wouldn't disappear in the well in the planet's core. Obsidian absorbed negativity from all over the universe to cleanse it and Griffin had thought it fair to trade protection for resources borrowed from other planets when it had little to no of its own. But she was offering her life to him for nothing in return. She was offering the purity of her love and that wasn't something the planet could protect from or swallow.

Valtor licked his lips. His mouth watered in her proximity for her to plant her deception into it. Yet his tongue hardly moved with his words in the breeze her breath was on his taste buds. "You're playing mind games. This is nothing more than manipulation." She could be an inch from his face and hop into a portal to the other end of the universe in the blink of an eye. And he hadn't been able to follow despite the pull in his heart.

"Nothing's stopping you from pulling the trigger. Or taking your hunting knife and carving out my heart." The blade weighed on his chest from its secret pocket as her voice reverberated through him. "Go ahead! Eat it like I always knew you would. And once its in your system, so will be my love." Her hand slid down the barrel of the shotgun, her fingers bathing his in their heat. "It will be a part of you, flowing through your veins and making you mine forever. Death by your hand does not scare me. I'll never die inside you."

The metal burned in his hand. Or that was the love for her that had never gone out. Not even at the look of the vast blackness of the sky where she could have disappeared forever. "You know I won't-"

"I know you want to." Griffin's hand slipped on top of his, colder than the blade of his knife over his heart. "But you won't. You pull that trigger and you lose me forever. You're not going to cause yourself that pain. Not even after I ran away." Her skin was like stone grinding against his to chip away his resistance. She knew him to his selfish core. Having her love forever inside him where he wouldn't be able to touch it wouldn't be enough even if she wouldn't be able to leave again.

"How could you bring my heart back after you fled with it?" It was right there clasped between her teeth. A kiss would free it and tugging at it with all his might would rip it to shreds. It was a miracle Griffin hadn't chewed it to bits when Violet's teeth had sunk into her flesh.

"Because we belong to each other. With each other." Her heart trembled in her pulse point for him to see. "No portal between worlds can change that. Not the one that took me away and not the one that brought me back."

How could he kill her when simply hating her would pull her out of his arms? Taking a step back would make him crumble under his self-loathing. He couldn't be the one to take her away from himself. Not when she was right there like a vision. One only she could make come true.

"Would you have ever come back if my mothers hadn't dragged you here?"

"Does it matter?" her voice was like a gunshot in his ears, like the weapon in his hand had gone off pressed into his own chest rather than hers.

The metal clanked as it hit the ground where he threw it and a shot echoed through the forest on accident that had Violet barking frantically. It could have been Griffin's magic wringing the bullet from his shotgun to drop him dead – he didn't care. His fingers had the freedom to tangle in her purple tresses again and a moan greeted him on her lips when he pulled her to his mouth.

No. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what could have happened when she was in his arms, chest pressing into his with her ragged breaths. She returned his kisses, teeth sliding over his lips to mark her territory like her life depended on it although she could pick up his shotgun and leave a hole in his chest. All she had to do to get away with murder was part with several hairs and blink back the tears from having them torn away in his death grip. Yet, all she was grasping at were the lapels of his coat to hold him in the reach of her kisses. She was still giving him everything she had with the threat to her life gone. It was all the proof he could want.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he hoisted her against the tree. The bandage on her calf was wet with blood under his fingers but she was pulling him closer like she'd lost her mind to love and couldn't understand it was impossible to push herself into him more. Her magic would be no use for healing in her state and his would be no use at all.

Her skin was still soft despite the odd chilliness that had fallen over it and broke under his teeth on her collar bone to let him have her blood. Her wet flesh welcomed him as he entered her once he'd pulled all the fabric of her dress and underwear out of his way. His fingers dipped under her neckline to find her breast but brushed over dried mud instead. The rough surface of confusion threw him back into a questioning stare aimed at her.

"My chest was pierced by the Obsidian belladonna your mothers pushed me on." Obsidian threads from the land ran through the plant to claim each part of it and give it a crown of crystal-edged petals. The black crust was like a blade that cut through the flesh to release the poison of the belladonna directly into the bloodstream. Only Griffin's magic had saved her life from the toxins rushing from the roots to the petals of the plant. "The blood from the wound would draw the dog to me for sure in case my deep frozen state interfered with my scent." She didn't have to tell him it had been mother Belladonna's idea and magic to do all of that to her.

Valtor ran his hands over every inch of her in his reach. Her skin had remained cold after a full night of running. He had refrained form startling her with his magic but the heat of it passed from him into her to leave her body all his to claim with Belladonna's frost retreating from it. Griffin was burning now, hot moans dropping from her mouth with every thrust as she reached a hand under her dress to stroke them both further into the heights of pleasure. His open-mouthed kisses to her neck let him feel every breath and his tongue leaving a warm, wet trail over the column of her throat had her gasping. He'd cover her all in himself to erase the horror they'd been subjected to.

"We have to get you out of here." His mothers would finish the hunt themselves if he came back to the mansion without a trophy for their walls.

"Get the dog out of here." Griffin's voice wavered as she moved her palm under his shirt to brace herself on his abs. She let out a shuddering sigh, eyelids falling over the suns of his world. "We don't need public. She already saw enough." Griffin licked her lips, head falling back to thud against the tree trunk lightly with every push of his hips into her. Her back would be bruised with reminders of the movements they'd shared like they were one.

Valtor's whistle had Violet's attention and he sent her to keep the perimeter clear. His mothers wouldn't dirty their hands right away and she could hold her own against any other Coven member to buy him and Griffin time to talk.

He'd spend eternity watching Griffin's face scrunched up in concentration as she grabbed at her pleasure, hips matching his motions, but they had no more than a couple hours. "We need a plan."

Griffin knit her eyebrows at his interruption. "I had one right before they dragged me out of my life. I found a small island of pure amethyst orbiting an uninhabited planet." Energy currents turned all kinds of crystal structures into mini heavenly bodies. Someone with her talents had no trouble finding all the curiosities of space. "I was going to go there. Live on the planet and meditate on the island to clear my thoughts and overcome my grief." Amethyst was good for that. Just the shade of her hair cleansed his mind from agony to leave him clutching harder at the purple strands to keep them from slipping through his fingers.

"I wasn't dead." Abandoned but not dead. Not yet. He'd retreated into the dreams of a sky set ablaze in violet by a rising sun. They'd become his poison and his cure until she'd come back to put his heart back together.

Griffin's eyes snapped open, tears gleaming all over their gold. "I was dead to you."

"Not dead. Never dead." His fingers slid over the top of her breast to the wound she'd closed with mud to make her the one shivering. Her cold, lifeless body stuffed in his mind would force him apart at the seams.

"I was hoping there I would come up with a strategy for future action," Griffin continued to distract him. She rolled her hips into him and gave him a moan to ensure her success.

"Good." He leaned in to pant against her ear. "You continue according to plan then." His mothers would never look for her there. The only resource they'd ever pursued was human lives. His job had been to keep her distracted so she'd do the groundwork unknowingly.

"What about you?" He could hear her frowning over the pain of her nails digging into his abs.

He grabbed her wrist and pressed it harder into him so she'd be branded over his body. "I can't come. They'd put everything into finding us. It'd be more dangerous."

Griffin pushed her body flush against him, all of her weight falling on his muscles with her back barely brushing the tree. Her teeth were gliding over his neck but she pierced him with her voice instead. "You can't go back without my corpse."

He kissed her forcefully, tongue stuffing her mouth to trap the words there. They'd suffocate with no oxygen and Griffin yielded to him for a moment, pulling him closer until they were out of breath.

They fell back on the tree and a whimper was forced from her lips. Their mouths were just an inch away, breath mingling between them in perfect harmony. He had to be the one to speak first and keep the magic alive.

"You left once because there were people who needed help." Because he'd lied to her that that wasn't the case to keep her to himself. Her heart was bigger than his and he'd tried to cut it down in fear of the difference between them.

"Valtor-"

"I'm not losing you again." Because her heart was so big, he had a home. And she could give the same to others, too. "Once you have a plan, we end this once and for all and you'll never leave my side again." He had to let go of her hand to slip his fingers between her legs and drive her wild with his love for her.

Griffin was the one grabbing his wrist now. "I don't want to leave you with them again." Her fingers clasped his in a firm grip despite the trembling of her body. "They'll pay you back for not bringing their plan for us to fruition."

"They can't. Without you they need someone else to open portals for them." He'd picked up enough from the time they'd spent together to do that job without giving her perfect results. No one else could fill that role for his mothers' plan and the punishment for letting Griffin escape hadn't been nearly severe enough thanks to his usefulness. "You already gave me a weapon against them." He stroked his fingers over her arousal. It was only his place to be the source of her shaking. She deserved all the pleasure she could stand.

"I've made you a weapon for them," Griffin arched into his touch to escape the guilt she was trying to pile on herself.

Valtor thrust into her with all the vigor she'd given him to make her eyes roll in the back of her head and her thighs quiver around him. "They won't get to use me long but you're the only one who can find out how to stop them. You have to be protected." If his mothers wanted her dead instead of brainwashed and turning Obsidian into their empire of slavery, then she was dangerous enough to bring them down. "I'll come for you. Now come for me."

"Valtor."

It was not a scream of passion. It was an uttered love confession that made him weak in the knees. Supporting her was the only thing keeping him upright through his weakness. She was still bleeding – not just from her calf, but from her chest, too. If having his heart hadn't mended the wound he'd left on hers with his lies, he had to give her more. He had to send her away to heal so that the world could become a home for them again.

[wistfulcynic]

shelter from the storm

For the endlessly brilliant brainstormers @thesschesthair and @winterbythesea, a rainy interlude in Neverland and a very warm coat. (To Mandy in particular, I hope it brightens your day.) 

summary: Neverland. An unexpected storm, a cave, a bottle of rum. Emma and Hook, alone together, one of them wearing his coat. 

words: 2.1k rating: T tags: Neverland, stranded together, bedsharing, UST, the coat. 

AO3

-

The rain came without warning. 

Nothing more than the faintest breeze stirred the air before heavy drops were falling, hard and thick, in sheets that made it impossible to see much more than a foot or two ahead. Emma was drenched in a moment, her thin tank top moulding to her body and her hair plastered to her scalp. She shivered; the rain was cold and the sudden shift from steamy jungle to icy deluge came as a shock. 

The next shock came when warmth enveloped her, heavy, leathery, rum-scented warmth. Hook’s coat, flung over her shoulders. It did nothing to impede the sharp drops pounding against her skull but it stopped her shivering and kept most of the rain off her, especially after Hook flipped up the collar to shield her face and tugged at the lapels to wrap the coat snugly around her. 

Emma slipped her arms through the sleeves and took hold of the lapels herself, casting a glance up at Hook as she did. He was as drenched as she, more so now, with water running in rivulets down his face and concern in his blue eyes as he released the lapels, then frowned at the sky. 

“We should find shelter,” he said. “There’s no telling how long this will last.” 

He took her hand and she made no protest, using one of hers to hold the coat closed while the other curled around his fingers and held tight. His hand was warm despite the cold rain, large and slightly rough. Emma shivered again, and not from cold this time. She could still remember the feel of that hand in her hair, its rough skin catching on the soft strands... his thumb stroking across her cheek... the hitch in his breath... the look in his eyes…

Not the time, Emma, she reminded herself. Not now. 

Possibly not ever. 

He led her through the jungle, his stride sure and unfaltering in defiance of the blinding downpour. When they came to a copse of trees even denser than the rest he plunged into it with no hesitation, shoving the branches aside and tugging her forward, and when he let the branches go again their thick foliage muffled the deafening thrum of the rain and Emma felt herself relax. 

They were in a cave, she realised. One not that different from Neal’s, if somewhat smaller and surprisingly snug, with a lone torch on the wall and no drawings. She felt Hook move behind her, felt a slight tug on the coat as he reached into its pocket and withdrew his piece of flint. With that and his hook he managed to light the torch after only a few tries, and Emma bit back a quip about how much easier it would have been to use the lighter except oh, yeah, he’d lost it in the Dark Hollow by being an asshole. 

It was probably not the time for that either, she reflected. Not when they were stuck here together, trapped by a furious storm. Instead she watched as he stepped close to her again to slip the flint back in his pocket, watched the play of the soft torchlight across his features and the flex of muscle beneath his clinging shirt. She and Hook, alone in this small space, together, drenched to the skin. For who even knew how long. Emma swallowed hard and looked away. 

“What is this place?” she asked. 

“It’s a cave, Swan,” he replied, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. She rolled her eyes. 

“I know that. But what cave? Who lived here?” 

“No one.” 

“Hook, there’s a torch on the wall and a bed over there. Someone lived here.” She turned back to him, took in his guarded expression and tense posture, and then she understood. “It was you, wasn’t it? This was your place.” 

He gave a shrug. “I remained on my ship for most of my time in this land. But there were occasions when, yes, I stayed here. Stayed, not lived. It was… a haven of sorts. But never a home.” 

Like Tinkerbell’s tree house, thought Emma. Like her mother’s hollow log. Like so many of the foster homes and alleyways and back seats of cars where she’d once spent her own nights. She nodded. 

“Yeah. I get it.” 

Once again that connection flashed between them, as it had on the beanstalk, after the Dark Hollow, before that kiss... Hook’s shoulders relaxed and his lips curled into a smile. A softer smile than she’d ever seen from him, open and earnest and with no hint of flirtation in it. A smile that dimpled his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that should not be as attractive as it was. His voice was soft as well, and low, sending warmth tingling across her skin. “We might as well settle in,” he said. “Storms like this one have been known to last for days.” 

Emma shook herself from her reverie. “Days!” she exclaimed. 

“Aye. Not always, though. Let’s hope this is one of the shorter ones.” 

“How long do the shorter ones last?” 

“Hours. Like I said, settle in.” 

He gestured to the mattress set against the back wall, atop a sort of platform made of stones and rough-hewn wooden boards. Emma hesitated for only a moment before striding over, prodding it experimentally with her finger, then gingerly sitting down. It was soft and springy, and when she shifted her weight it released a faint, dusty smell of hay. 

Her boots were so wet that her toes within them made a squelching noise, so she pulled them off, followed by her socks. These she draped over the end of one of the boards, then curled up with her bare feet tucked beneath her and made herself as comfortable as she could, leaning against the wall and burrowing deep into the warmth of Hook’s coat. 

She could sense his gaze on her, focused and intent, and when she glanced up the look in his eyes set her heartbeat racing and her brain scrambling to think of something—anything—to say that might distract them both from the reality of where they were, the intimacy of it, how little space there was and how long they might have to stay there, alone together. 

“It smells really good,” she blurted, then immediately wanted to kick herself. “I mean, um, I haven’t been in a lot of caves but I guess I would have expected them to be, I don’t know, mustier? Does that make sense?” 

Stop babbling, you idiot. 

She had no idea how caves were supposed to smell and cared even less, but she’d die before she let Hook find out that her muddled brain had not actually meant the cave smelled good at all. The warm, spicy scent tickling her nose was the same one she remembered clinging to his skin during their kiss. It clung to his coat as well, of course, stronger now that the rain was no longer washing it away, and made her light-headed as she fought the urge to bury her face in the leather and just breathe. 

Hook, fortunately, gave no indication that he noticed her discomfiture. “I expect it’s just the island,” he said. “Whatever keeps its inhabitants young also seems to hold other things in a sort of stasis. Despite all the rain there’s not actually much decay here.”

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That’s... actually a bit creepy.” 

“Neverland, love. Creepy is its byword. Although, now, I wonder...” His eyes lit with speculation and he strode across the small space to the wall opposite the bed where a small pile of rocks lay. She couldn’t see what he was doing but she could hear his muttered curses and the shifting of the rocks and then he said “Aha. Here it is.” 

“Here what is?” 

Hook turned to her with a triumphant grin. “Something to keep us warm,” he replied, holding up a bottle. 

“Rum, I’m guessing,” snorted Emma. 

“Naturally.” He smirked at her. “But also this.” 

He crossed the cave again sat down next to her on the mattress, tucking the rum between his knees and handing her a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth. She unwrapped it and frowned at the contents. 

“What is this? Beef jerky?” 

“Is that what you call beef that’s been salted, smoked, and dried?” 

“Um. I think so?” 

“Then yes, this is beef jerky. I’ve always known it as boucan.” 

“Huh.” Emma poked at the dark brown strips of meat. “How long has it been here?” 

“Oh, a good forty years I’d reckon.” He grinned at her. “But that’s a mere blink of the eye in Neverland. It’s fine. Here, look.” He took a piece and bit into it. Emma watched him as he chewed, watched his jaw work and his throat flex as he swallowed, and felt her own throat go dry. “See?” he said. “It’s perfectly fine. Try some.” 

Gingerly, she selected a piece and took a tiny bite. It was intensely smoky and very salty, but so good and she realised to her surprise that she was starving. Her stomach gave a loud, gurgling rumble and Hook laughed, the cords in his neck straining beneath skin still damp from the rain, illuminated by the torchlight’s glow. Emma stuffed the rest of the jerky into her mouth and concentrated on chewing it.

When she dared look at Hook again, he was watching her with another of his looks, this one soft and indulgent, the corners of his mouth quirked in a faint smile. Her belly clenched. 

“So what do you think?” he asked. 

“Hmm?” 

“About the boucan?” 

“Oh. It’s, um, it’s good. Salty though.” 

He picked up the rum bottle and pulled its cork out with his teeth. “Quench your thirst, love?” he asked. 

Emma looked at the bottle, then the pirate, then the bottle again, listened to the pounding of the rain outside and the felt the equally intense pounding of her heart. She weighed it all in the balance, then threw her caution to the wind. 

“Why the hell not?” she muttered, grabbed the rum, and drank. 

—

When she awoke the next morning the rain had stopped. Emma vaguely registered the absence of the dull roar of rushing water and was grateful for its lack. Her head was throbbing and her mouth cotton-dry, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep for another hundred years or so. She burrowed deeper into her pillow with a groan. 

“Ahem.” 

The sound of a very pointed throat-clearing penetrated her sluggish brain and the realisation that she was not alone had her eyes flying open. Only then did she realise that her head was resting not on a pillow at all but on Hook’s bare chest as they lay together on the narrow bed, she curled up on her side still swathed in his coat and his arm around her waist, fingers curled over her hip, holding her close. 

Their clothes, she was relieved to note, were still on. 

 From the look on David’s face though, they may as well have been naked. 

“What the hell is this?” her father seethed. Emma jolted backwards, scrambling out of Hook’s embrace and wrapping the coat more tightly around her. Behind David, she noted with dismay, stood Mary Margaret and Neal—she looking disappointed and he incredulous—with Tinkerbell bringing up the rear, smirking at Hook. 

Hook sat up and ran his hand over his face. “Relax, Dave,” he said. “No need for the tone. We got caught in the rain, came here for shelter, drank some rum to keep warm, and fell asleep. I don’t think pistols at dawn or the business end of your sword will be required.”

“And that’s all?” demanded Neal. “You just slept?”

Hook’s eyes flashed dangerously but he held his temper. “That’s all,” he confirmed. “I may be a pirate but I am always a gentleman. Not that it’s really any of your concern. ” 

Neal’s cheeks flushed red and opened his mouth to reply, but David spoke first. “Let’s get out of here, then,” he said. “Pan showed up this morning with a new message about Henry and we’ve got to act fast.” 

Emma scrambled to her feet then realised they were still bare and sat down again to tug on her socks. “What was it?” she demanded. “What was the message?”

“Let’s get back to camp and we’ll show you,” said David grimly. Emma nodded and shoved on her boots as quickly as she could before following her father out of the cave. She didn’t look back. 

It wasn’t until much, much later, after many reproachful looks from her mother and wounded ones from Neal, speculative ones from Tinkerbell and an amused one from Pan himself that she realised she was still wearing Hook’s coat. 

—

NOW WITH AMAZING ART by @cocohook38​

[capitaineathos]

I finally wrote something! Here is my Musketeers Summer Solstice gift for @number-of-the-beast-is-666 :)

It's kinda self indulgent fluff, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

~~~~~

Porthos loves his little flower shop. Thinking about where he came from, how he grew up, how his life could have gone, he's proud of how far he’s come. He's built his tiny business from the ground up and the work brings him joy. He has a small base of regular clientele and plenty of orders on his online shop to keep him busy. His arrangements are known for their beauty and for their affordability, and Porthos takes pride in each and every one. He loves his little shop and he knows he always will.

~~~~~

Aramis loves the little flower shop on the corner. He remembers the first time he'd visited; a particularly difficult therapy session had left him feeling low and his counsellor had suggested that he buy himself some flowers to bring some joy to his home. He remembers how sceptical he'd been, how he'd scoffed at the idea, yet found himself drawn to the little shop on his way home anyway. He remembers the warm smile of the florist; his kindness and the joyful enthusiasm that seemed to radiate from every pore. The florist – he gave his name as Porthos – had suggested a bouquet of sunflowers, bright and warm and happy, and Aramis had felt just a little of the despair lift from his heart.

To this day, sunflowers are his favourite bloom.

Now, more than six months later, Aramis is a regular customer at the little shop. He comes to buy himself a bouquet every two weeks, striving to always keep flowers alive in his home. And if it means that he can see the florist’s smile, it will always be worth the price.

Yes, Aramis loves the little flower shop on the corner and he knows he always will.

~~~~~

Today, the shipment is of roses. Porthos likes to stock blooms of various colours; red and yellow and orange and pink, and various hybrid combinations of the four. He unpacks each flower carefully, his calloused fingers always deft and gentle in every movement. He knows that the slightest hint of roughness can bruise the delicate petals and he has grown used to the tender care that they require. And with St Valentines Day fast approaching, he knows he must preserve as many of these roses as possible.

He begins to cut the stems, fingers quickly staining green as the chlorophyll comes in contact with his skin. He finds that he doesn’t mind the stains so much now; not like he did at first. They are part of him now, and they are part of a job that he loves with all of his heart and soul. A fresh smell, the freshness of the flowers that he surrounds himself with, is already clinging to his hands, and will do for the rest of the day. And the sweet, perfumed scent of the roses will linger just as long, perhaps allowing him a whiff even as he falls asleep at the end of a long day’s work.

Cutting stems is repetitive and time consuming and, though he considers himself to be rather good at it, it is inevitable that some of the roses are cut too short to be useful for his bouquets. For Porthos prides himself on quality and he likes to make his bouquets as perfect as they can be. So any roses that are too short, or slightly bruised, or otherwise not quite adequate, are set aside and Porthos laments that he has no use for them. Though they may not be quite perfect, they are still beautiful and could still bring someone joy. Briefly, he wonders if he could take them by the local retirement home after work.

However, his thoughts are soon interrupted as a cheery tone sounds from the front of the shop, signalling that a customer has entered. Leaving his roses aside for the moment, Porthos emerges from the back room to stand by the counter, should he need to offer assistance.

When he sees who has entered his shop, his heart skips a beat.

He sees Aramis often, and the two of them have become amiable acquaintances, but Porthos can’t help the quickening of his breath and the frantic thrumming of his heart that always occurs when the other man enters his shop. He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and tries to calm the fluttering in his chest.

But when Aramis turns to smile at him, his legs suddenly feel weak under his weight and he has to swallow a sudden burst of nerves.

“Good morning, Aramis,” he says, proud of how level his voice sounds. “Is it time for your next bouquet already?”

Aramis laughs and the sound is almost melodic; clear and bright as a church bell.

“Am I so predictable?” he asks. “I was actually hoping that your sunflowers might be back in season. As much as I love the other bouquets you made for me with the chrysanthemums and carnations and such, I’ve really missed having my sunflowers around.”

Porthos sighs softly. He knows of a perfect bouquet that he could make for Aramis – with bright sunflowers and vibrant irises in a bed of green foliage – but the sunflowers won’t be in season for a few months – not until May at the earliest. And Porthos hates the thought of disappointing Aramis; even the idea of it leaves a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Yet, there really isn’t much that he can do.

Aramis must see it in his eyes, because his bright, charming smile falters ever so slightly, even though he tries hard to hide it.

“I assume they aren’t in season yet then? Oh well! Do you still have any of those carnations?”

Porthos helps him to find a bouquet; warm and bright and colourful, just like Aramis himself. It is full of chrysanthemums and carnations and camellias and Porthos almost thinks that it might be one of his best.

Aramis certainly seems delighted with it and, as he comes to the counter to pay, promising to come and pick it up after running a few more errands, he casually asks;

“So, do you have any plans for St Valentines?”

Porthos shakes his head. It has been a long time since he celebrated the day with a significant other, but he hardly minds. He has always believed that having many relationships is much less important than having the right ones, so he has been waiting for the right person to come along.

Looking at Aramis, he almost allows himself to hope that it will be worth the wait.

Yet, he is still surprised when he hears the soft laugh from the other man.

“Me neither. The whole thing may seem rather cliché, but I actually quite enjoy being swept off my feet every once in a while, so it'll be a shame to spend it alone.”

Porthos opens his mouth to apologise, but Aramis holds up a hand to stop him before a single syllable can pass his lips.

“No, it’s ok. I’ve had enough fooling around. I want to find the right person; the one who I'll hopefully spend the rest of my life with.”

Aramis slides the money across the counter and their fingers brush; only ever so slightly, and only for a moment, but Porthos swears that he feels a jolt of electricity surging through his veins.

He looks at Aramis and wonders if he feels it too.

But Aramis says nothing, just smiles and turns to leave.

Porthos watches him for a moment, then forces himself to draw his eyes away from Aramis' retreating figure, to begin sorting the money into the till. But then he finds something unexpected hidden amongst the bills; a small slip of paper with a hastily scribbled number scrawled upon it. For a moment, Porthos can’t move, he can barely even breathe. All he can do is stare at the slip of paper in his trembling hands, barely even able to believe that the moment is real.

However, the sound of the door opening quickly breaks the spell and the words have escaped him before he even has time to think;

“Aramis, wait!”

There is a pause, and then Aramis is peering around the doorframe, one eyebrow quirked in silent question.

“Please... just... wait just one second?” Porthos asks, and Aramis nods in response. Porthos feels a slight weight lift from his chest as he ducks into the back room and collects up the roses that he had previously set aside. He collects them into as neat a group as he is able, though it is nothing like the quality of his usual work. He ties some yellow ribbon around the stems and returns to the front of the shop.

As he offers Aramis the roses, too nervous to say a word, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. In that moment, the entire world is Aramis and Porthos isn’t sure whether he’s about to watch his world crumble.

But then Aramis smiles, warm and bright and beautiful, and breathing seems just a little easier.

“Porthos, they’re beautiful!”

“Just like you,” Porthos whispers, and Aramis’ cheeks turn a dusty shade of pink. He takes the roses and cradles them to his chest as he leans in to gently brush his lips against Porthos' cheek.

“You will call me, won't you?” he asks, and Porthos doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so nervous. Aramis is so bold and loud and cheerful, yet he seems so shy as he asks the question. He can barely meet Porthos' gaze, instead choosing to look down at his feet, and all Porthos wants to do is look into those eyes and fill them with hope and joy.

So he gently places a finger beneath Aramis' chin and tilts his face up until their eyes meet, and he smiles.

“I promise.”

It’s two simple words, but Porthos can see how happy they’ve made Aramis. His smile seems brighter, the tension has eased from his shoulders, his eyes are sparkling with excitement. He is beautiful, and Porthos suddenly needs him more than he needs air.

It is instinct and it takes him by surprise, but he leans in and gently catches Aramis' lips with his own. Aramis melts into his arms and Porthos settles his hands on his hips. His hold is gentle, treating Aramis as tenderly as one of his precious roses. For Aramis is like the flowers; precious and beautiful and fragile, and he deserves the same tender care.

It only lasts for a moment, the soft pressure of Aramis’ lips against his own, but Porthos could swear that no moment will ever be as perfect.

Aramis smiles at him, one hand coming to rest against his cheek.

“Call me,” he whispers again and Porthos nods, forcing himself to take a breath and finding that all he wants is Aramis.

“Absolutely.”

[alottanothing]

Left to Ruin: Chapter Two

Summary: The young prince meets a servant girl called Nouke. The two become best friends, spending many days in the West Garden. As Ahkmenrah grows older, he learns that he must sacrifice his time with his friend to learn the lessons his father has to teach him. Responsibilities shift and Ahk and Nouke’s friendship is tested.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 5939   

Warnings: none      

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe​, @r-ahh-mi​, @theultraviolencefan​, @hah0106​, @rami-malek-trash​, @diasimar​, @sherlollydramoine​, @flipper-kisses​, @ivy-miranda-2390​, @txmel​, @sunkissedmikky​, @concentratedsassandcandy​, @babyalienfairy​ (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: I’m so SO glad y’all are enjoying this so far! Thanks a million for the likes, the reblogs, the comments and the gif responses! They make me smile!! 🥰 Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible

In the westernmost part of the palace was a garden, small in comparison to the grand courtyards were the king and queen hosted festivals throughout the year, but lusher and inherently more magical by far. On every side, the green paradise was surrounded by sturdy walls of sand-colored stone, apart from the open corridor that led back into the palace. The majority of those protective walls sat hidden by abundant foliage; lilies and shrubs and trees that fostered the illusion of no barriers at all.

At the center of the garden was a fountain with wide ledges perfect to sit and marvel at the prisms that danced across the surface of the water where lily pads floated. The air was always fragrant. Jasmine and lotus bloomed in abundance; their sweet perfume coupled with the fresh air created a welcomed reprieve from the scent of torch fire and papyrus that permeated the palace corridors. Beds of grass grew between the footstones and pathways while large palm trees sprung from the earth; their fanned leaves offering shade for the hottest afternoons. Within those walls, amid the green and vibrant blossoms, Shepseheret watched each of her children grow and play for many years.

That glittering, private oasis- nestled in a palace of gold, was Ahkmenrah’s favorite place in the world. Fore in that garden everything was soft and whimsical unlike the stone walls he called home. And in the shining green gem of a garden, the young prince met Anuksamun.

She was his age, with long wavy hair and skin a tone or two darker than his own. Her eyes were brown, but they sparkled like amber in the sunlight--not that Ahkmenrah paid much attention to such things at the age of six. It wasn't for many years that those flakes of gold would make his heart flutter.

Anuksamun was the daughter of Maketaten: the queen’s maidservant and dear friend. Her father, Ramentukah was a soldier in the pharaoh’s army. The three of them lived humbly in the palace with many of the other servants--happy for the shelter the king and queen provided in return for their service and loyalty. It never occurred to Ahkmenrah that he was (as some would claim) better than his friend; all he knew was that she loved the West Garden just as much as he did.

Every evening, Ahkmenrah would gleefully follow his mother and baby sister to the garden, excited to see his friend. The queen and her maidservant would lounge in one of the patches of grass or on the edge of the fountain watching their children play; ducking in and out of the foliage or splashing in the cool waters of the central pool when the desert heat was significantly stifling.

Ahkmenrah never felt like a prince when he was chasing after his friend, giggling as the fresh air swept through his curls as he ran. She only ever called him “Ahk”; never once did she speak of him with the title of “my prince” like so many others. He loved that shortened version of his name. Every time she called for him; it made him smile, and in return, he called her Nouke--a name that found her smiling back at him just as widely.

While the sun was high overhead, Ahkmenrah was with his father, learning what it meant to rule a vast empire. Those mornings and afternoons never lent the same joy he found in the evenings with Nouke in the garden. Nevertheless, the prince cherished the teachings his father gifted unto him. He felt a sense of pride when he stood at his father’s side during civil meetings in the throne room and council meetings. Every aspect was enthralling for his young mind.

The older Ahkmenrah grew, the more he understood and admired the way his father ruled. Merenkahre was firm when he had to be but often kind when the circumstances could warrant gentleness. The respect he bestowed upon his subjects and advisors never went unreciprocated, and Ahkmenrah noted it all; filing it away safely in his mind, so he could remember in the future. He yearned to show the same devotion and compassion to the people of Egypt when it was his turn to wear the crown. The prince learned quickly and eagerly.

No matter how old he grew, or how long his lessons would take, Ahkmenrah would always return to the West Garden. The moment his father’s teaching would come to a close, the prince would thank him for his wisdom and guidance then run through the halls until he was encompassed in the magic of the lush green, and reunited with his favorite person in all the palace.

Since meeting Nouke, Ahkmenrah always missed her. Her spirit matched his own: that unwavering need for adventure. Nouke was warm like the sun but always changing like the moon; she constantly kept him guessing, and it thrilled him. Every game was her idea, and Ahkmenrah never failed to follow her lead- whatever it may be. The whole of his childhood was written within the limits of that garden, and when he was with Nouke, he wasn’t a prince of Egypt--shackled from birth to his duty. He was just Ahk; no more, no less.

For six years that was the routine Ahkmenrah was used to: days with his father and evenings with his friend. However, as they got older, a piece of him came to realize that before long, their adventures in the serenity of the garden would come to an end. By the time he was twelve, most of his lessons ate into the hours the prince was used to spending with Nouke. It made him sad to think of her alone in their garden with no one to keep her company, but a large part of him understood how important it was to learn his father’s trade. He could only hope that she understood too.

It was exceptionally hot the afternoon Ahkmenrah followed his father out of the palace and into the training yards located on the grounds. He’d often heard his brother speak of the open field where the pharaoh’s soldiers trained along with the Medjay. It was a new sight and Ahkmenrah’s hunger for adventure lent him attentive eyes. Men and boys, most around his age, were practicing with all manners of weapons; spears, bows, and the khopesh. Ahkmenrah watched them all, wondering why his father had brought him to such a place.

“Three times a week, we will be meeting here so that you may learn to defend yourself,” his father noted as though he had heard his son’s thoughts.

Merenkahre stopped a good distance away from the other sparing soldiers and turned to face his son. Kamuzu stood at his side, holding the same stoic expression that Ahkmenrah could never really make heads or tails of. The Medjay deftly removed the khopesh from its place on his hip and offered it wordlessly to the prince. Ahkmenrah’s brows furrowed and he blinked at the curved blade apprehensively, confused as to how this lesson applied to being king.

“Take it,” his father encouraged, easily drawing his own matching weapon. “Test its weight.”

Ahkmenrah bit his lip, eyeing the khopesh wearily a moment more before obeying. A gasp escaped his lungs in mild shock when the heavy weapon fell from his hands, and into the dirt--it was much heavier than he had thought. Quickly, he retrieved the blade and held it with a firm, two-handed grip, looking sheepishly back to his father. The ghost of a smile played around Merenkahre’s lips, which put Ahkmenrah more at ease.

“Test its weight,” he said again, slowly gliding his own blade through the air with one hand.

Ahkmenrah mimicked the movements as best he could; the weapons cumbersome weight almost too difficult for him to manage properly.

“Very good,” Merenkahre grinned.

“Am I going to learn everything as Kahmunrah has?” Ahkmenrah asked, suddenly more interested to learn.

His older brother only liked weapons and fighting; he found no beauty in gardens or shared the young princes' sense of adventure. Thus, Ahkmenrah knew; Kah never wanted to be the big brother he wanted. But if he learned to fight, maybe he would like him more--the prince hoped so anyway.

A slight frown tinted the pharaoh’s expression, but he quickly hid it. “To a degree, I will teach you bow and spear and khopesh until you are comfortable enough with each.”

“Oh,” Ahk said, slightly disappointed. Kah only liked people who were as skilled as he was. “Okay.”

Ahkmenrah followed his father’s guidance, swinging the blade how he was instructed in repetitive motions, each one faster than the last until the weapon no longer felt so clumsy in his hands.

It was weeks before he was truly at ease with any kind of weapon in his hand. Still, he knew he would never harbor the same joy his brother seemed to when it came to such things.

“Am I going to learn how to strategize war next?” Ahkmenrah asked idly after a long day in the training yard.

His muscles ached as he walked back to the palace alongside his father and Kamuzu. Merenkahre didn’t answer right away, taking his time to think as his features grew pensive, causing Ahkmenrah to wonder what it was about his question that warranted such careful study.

“Your Consul of Montu will be responsible for such dealings,” Merenkahre decided, finally. “You must trust his word, should a time ever come that you need such knowledge."

That made sense, but Ahkmenrah pressed anyway, “but didn’t you know how to--”

“I learned because my father needed men to fight in wars he wanted no part of,” Meren explained sternly. “Do you plan to seek out war during your reign?”

Ahkmenrah shook his head, folding under his father’s unusually intense gaze, “No.”

“Then what you have learned will suffice,” the pharaoh’s expression lightened as they neared the palace. “We are done for today. Your mother tells me you are missing a friend of yours--go.”

Ahkmenrah’s face lit up, all previous thought of war and fighting long behind him. He quickly thanked his father and took off running.

The sun had only begun to sink into the distant horizon when Ahkmenrah made it to his favorite garden. He'd only stopped on his journey long enough to scrounge up a snack that he could share. As a servant, Nouke and her family were given small rations and often went hungry--a thought the prince hated. It only took her offhandedly mentioning she’d gone without one day for Ahkmenrah to make a habit of bringing something from his own, abundant supply. She had refused the first time, too proud it seemed to want his help; it was only when he offered to share that Nouke would accept his offerings. He would purposely eat slower, letting her take as much as she needed, and he would smile; happy to have helped his friend.

Nouke sat on the edge of the shallow pool; her dark hair pulled into a loose braid- the slightly darker tan pigment of her skin glowing in Ra’ s golden rays. Her face was turned away, eyes fixated on the lily pad she glided over the water's surface in absent motions. Even from a distance, and without the benefit of seeing her face, Ahkmenrah could tell a sadness had taken root in her. Something even the magic of their treasured garden could not properly deter. How long had it been since he had seen her? Days? Weeks? Much too long.

Her somber aura shifted however when Nouke caught sight of him with an idle glance. A gasp sounded on a quick inhale when her eyes met his--the lily pad forgotten. All of the gloom that had been constricting her spirit no longer bound her. She dazzled him with a smile that matched the sparkle in her eyes, and when she ran to greet him, she did so on fumbling feet, excitement quickening her gait to nearly a fault. Catching the blunder painted a grin onto the prince's lips as his pace hastened too, eager to be near her.

“Ahk!” Nouke’s honey-sweet tone was like a song to his ears after weeks of nothing but his father’s gruff voice in his head. 

The sound alone was enough to pull his smile tighter and prompt his heart to beat more fervently (for whatever reason). Unceremoniously, she threw her arms around his shoulders, enveloping him with a friendly embrace, with sufficient force to almost send Ahkmenrah stumbling backward.

“I thought maybe you’d forgotten me.”

“Never,” he assured her, returning her hug with just as much warmth.

She was smiling even brighter than before when they pulled apart, her eyes meeting his gladly.

“Sorry I’ve been away so long,” Ahk said, brandishing a peace offering: a linen-wrapped bundle of fresh dates and figs to share.

She glanced at the proffered fruit, then back to him with silent rejoice before tugging him by the arm across the garden to one of the shady patches of grass. She gave his arm another yank, tugging him down to sit beside her.  The cool patch of grass was a welcome contrast to the hours he spent under the sun in the training yard. He sat with his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands relishing in the soft textures and the company of his friend. Nouke waited patiently for him to pass her a portion of the food he had brought--like usual--and together they ate in content silence.

“I missed you,” Nouke said suddenly, in a rather sheepish tone that was unbefitting of her usual ebullient demeanor.

When the prince chanced to meet her gaze, he found she had spoken more to her food than to him, still, he smiled. He was so used to her exuberance, but he liked this timorous side of her as well.

“I missed you too,” Ahk said, sliding her the last two dates.

He could have eaten them easily, having worked up an apatite swinging a blade around the better part of an afternoon, but he had the luxury of ample meals whenever he called for one, unlike her.

The shy exterior melted into the lively attitude he was accustomed to, which had always lent a fullness inside of him that he couldn’t quite place. Nouke was the only person he knew to incite such a feeling.

“What is it your father’s been teaching you?” she asked, noshing on the last piece of fruit.

A tiny frown worked onto Ahk’s features, the shift in the curve of his mouth enough to elicit a slight ache in the muscles of his face. Nouke had always been curious about his lessons, and usually, he was happy to tell her the wisdom his father offered. However, after so much time away, Ahk didn’t want to discuss topics that had been pounded into his brain since he was six.

Ahkmenrah pulled absently at the green blades, and bit his bottom lip as he shrugged, “A lot of the same……just more.”

He sighed and when he caught her thin frown, he mustered a smile for her benefit, not wanting to burden her with his own troubles. It wasn’t right for him to complain, especially to her.

“He has been teaching me how to fight like Kahmunrah.”

“Oh?” she frowned, more out of wariness than sadness, but only briefly. “That must be fun. Is your brother helping?”

Ahk shook his head, “No.”

When he told his big brother that he was learning to fight, Ahkmenrah hoped it would spark some sort of kinship between them--a shared interest. Even a hint of intrigue would have been something. Instead, Kah had scoffed and pushed him out of his way. He didn’t understand why his brother treated him so.

“Sometimes I wish my father would make Kahmunrah pharaoh instead of me.”

Nouke glanced at him, surprise pressing a furrow onto her brow, “Why?”

Ahk shrugged, “I don’t want to spend my whole life in a palace. Kah isn’t going to be pharaoh, and he has traveled and seen so many places. I want to see them too.”

Nouke grew quiet, and he watched her thoughts manifest in waves of her pensive expressions, until a smile steadily unfurled across her features. Ahk smiled too, a reflex reaction to seeing her face light up with restored spirit.

“I think I know a way you can have a little adventure,” she told him before he could ask what had prompted her grin.

When she didn’t impart more of an explanation, intrigue contorted the prince’s face, his question written in the hook of his brow. Without a word, she tugged him off the cushion of grass and to his feet; he barely had time to find his footing before she was yanking him deeper into the garden. Ahkmenrah knew better than to ask where it was she was taking him; he followed her lead and reveled in the surge of thrill the mystery brought.

Nouke led him to the westernmost edges of the garden, skillfully cutting through the dense foliage that hid the towering wall until they were in the small space between the green brush and sand-colored stones. She stood for a moment, her hand still gripping his as she studied the bricks carefully.

“Nouke?” the prince asked, his eyes bouncing between her and the wall, then back to her.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she surrendered his grasp and began pushing gently on individual stones, causing Ahk’s confusion to grow. He was about to ask her again when one of the bricks fell loose to the other side with a quiet thud.

“Found it!” Nouke beamed proudly.

Ahk’s mouth hung agape in awe, blinking as she pushed more of the bricks free until the breach was large enough to crawl through.

“How…?” 

“I had a lot of time to explore when you stopped visiting,” she explained with a shrug.

Ahk frowned, “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay. Now are you gonna follow me on an adventure or stay in these walls?”

She was already climbing through the opening with ease as she spoke. The prince bit his lip as he smiled and nodded. His heart was pounding and his whole body tingled with excitement; of course, he was going to follow his friend on an adventure--he would follow her anywhere.

“Kamuzu!” Ahk shouted, knowing it would be better to have someone to watch out for them than not.

“No,” Nouke frowned, gazing at him with concern from the other side of the wall.

“It’s okay, he won’t tell anyone where we go. He'll just protect us,” he promised with a grin and deftly climbed through.

The sensation of hot sand beneath his feet for the first time was one the prince would never forget; it’s soft but coarse texture so alien but grand. Hundreds of tiny grains shifted and moved heedlessly around his toes--free--like he suddenly was. Ahk had only ever known the packed dirt of the training yard and the hard stone corridors of the palace. Sand was new, and it pulled a tight smile onto his lips.

Directly on the other side of the garden wall was a stretch of rural landscape that grew more arid the further west he looked beyond the Nile. All of it open and dotted with sparse, dried foliage: land that had yet to be peppered with stone structures. Along the banks of the mighty river green sprouted creating a striking contrast to the surrounding dry sands. It was like stepping from one magical garden into another, but this one had no walls.

Something ethereal washed over Ahkmenrah as he took in the grandeur of it all; the sights and smells and the horizon stretching out endlessly with nothing to keep him from running to where the sun was sinking into it. Everything he knew was encased in stone walls. It would have been so easy to venture into that vast countryside, but that sense of duty, that had been all but bred into him, kept him where he stood--yearning.

Nouke was already strolling along the riverbank, free of the yoke of responsibility. He was envious, to a degree, but not enough to hinder the joy he felt seeing her so uninhibited wading in the waters of the Nile. His feet sank into the sands as he stood watching her, finding the grains growing colder the deeper he rooted. Ahk wanted to follow her; he found himself glancing over his shoulder to the hole he had crawled out of.

Kamuzu managed to fit through and placed himself at the prince’s side, wearing the same stoical expression he always did.

“My father wouldn’t approve of me being outside the walls like this,” Ahk mused.

Kamuzu’s austere features softened, and one side of his mouth quirked into a slight smile, “Then we simply won’t tell him.”

With a nodding gesture, the Medjay encouraged the prince to join his friend. It was enough permission to chase away the invisible tether keeping his feet from moving, and with a flash of white teeth, Ahkmenrah grinned and ran to catch up with Nouke.

“Come feel the water, Ahk!” Nouke said, pulling him into the steadily flowing current of the Nile.

The water was up to their knees, and the cool rush around his legs was akin to the sand under his feet. The undeniable essence of life flowed around him, invigorating his senses and tingled every nerve in his body. The stagnant water in the pool of his garden would never compare to the constantly moving surge of the Nile. Ahk paid no attention to how wet his fine linen garments became; he wanted to stand there forever, feet buried in the soft river bed, water flowing freely around him as the sun warmed his shoulders. Nouke, however, took his hand and pulled him along with the current. The further from the palace they strode the less weight Ahkmenrah felt on his shoulders. There, he was just Ahk, and that was enough for him.

That stretch of bank along the mighty river became their second favorite place to venture. Many evenings that followed, Nouke and Ahk would tuck themselves away in their new oasis, a secret hideaway that allowed the masks of their reality to fall, letting them each be more and less than who they were meant to be.

*** 

Like the ever-changing waters of the Nile and the shifting desert's sand, the passage of time reshaped even the closest of paths. Responsibilities grew more significant as they grew older; placing a very irrefutable wedge between Ahkmenrah and his friend from the garden. Though they oft fought it.

At thirteen, Nouke was no longer simply a child of a maidservant, but a servant herself. She was expected to see to many chores at any hour, keeping her from the garden of her youth. As for the prince, his time of wistful adventure ran out too; Ahkmenrah was rarely out of his father’s sight. Merenkahre’s lessons shifted into actions. The pharaoh had taken to surrendering his seat on the throne or at the council, allowing the prince a taste of the future that awaited him.

The first time his father sprung such a notion onto his shoulders, Ahkmenrah was sure his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. Every eye was on him, bearing down with a scrutiny that made his throat dry, and his palms sweat. He knew it was a test, one that he had been studying for most of his life. However, despite the years of shadowing his father’s every move, hearing his every command and testament, Ahkmenrah felt entirely out of his element. All his lessons were lost somewhere in the haze of his mind, and he desperately scrambled to recall what he had stored away. The only comfort was his father at his side.

Meren stood, mostly in silence, watching, lending quiet guidance, and solidarity. Even so, Ahkmenrah spent his first time as a ruler, with a white-knuckled grip to the armrest’s of the throne to keep his hands from shaking. That first time was the hardest. In the tests that followed, however, Ahkmenrah's confidence built more and more until he could present himself with the same regality of his father.

After a month of afternoons seeing to civil matters and addressing the council like a king, Ahkmenrah had never been more comfortable with the path the gods had laid before him. However, despite the comfort he felt, the notion of being pharaoh--and not just playing at it--had not yet taken hold. In his mind, he still had much to learn, but when his father summoned him to an early council meeting to discuss how much he'd learned in such a short amount of time; Ahkmenrah knew, his time as ruler was fast approaching.

That particular council meeting began like any other. Merenkahre sat at his normal seat at the head of the table while Ahkmenrah sat attentively next to his brother a few seats away. Most of the talk was the usual chatter: matters that ranged from trivial to pressing. Each warranted equal amounts of discussion regardless of how frivolous--a lesson Ahk learned early much to his childish frustration. When all other affairs had been seen to properly, Merenkahre stood, causing a hush to befall the room.

“My friends, there is but one matter remaining that I wish to discuss,” the pharaoh’s line of sight moved to his youngest son, and Ahk shifted, suddenly nervous. “I have been blessed in my time as pharaoh, and it is my wish that the same will be for the pharaoh who follows me.”

Merenkahre smiled proudly upon Ahkmenrah and gestured for the other men to follow his gaze. “As you are all aware, it was my intention to crown Ahkmenrah during his fifteenth year. But, during these past few weeks, he has shown wisdom beyond his years, and aptitude that far surpassed mine at his age.”

Ahkmenrah’s stomach twisted into a knot, and his heart was beating rapidly. Still, the prince held onto his composure, listening to his father, while sneaking side glances to Kahmunrah--seeing his indifferent expression meld into a disapproving sneer.

“Thus, I feel it is time, that I step aside and let Ahkmenrah take his place among Egypt's mighty pharaohs.” Merenkahre finished, holding his prideful simper.

A commotion broke out within the chamber as advisors sang praise to the pharaoh’s wisdom, all but one. Kahmunrah alone slouched into his chair, pouting, while the room congratulated the younger prince on his accomplishment. A lump grew in the back of Ahkmenrah’s throat; a cumulation of nerves, excitement, and a little guilt. No one had told Kahmunrah that he was never going to wear the crown, he figured it out on his own. And the bitterness it caused him had never been more palpable than in that moment.

Ahk swallowed that psychological clod in his throat before it grew large enough to choke him, and let his focus fall inward. A part of him considered forfeiting the crown with the demand that it be given to Kah so Ahkmenrah could spend his days exploring with Nouke. However, Ahkmenrah had endured years of teachings, and he wasn’t about to let his father’s teachings be for not. He didn’t want to let his father down, or his people. The prince wanted to be king, just not so soon.

“I’m not entirely sure he is prepared to rule, father,” Kahmunrah noted with an insouciant shrug.

Merenkahre shot his eldest son a vehement glare.

Kah raised his open palms as a sign of surrender, “I assure you; my reasoning does not come from my own desire to rule--”

“Then where?” Meren demanded.

“Your youngest son may possess the mind of a great ruler, but how can he rule the country if he does not know the country?”

The pharaoh’s intense leer waned as he considered Kah’s words thoroughly.

“I have seen much of this land,” Kah boasted. “The pyramids, where the Nile bleeds into the sea--I understand Egypt and her people. Ahkmenrah understands little more than the palace walls.”

The pensive expression on the pharaoh’s face melded back into a heavy suspicious leer.

“Are you suggesting that I crown you because you have seen all of these things?”

Kah’s jaw clenched as frustration strained his features, obviously upset his father gauged him with such mistrust. Nevertheless, Kahmunrah kept his tone even when he spoke his reply.

“My travels hardly give me merit to rule, father. I am simply suggesting the boy may appreciate the land and the people more if he sees them for himself.”

“Your son makes a fair point, my king,” one of the advisors noted.

“Yes,” another agreed. 

“And had you not seen much of the land and your people by the time you came to rule as well, father?” Kah added.

The pharaoh grew quiet again, rubbing his chin as he pondered. Ahk, however, sat, without finding words to speak, not entirely sure what was going to happen. It was rare Kah offered a suggestion that did not somehow benefit himself--Meren and Ahkmenrah knew that, which made the entire notion somewhat suspicious.

“And I suppose you want me to leave you in command while I am away with your brother?" Merenkahre tested, eyes growing narrow again.

Kah’s lips pressed into a firm line, his irritation becoming more difficult for him to stifle.

“You are the pharaoh, father. You will put into command whoever you think worthy,” his caustic tone matched his glance as he looked to Ahkmenrah and back to the pharaoh. “Just as you have always done.”

Ahk let his focus fall to the wood grain of the table in front of him, sinking lower in his chair, feeling Kah’s cold leer like daggers piercing his skin. He hated feeling guilty for something that was not completely his fault.

“Very well,” Merenkahre said finally. “I will think on this matter for a day, but it is likely the young prince, and I will soon be charting a course along the Nile.”

As the council adjourned, the apprehension that had been gnawing and tightening the knots in Ahkmenrah’s stomach slowly began to shift into something akin to excitement. Several of the advisors lingered, speaking to his father and brother about potential places to venture, but the prince didn’t stick around to learn where it was he and his father may be going. He liked the surprise.

It was early in the day, and he was sure there were to be more lessons awaiting him, but Ahkmenrah excused himself without a word, wanting nothing more at that moment then to share the good news with his best friend.

He went to their garden first in search of Nouke, but apart from the colorful birds, flitting throughout the greenery, it was empty. Curiosity pulled him deeper into the garden however, when his eyes scanned the furthest line of foliage, knowing the secret passage hidden behind the bushes. But, all the stones were as they should be; she was somewhere in the palace, and while a frown threatened to curl his lips downward, Akh would not let his excitement be hindered.

The prince wandered the grounds the better part of an hour before he found her among a group of maidservants, hanging washed linens to dry in the sunny courtyard. Immediately, Ahk's heart fluttered and beat faster and his smile spread across his face with tingling fervor. A chorus of surprised gasps echoed as he cut through the gathered women without ceremony. Some dropped to their knees while others bowed their heads respectfully, and all of them greeted him with a hushed “my, prince.” Nouke, however, beamed; giving him no such formal greeting. When Ahk took her hand, another gasp filled the open air of the courtyard, and the prince almost rolled his eyes at the drama of it all. Nouke didn’t ask when he whisked her away from her chores on hurried feet, she just laughed and held on to his hand like she would follow him wherever he wanted to take her.

Ahkmenrah was out of breath when he finally sat them down on the edge of the fountain in their garden. Nouke eyed him with amused confusion, waiting for his explanation with a soft smile painted on her lips.

“I have…to tell you…something…fantastic,” Ahk husked out between labored breaths.

Her dark eyes lit up, teaming with inquiry and that spirit he so admired. He took another moment or two to settle his breathing before he spoke.

“My father is going to take me on a trip to see the cities and landmarks of Egypt!” he was only vaguely aware of how fast he was talking; his excitement made it difficult for him not to. “It was Kah’s idea--he said a king should know his people. My father is going to make his ruling tomorrow and well…if he decides we are going; I'm going to ask that you come too.”

When he’d finished, Nouke’s excitement did not match his own, and that was enough to impede the joy he felt. She wasn’t even truly looking at him; her spirit dulled as she drew into her own thoughts.

“Nouke?” he asked gently, trying desperately to read her doleful aura.

She shook her head as her entire frame wilted, “I can’t go with you.”

Ahkmenrah’s face fell, and he met her sad eyes in silent question.

“I wish I could, Ahk. But I’m a servant. You're a prince. Your father would never allow someone like me to go with you.”

She was right. Servants were not companions to princes. Nouke to him, however, was so much more than a servant, she was his friend; she always would be no matter her station. His father would not understand that though, and the notion yanked ravenously on his heartstrings. All at once, the idea of adventuring lost its luster if he couldn’t share those experiences with her; and for a second time, he considered giving up the crown.

“I look forward to the stories you’ll bring back,” she said casting him a smile he knew was for his benefit and nothing more. “Promise you will tell me everything as soon as you return.”

Ahkmenrah nodded, sadness in his tone, “I promise.”

It fell quiet in the garden for a long time, the only sound coming from the rustling leaves caught in the desert breeze and the songbirds that played among them. Ahk’s eyes followed their sound, envying the freedom their wings granted them; with a few flaps, they could soar miles away.

“I have to get back to work,” Nouke murmured, sounding as though she didn’t want to leave him.

She gave him another rueful smile, and he did his best to match it.

“My father is probably looking for me,” he said, also not wanting to leave.

Before he turned to say his good-bye, Nouke pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Pink tinted her features and she smiled again, that time not quite as sad.

“Have fun on your adventure, Ahk.”

The prince watched her go, his fingers caressing the spot where she had so brazenly kissed him, feeling utterly torn. Ahkmenrah yearned to see Egypt’s centuries-old monuments and cultures, but part of him wished to stay in the palace forever where Nouke was. Surely a pharaoh who could do as he pleased could remain friends with a servant. The aching knot in his stomach, however, told him such a notion was not going to be so easy.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Three: Across the Sands

[tsarisfanfiction]

Hollow IV

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Kyrano, Jeff Tracy, John Tracy, Scott Tracy

Part 4 of my contribution @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday: Sixth Sense. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Somehow I’ve managed to find another new character to use.  TAG!Kyrano is almost entirely unknown so we’ve got a mix of TOS!Kyrano and Kayo.

He had always been a light sleeper, and the frantic pounding of feet on the stairs followed by an equally panicked rapping on his bedroom door was more than enough to pull Kyrano from his sleep.  Instantly alert in the dark room, he slipped from his bed and opened the door to reveal a dishevelled Jeff Tracy.

“What is it, Mr Tracy?” he asked, forgoing the usual customary greeting of his employer.  The billionaire, despite an occasional bizarre dress sense, never let himself appear so outwardly distressed.  Add in that the visit had occurred in the witching hour, and Kyrano had no doubt that something was very wrong indeed.

“Scott and John are missing,” Mr Tracy told him.  “I’ve searched the entire villa; they must have gone out.”  The boys had yet to realise that sound travelled very well in their new home – Kyrano may have been tending to his herb garden, but John’s denied request for a stargazing trip had not been particularly quiet.  From the look in his employer’s eyes, Mr Tracy believed that the two boys had gone to do so regardless.  Kyrano didn’t disagree.

“I will be ready in one minute,” he promised, retreating back into his room to shrug on outdoor clothes and boots over his nightwear.  “Do you have everything?”  Mr Tracy hesitated, and Kyrano turned to the backpack he kept stocked for his explorations of the terrain.  “Fetch your gear, Mr Tracy.  I will meet you by the pool.”

He didn’t need to look up to know that Mr Tracy had gone; even panicked and terrified for his sons, the man had a presence that was immediately notable when it left.  The fact that his steps on the stairs weren’t at all quiet simply confirmed the fact.

Without Mr Tracy standing in front of him, looking to him to be the security, Kyrano let his mask fall for a moment, drawing in a deep breath to calm himself.  The news that the two teenage boys – Scott considered himself a man, but nineteen was still too soon for Kyrano to consider him as such – were missing and presumably wandering around the island in the middle of the night made him afraid, too.  He was fond of all of Mr Tracy’s boys.  Perhaps they were not quite so close that they were like his own sons, but honorary nephews would not be inaccurate.

He was aware of Scott’s little forays away from the villa.  The teenager might have plenty of experience sneaking out from under his father’s nose, and perhaps Kyrano should have informed Mr Tracy that his eldest son was disobeying him, but evading Kyrano was a skill Scott had yet to pick up.  He’d trailed the boy several times, watching him learn the paths and tracks in the immediate vicinity of the villa.  By this point, he was confident that Scott could handle himself as long as he remained close.

However, it was gone midnight and if they were going stargazing it was highly unlikely they’d want to ruin their night vision with something as basic as torches.  Kyrano feared that Scott might have got overconfident, no matter how much he loved and tried to protect his brothers.  It was with that fear – the fear that Scott had found himself lulled into a false sense of security in what was a very dangerous terrain for the unwary – riding in his heart that he joined the Tracy patriarch on the patio area outside the villa.

“Where would they have gone?” Mr Tracy asked.  “The boys don’t know the paths here yet, and there’s only two of us.  We can’t search them all!”

“On the contrary, Mr Tracy, Scott has been familiarising himself with the immediate vicinity,” Kyrano admitted, not facing his employer as the other man bristled.  “In particular, he appears to favour two routes, and in the dark he will have taken one he believes he knows well, especially if one of his brothers is with him.”

“Scott is grounded for life when I find him,” Mr Tracy grumbled darkly.  “I expressively told him it was too dangerous.”

“Young men often take that as a challenge,” Kyrano couldn’t help but observe, before hurriedly moving on to the task at hand before Mr Tracy addressed the fact that he’d known about the disobedient explorations.  “Scott’s preferred routes are those two-” he gestured at them.  “Which one would you like to take, Mr Tracy?”

“This one,” the other man said, heading over to the nearer of the two.  Kyrano obediently moved to the other.  “Keep in touch, Kyrano.  If you find them, tell me immediately.”

“Yes, Mr Tracy.” There was no point lingering any longer; turning on his torch – night vision was only so useful, and the stars held no appeal to him tonight – he progressed down the path, hearing Mr Tracy do the same on the other path.

No doubt Mr Tracy had already done so, but as he walked, Kyrano tried first Scott’s phone, and then John’s.  Neither boy answered, and when he switched to tracking their GPS signals he found both icons firmly in their bedrooms.  Presumably, they hadn’t wanted to be tracked and had taken precautions to prevent their father discovering their little escapade.  Clever, but infuriating from a security point of view, and Kyrano resolved to have a quiet word with the pair of them about that.  What if they got into trouble?  The island might be their home and otherwise uninhabited by humans, but it was also dangerous.

If he was attempting to track any of the other three, it would be much easier.  The youngest two would be talking, and in the midnight air the sound would travel.  Even Virgil could be drawn into a quiet conversation.  John liked absolute silence when studying the sky, and despite his capability of being just as loud as his youngest brothers, Scott could and would respect that, simply sitting in silence alongside John for hours on end.

It never failed to amaze Kyrano when he saw the brothers together.  With no full brother of his own, and a half brother he had never seen eye-to-eye with, their easy relationship with each other was breathtakingly precious.  He was beyond grateful to Mr Tracy for providing that example to Tanusha and inviting her into the family as he had.  She would never grow up with a bully son of a mistress wailing about unfair inheritance because he was older but not considered legitimate.  Instead, she would grow up with five brothers to protect her and be protected by her in turn.  It was the greatest gift Mr Tracy could ever had given him.

His thankful musings were cut off by a faint shout.  He paused in his tracks, shining the torch light in the approximate direction of the noise.  It couldn’t be Mr Tracy; it was the wrong direction for that.  Only two other people were out and about, and he cautiously advanced to find the ground falling away suddenly – a recent fall of earth, receding the lip of the track just far enough for it to be in the direct path of feet, especially if they were walking two abreast.

Filled with a sense of dread, he approached the edge as much as he dared and shined the torch down over it, leaning over tentatively to catch sight of whatever was illuminated.

Some twenty feet below was the crumpled form of a boy.  He wasn’t moving, and the torch highlighted a shock of flame-coloured hair.

John.

Where was Scott?  He moved the torch, surveying the area around John, until he found another lip barely past him – more or less passing directly beneath his head.  The figure the light found wasn’t crumpled up like John’s, but was equally unmoving. From his perch on top of the cliff, he couldn’t see what injuries they had sustained, but if they’d both fallen twenty feet, Kyrano found himself worried.

“Scott!” he called.  “John!”  At least one of them had to be conscious if they’d made a noise moments earlier.

“’rano?”  It was quiet and filled with pain, but that was John’s voice.  “-at oo?”

“I’m coming down to you now!” he confirmed.  “Is Scott conscious?”

“-t sure,” John called back. “-t awkin.”

“Keep talking to him!” Kyrano instructed.  “I’ll be with you shortly!”  He pulled out his phone and called Mr Tracy.

“Kyr-”

“I’ve found them, Mr Tracy,” he said.  “Follow the path I took.”

“Are they alright?” the other man demanded.  Kyrano held in a sigh, but shook his head despite knowing his employer couldn’t see him.

“They appear to have fallen off the path,” he reported.  “John is conscious and responding to me, but Scott is not.  I will need assistance getting them back to the villa.”

“I’m on my way.”

Neither man bothered with pleasantries, hanging up without another word.  It would take Mr Tracy several minutes to reach him, and Kyrano refused to wait.  Retrieving some sturdy rope from his pack, he secured it to a tree before fashioning a harness to abseil down the unstable cliff.  It wasn’t ideal, but it sufficed in an emergency, which this definitely qualified as.

A minute later, he was crouched next to John, torch highlighting clumps of dark red in his otherwise bright hair.  Turquoise eyes were glazed and struggling to concentrate on him, but Kyrano was simply thankful the boy hadn’t hit his head harder, even if he seemed to have broken most of the bones in his body.

Another foot or so below them, it turned out that Scott was shifting slightly in a movement Kyrano could only describe as a muted writhing.  Beyond concerned, he dropped down next to him, eyeing the pool of blood beneath him and the foliage protruding from somewhere around his hip with horror.  “Scott?”

Despite the movement his eyes were closed and there was no answer.  Kyrano reached for the first aid kit he carried, and prayed it would be enough.

“Please hurry, Mr Tracy.”

Part V

[delimeful]

golden harp

Day 21: Bean

warnings: fear, captivity, jerk giants :( 

jack and the beanstalk au based off the fake title prompt i made up here!

-

Virgil should have known better than to sleep after a failed bartering trip, but he was exhausted after a long day of traveling, and he hadn’t once gotten the feeling that someone was tailing him. He’d thought he was fairly good at guessing, but his luck had to run out eventually. 

It just so happened that it ran out for a more dangerous opponent than most. Because of course it did. 

While at the market, he’d refused the beans each of the three times the stranger tried to push them on him. Each time, the stranger’s price was lower than before and they grew more desperate, only confirming Virgil’s suspicion that whatever was wrong with those beans, he wanted no part of it. He’d been cursed before, and it was a pain in the ass to fix. 

Still, three was the customary number for these sort of things. He hadn’t expected to be followed home, and he certainly hadn’t expected the bastard to have planted the seeds under his porch, but here he was, clinging to his bed for dear life as his house rose further and further into the air. 

Outside his bedroom window he could see huge green leaves blooming quicker than any natural plant, the beanstalk growing and growing until the air grew thin and foggy with clouds. A final upward jolt, and everything finally stopped shaking around him. 

He hurried over to the window, scanning the landscape. Giant foliage, mountains over clouds. It was the Land of Giants, alright. 

Well, time to get the heck out. 

Virgil hurried from room to room, collecting his most important belongings and shoving them into a backpack. There were no giants visible outside now, sure, but he’d never put stock into the rumors that they’d gone extinct. The stories were all too convenient, bait to scam dumb adventurers into fights they couldn’t possibly win. Even just the local wildlife could be hazardous, anyways. 

No, he was going to get everything together and climb right down that beanstalk. His house could be rebuilt once he got back to a world his size. 

Luckily, most of his stuff was packed already from yesterday’s trip, so it didn’t take long. He was struggling to open his jammed door when he heard it. A rhythmic pounding, growing louder and louder. He’d never heard the sound before, at least not on this scale, but he wasn’t an idiot. Those were footsteps. And they were getting closer, quick.

His anxiety shot through the roof, and he gave up on subtlety as he slammed his shoulder into the door, once, twice- 

He broke through on the third hit, and just in time, for as soon as he hit the ground, there was a splintering crash behind him. He twisted, the blood draining from his face as he took in the shoe that had effectively stomped half of his house into wooden bits. That could have been him. 

“What in the- ?” A rumbling voice asked, and Virgil quickly scrambled to his feet. 

Correction: That could be him, if he didn’t get his head out of the clouds. 

He ducked through oversized blades of grass, doing his best to ignore the sharp cry of the giant as it spotted him. The giant footsteps on his tail were harder to ignore, though, and when a shadow fell over him he couldn’t help but cry out in fear, curling in on himself. 

Rather than being crushed into the ground, however, he was lifted into the air like a pillbug, tugged up by the bulk of his backpack. He clung to the straps, the ground pulling away too fast for him to try and slip out of it. All too soon he was brought to dangle in front of a giant face.

“Ugh, a human.” The giant frowned at him. “Come to trick and steal from us, then? You’re doing a tremendously poor job so far.” 

Virgil forced himself to take a breath, still all curled up as to present a smaller target. “I’m not. I didn’t mean to come here, I-”

“Oh, sure.” The giant’s doubtful voice overpowered his easily. “That’s what they all say, but you don’t climb a beanstalk on accident.”

“I didn’t! My house- !”

“A likely story. I know how humans operate, I don’t care what sort of grand tale you want to weave, I won’t be having it.” The giant reached up and tugged on Virgil’s legs, pulling on the bag at the same time. 

Despite his best efforts, Virgil’s grip was nothing in the face of that monstrous strength, and the straps were torn roughly from his arms, leaving his legs clenched in a giant fist. “No!”    

“There we are.” The giant dropped the bag into his shirt pocket, far out of Virgil’s reach, and he felt his heart sink. He knew that he probably wasn’t going to get out of this one either way, but there was something incredibly disheartening about watching someone take everything you own away with one hand.

The giant adjusted his hold on Virgil, prodding him with oversized fingers. “You don’t have any weapons on you, right?” 

He wished. “No, I didn’t come to fight! I didn’t even mean to come here!” 

“You’re absolutely right you don’t want to fight. I could squish you like a bug, toothpick weapons or not.” The giant squeezed Virgil slightly in demonstration, and the band of panic around his chest tightened painfully. “But I won’t, since I’m not like your barbaric kind.” 

“Can you just let me go?” Virgil asked, voice faint. “I won’t come back, I don’t have any beans, please-” 

“And have you lead more humans up here to rob and murder us? I don’t think so. We’ll figure out what to do with you once I get home.”

Who’s ‘we’, Virgil wanted to ask, but his mouth barely formed the first syllable before his shallow breathing became too much, the edges of his vision darkening until he finally passed out. 

-

When he woke, he was laying on a cool wooden surface, and there were loud voices arguing above him. Wait. Not loud… Big.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. You know my thoughts on the matter-”

“And I think just ditching him out there leaves too much to chance! We wouldn’t even know if he made it back down there until an army of humans showed up on our doorstep.”

“Are you going to kill him, then?” 

A tense pause. Virgil regretfully acknowledged that this wasn’t a vivid dream he’d had while napping on the floor at home.

“... No.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, Roman?” 

“I don’t know!” The shout was enough to make Virgil flinch, only for a second. He went back to laying still, hoping neither had seen. 

“... He’s awake.” The colder voice stated, and Virgil grimaced. Still, he refused to move. The terrible situation he was in didn’t exist until he acknowledged it. 

A strong force prodded at his side, and he shot upright, coughing, and smacked the giant finger like an offended cat.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep and eavesdrop, you little sneak.” The giant from before was looking down at him, eyes narrowed in a glare. 

Virgil glared back, heart racing. “Maybe don’t kidnap me then!” 

“Maybe don’t trespass and steal, you-!”

“Roman.” The other giant cut him off, and oh god there were two giants. The second looked much less expressive than Roman, large glasses magnifying his cold gaze. 

Roman groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Ugh, humans…” 

Virgil glanced around him, taking in the huge ceiling over his head. He was in a giant dining room, sitting on a giant dining table, which was pretty much a nightmare in itself. He resisted the urge to draw further into himself. That would only make him easier to eat. 

There had to be a way to escape… 

A loud snap right next to him made him jump, and he turned to see Roman looking down at him with an irritated expression. “Hey, earth to human! Don’t you have any useful traits?” 

Virgil scowled at him, crossing his arms to hide their shaking. “Why would I tell you?” 

Roman huffed, offended, but the other giant was the one to respond. “Perhaps because it would help us decide whether or not to dispose of you. I assume you want to survive, seeing as humans are frequently more than willing to do terrible things for survival.”  

Virgil froze under his apathetic stare, mind racing. He had no doubt that these giants could kill him in any number of painful ways if he didn’t prove to be useful. He was willing to swallow his pride if it meant postponing his execution. 

“I… I can play the guitar.” He admitted. 

The unnamed giant’s eyes brightened slightly. “Ah, a human stringed instrument. That will work nicely.” 

Without another word, he seized Virgil in one hand, ignoring his panicked struggles and Roman’s exasperated sigh. He walked through the house at a speed that made Virgil feel as though he was on the brink of passing out again, grabbing a few glittering items with his free hand. The purpose of them became clear once he reached the living room, a cozy space with a roaring fire. 

Virgil wasn’t paying attention to the decor, though, not when the giant was setting a small, gilded birdcage on a shelf. He shook his head in protest, feeling his eyes grow hot with tears as he shoved his arms and legs out, trying and failing to keep the giant from maneuvering him through the open cage entrance. He was dropped onto the cold metal floor, and an ornate, angular harp was set down next to him. He rolled to his feet, watching numbly as the barred door snapped shut with a clang.

“I don’t even know how to play the harp.” He said, voice coming out small and hopeless. 

The giant turned away, mind already elsewhere. 

“You’ll learn.” 

[spectraspecs-writes]

Kashyyyk - Chapter 73

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 72. Chapter 74.

@averruncusho @ceruleanrainblues @chubbsmomma thank you for reading, you get a tag. @skelelexiunderlord thank you for support, you get a tag.

————–

Jolee has only a single bag of belongings, which he leaves in his house, reasoning that we’ll pass back this way after the Star Map. He gives us some more of his food, and whatever he doesn’t put in his bag he leaves out for the tachs. And with that, we leave. The Czerka camp has been cleaned out overnight - the plasteel cylinders, the tarps, the supplies, all moved out overnight. Sounds like there’s more than one scout with those Czerka guys. I can’t imagine anyone else would want to come down here and break camp with the emitters down. Jolee scoffs as we walk closer to the Czerka force field. “Beautifully subtle, isn't it?” he says sarcastically, “At least, compared to other Czerka equipment dumped down here, it is. It's only been here a short while, or the Wookiees would have disabled it. They wouldn't have had an easy time of it, though.”

“It can’t be all that effective,” I comment, “All the trees on this planet, most of the animals would have evolved to climb, prey and predator.”

“Precisely,” Jolee says, “It limits us non-climbers, but the creatures of Kashyyyk are very adaptable. You'll see why when we reach your goal.” That sounds fascinating.

“You can get past it, right?”

“I can manipulate it for a moment. Let me see… how did the Czerka engineers do it…” He fiddles with the mechanism for a moment, and then the field drops. “Ahh, there we go,” he says, as he ushers us through. “Now keep moving. These are the most dangerous depths of Kashyyyk. A few surprises wait for us, I'll wager.” 

Despite it being morning and actually pretty bright out in the Upper Shadowlands, it’s a lot darker here. There aren’t any Czerka paths here. Glowing moss, sure, but the worn paths in the dirt are thin and winding, and they criss-cross like a catacomb. Some paths I can tell go further than I can see, but trees have fallen in the path. Not that that would bother the Wookiees any - they can just climb over it. So who wore these paths?

“Mandalorians,” Canderous says, like he knows what I’m thinking, “There are Mandalorians down here.”

“What makes you say that?” Jolee asks.

“What would Mandalorians be doing down here?” I ask.

Canderous addresses Jolee’s question first. “Come on, old man, you already knew they were down here,” he says, “No way you couldn’t. My people aren’t like Czerka.”

“I had no idea,” Jolee says earnestly.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” I say, looking at some refuse near the base of a tree, “Check this out, I’ve found a Mandalorian data pad.”

“Need me to translate?”

“No, thanks, Canderous, I’ve got it.” Mandalorian is an easier language than others, it has the same alphabet as Basic. Different phonemes, but the letters are the same. “They’re training, they’ve got stealth generators attached to swoop bikes.” There’s a map of the different paths, too, I transfer it into my datapad.

Canderous takes the Mandalorian datapad from me and starts to read it himself. Then he swears. “Cowards!” he says, “Not only are they using stealth fields, they’re only attacking when their target is unarmed!” He huffs and scoffs. “They ambushed a number of Wookiee camps in the dead of night, forced them to fight. It is without honor!” he exclaims angrily.

“If we can find their swoops, I can disable their stealth field,” I say, “We could ambush them.”

“Won’t work,” he says, holding his rifle at the ready, “They already know we’re here. They’re watching us.”

Bastila takes a brief moment to concentrate on the Force. Then, “I don’t sense any presence here besides our own. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he growls softly, “I know my people. You aren’t going to be able to disable their stealth field by any traditional means, Rena.”

“Have you got another plan, then?”

“Oh, I do,” he says, “But if I tell you they’ll hear it. Do you trust me?”

I nod. “Of course,” Bastila says. Of course she does. Jolee just scoffs a bit. He’s only known Canderous for a few hours, so he has no reason to trust him. Thankfully he doesn’t need a reason - the Force can tell him enough.

“There’s a map on the datapad,” I say, “If they’ve got swoop bikes they’ll have to be in a large clearing.” Canderous and I both look at our respective datapads for the map. “If they’re listening, we’ll only have time to check one site before they move.”

Jolee points at one clearing over my shoulder. “They won’t be there,” he says confidently, “Freyyr wouldn't let them rest, he makes his home there.”

“Freyyr?” I repeat, “That’s Zaalbar’s father. Chuundar sent us here to kill his own father?”

“It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Jolee says cryptically. Weird old codger.

There are three other clearings on the map, one not too far from Freyyr’s camp - a pretty small one but a clearing nonetheless - and two other large ones. One has only one access path, the other has three. It would make sense for a group of warriors to choose the site less vulnerable to ambush - the single entrance - but I doubt they were expecting company when they set up shop down here. “Which one do you think, Canderous?” I ask him. 

“This one,” he indicates after a moment. He points to the one with three access paths. “Their arrogance will be their downfall.”

“Usually is,” Jolee scoffs, and he glances at me. Referencing Andor’s story, no doubt.

Canderous takes point, trudging through the woods past kshyy vines and half-broken branches. We all do our best to follow behind him, but he moves awfully quickly. It’s easier to follow the sounds he makes as he not-so-subtly trods through the foliage. At one point, Bastila stumbles and rolls her ankle, and that gets Canderous to stop. But only long enough to pick her up and tote her over his shoulder. (She both loves and hates that. Still bothered by her feelings for him but human enough that she can’t deny how much she likes his touch. I think it’s cute.) 

At a point, he stops, and Jolee and I catch up with him. There are three swoop bikes in the clearing - good instinct on Canderous’s part. He sets Bastila down against a fallen branch. “So, what’s your big plan?” I ask.

He raises his blaster rifle to his shoulder. “This.” He sets up a high powered series of shots and aims at each of the swoops, setting them all on fire. Well, that’s certainly… an effective way of deactivating the stealth field, and making sure they can’t establish a new one.

It isn’t long after that that the Mandalorians decloak. There are four of them, one behind each of us, and the commander, facing Canderous. “You have interrupted our hunt, interloper. The inhabitants of this world could do little against us, but you appear to be a threat.”

“More than a threat enough for you, coward!” Canderous shouts, and then he swears in Mandalorian.

“Another Mandalore, is it?” the commander says, “Will you draw arms against those you should serve? We'll see who lives this day!”

The commander draws a lightsaber, what the fuck? Jolee puts the other three Mandalorians in stasis with the Force. It won’t hold long, but it holds long enough for me to take the weapon off the Mandalorian behind me. Their armor resists my lightsaber to a degree, but without their resistance getting in my way I can handle it, cut through the armor eventually. Bastila sticks with Force attacks rather than her lightsaber - her ankle still hurts and that would hinder her agility and maneuverability considerably. But she can still whisk the unsuspecting Mandalorian into a Force whirlwind and spin him around and around and around before flinging him headfirst into a tree. Jolee takes a combination of our two techniques, whisking his would-be attacker into a Force whirlwind and hitting the shit out of him with his lightsaber.

And then there’s Canderous. He and the commander have thrown their weapons aside and started to fight hand-to-hand. Even when we’ve taken care of our own Mandalorians, he fights on. When Bastila tries to reach out to help him, he shouts back, “No! This is my fight!” With one square punch to the jaw, Canderous knocks the face covering off the Mandalorian’s helmet. And with another punch, blood flies out of his mouth. “Coward!” Canderous shouts, “Attacking the unarmed, hiding yourself!” He grabs the commander by the arm and slams him into a tree trunk. “Is this how you seek to gain honor? There is no honor to be gained in fighting a defenseless opponent!”

“You have grown old, Ordo!” the commander replies, “And soft! Traveling among Jedi has made you weak and contemplative. I will earn my honor how I choose! Even if it means killing you!”

Out of nowhere a bolt from a crossbow hits the back of the commander’s helmet, distracting him. Canderous takes the opportunity to pick up his rifle and use the butt of it to knock the commander to the ground. He hits his head on a large rock. And doesn’t get up again. Canderous takes a moment to catch his breath, look at the body, before turning to us. “I told you it was my fight!” he says angrily, “Who fired that shot?”

“None of us, Canderous,” Bastila says.

“That was a Wookiee weapon,” Jolee says, “The sound of our battle may have attracted another.”

“Doesn’t look like he stuck around,” I say, “I don’t sense a Wookiee nearby, not close enough to have fired that shot.”

“No, I suspect he has gone,” Jolee says, “If it was Freyyr, as I suspect, he may have thought we were slavers and left.”

“We should find him, then,” I say, then I ask Jolee, “Do you know how to get to his camp from here?”

“More or less,” he says with a shrug, “Don’t worry, I can find him.”

We take a southwest path away from the swoops. I wonder how long it will take for the forest to eat them.

[songbird-of-the-rain]

♚ - a memory of something paranormal

I could write a book of these, but this is my favorite one, so we’ll go with this one: While investigating the breadcrumb trails Eru’a’s visions left in regards to his memory loss, Eru’a and Kyor’li were separated from one another. Eru’a ran away from Kyor’li after a fight with one another, and Kyor’li was injured during an ambush that followed, then dragged away by a mysterious shade that had been stalking them through the forest.  With the help of Rolanberry, Kyor’li’s well-trained war chocobo, and Hjarta, his sire’s companion wolf, he managed to track down where Kyor’li had been taken. They entered the cave and were confronted with the horrific shade screeching in agony and grief.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Keep moving. He needed to keep moving, and he couldn't let the bird wander off alone. Even if he wanted to lay there and stew in his misery.  With wobbling legs, Eru'a stood, staggering after Rolanberry. Unlike the chocobo, however, he paused within the cavernous room leading to the pool. He froze within the center of it, tail curling close around his legs. His lips drew into a thin, tight line. The moment something entered its domain, the Shade ceased its pitiful moaning. It turned a faceless gaze towards the chocobo within its midsts, stretching further over Kyor'li's body upon the shallows. It exerted a firm pressure, squeezing down on him as a stone press did fruit and herb. Anger carried through the cavern, coating the otherwise calming atmosphere with a fierce danger like that of a hackled bear. No!  The Shade's voice, Eru'a's own, bounded along the walls, reaching to the open air of the cavern's ceiling. No, don't take him! Wake up, wake up, wake up!  Tiny hands attempted to dig into Kyor'li's wounded frame. The chorus of voices was returning and building with what was spoken. I don't want to be alone! I don't want to be alone! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Shade attacked Eru’a and Rolanberry when they reached the shallow pool of water Kyor’li had been dragged into. With viscous emotional manipulation and strikes with lethal intent, it assailed them. Rolanberry took charge of defense and distracting the Shade as Eru’a made his way through the water and to the shallows to reach where the injured Kyor’li was. As he was tending to the man, the Shade was eventually felled and a much deserved rest amidst the ruins of the cave they’d entered was had. However, as Eru’a and Kyor’li were both unconscious, a vision found him and linked up with Kyor’li nearby, as it had before. He uncovered the truth of how he’d lost his memory in the first place, and what his visions had been leading him towards. The pieces were set together.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The tether of aether clicked weakly into place between the two men. Eru'a could feel his heart running wild; it was an odd sensation, and one he did not truly understand, even if he felt the difference wash over him. He'd stared forward at the albino Keeper next to him, catching little glimpses of Rolanberry's red feathers in his view, until they melted away, and once more, he caught the clear pool of bones within his thoughts.  What Kyor'li and Eru'a saw in that moment was cleaner than what they'd experienced in prior sights. The cavern about the pool was tidy, with foliage neatly directed away from the climbing paintings and crystals that stacked upon the walls in such vibrant color. It was less eerie in such a light. There was something peaceful about images of wandering Miqo'te along the walls, and towering mountains at the shores of starry rivers. There was something peaceful about beasts that walked alongside them, all moving towards the presence of a silhouetted, horned beast laid forth like a sphinx amidst marks like trees and flowers. The sound of splashing water filled the cavern about them, as a man dropped down onto the shallow. He was small in stature, if only compared to the familiar giants of Boarbristle. Nevertheless, he was broad of shoulder, and moved with a determined confidence. Hair black as ink rode down his back and shoulders in spindling waves and curls, bunched up into a neat tie to hold it out of the way, and atop his head sat two furry ears, perked and alert. His arms cradled a bundle in cloth, large enough one may have been forgiven for thinking it a well sized goat due for sacrifice.  <"It's only a little further."> The man spoke, carefully kneeling within the water to place the bundle down. He pulled the cloth away slowly, plopping its contents into the cold, clear water. It was Eru'a, as Kyor'li had seen him before - This was the past! Sick and plagued with disease and ensuing death like so many before him surely had been, and many after would be, it was the young Eru’a of the past. As Eru'a's little form, just barely the sort one would not call a kit were they being generous, slid into the water, the man straightened him out. He brushed the voluminous hair from this younger Eru'a's face, sliding the bangs away from his eyes with a tender touch and care.  <"There we go. You've gotten heavy, little one."> He laughed, though it fell flat. The ears upon his head wilted. From a satchel at the man's side, he pulled a few things forward, first a small little well he touched his fingers in. He drew on Eru'a, marking just under his eyes, across his nose. He drew that eye, the very same one Eru'a had drawn and seen so many times, and even Kyor'li had. Diamond shaped and quick with a thumb-printed dot in the center. It was placed squarely on Eru'a's forehead, smearing when the water lapped up close to what had been used to draw it. <"I never thought this was how it would go, but here we are, hm?"> He dropped the paint, were it paint at all, for it smelled of congealed blood to the sensitive of smell, into the satchel. Two white flowers, the ones Eru'a wore in his hair even in the present, were brought forth, braided carefully into the unmoving boy's hair.  <"There's not enough time to tell you all I should. You'll have to find it on your own now, and I hope when you do, you'll understand why it had to be this way.">  The man, Njall, as one could figure, traced them with his fingers before he pulled them away. He leaned to place a kiss close to the top of Eru'a's head; it was far from romantic, proving paternal. <"Make me proud and grow strong. Stars will keep you from here, my little wanderer."> He hesitated, as if he did not quite want to pull away from the sick boy in the water. His fingers had curled within the boy's hair. Finally, Njall yanked himself away. He got to his feet, backing up a few steps. From the satchel at his side, he'd drawn out a lyre, not unlike Eru'a's in nature. He'd taken a stance, peering down at the body with a degree of uncertainty for something. Long silence passed before he closed his eyes and began to play. Each note lilted from the harp, building upon one another in harmony. As the song built, the crystals dotted about the cavern glittered, brighter as their aether stores were tapped. The song grew quicker, a weave of healing magicks winding through the strings of the harp. They linked to the sick little Eru'a in the water, coiling about him.  Njall had tried to heal him. That much had always been apparent, and he'd done it with a spell like song light as a lullaby. As the song played, it appeared to work slowly. The rot Eru'a suffered was draining away, shrinking back. He was breathing easier. But in contrast, Njall was not. The man's fingers began to falter. The song began to slow, and by the end, he'd simply dropped his harp onto the shallow. His knees hit the water with a splash, and Njall collapsed, leaving the cavern quiet and empty.  Whatever he'd done had taken every last drop the man could have offered before he fell, and more were the crystal store within the walls anything to note. Whether it worked in the moment seemed hard to tell, for rot still clung to the little Eru'a, even as the residue of healing aether fought with it. Were it not the past, one may have wondered, but as the real Eru'a was alive, it had surely worked.  The sight Eru'a and Kyor'li had been plagued with broke. It jumped, and there was that little Eru'a over Njall's corpse, clinging to it and begging as the Shade had deigned so generously to show Kyor'li in its torment. With a shaky voice, the little Eru'a had started to sing a soft song, the one he'd practiced so many times since his first memory with the Ziz. He sang with a shaking, cracking voice, bapping a loose fist against the corpse occasionally as if to rouse or punch it pitifully. ... It was from such the Shade had been born, and as darkness drained into the cavern, the sight began to fall apart. It was erratic and violent. There was a sensation like running feet, like falling, but only black remained. There was a crack that shot through the air, followed by the sound of distressed birds, and all fell quiet, still. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \o/ And so that’s that. Eru’a’s emotion-based bard magicks made a terrifying shadow beast that plagued the forest for the duration of his absence, and upon destroying it, his memory began to recover, including the memory of how his sire died and how he survived the ‘plague’ that more or less wiped out the rest of his people. It was a time, and it was glorious. I mean, there are a thousand other paranormal incidents too. Eru’a’s completely saturated in paranormal / supernatural occurrence, so it’s like an every Tuesday sort of thing for him at this point. He sees spirits and ghosts and just sips his tea, staring out at the world like he hasn’t had enough caffeine to deal with this shit today.

[portalford]

Nothing to Stop Us Now

AO3

“If I see one more purple mosquito thing, I’m gonna fling myself out of this tree,”  says Stan, scratching furiously at a souvenir from one of the aforementioned pests.  He’s pretty sure he killed that one, and that helps a little.

Just a little.  It still itches like the blazes.

“That would be regrettable,”  says Ford, not looking up from his sketchbook.

“You sound real regrettable,”  Stan mutters.  He gives up on the bug bite in favor of better entertainment: baiting Ford.  “This is your fault.”

Ford, unlike the bugs, doesn’t bite.  “If I remember correctly,”  he says, in a tone heavily implying that he’s never forgotten a thing in his life (which is absolutely untrue) and still without looking up from his damn drawing, “I was perfectly happy to stay in my study and had no comments about ‘stretching my legs’.”

“Don’t quote me at me,”  Stan snaps.  “You needed to get outta that dusty closet anyway.”

Ford finally takes his eyes off his page, but it’s only to lean out for a better look over the branch he’s sitting on, far enough that Stan is tempted to yank him back before the idiot falls.  “It’s fortunate that it isn’t able to climb trees, at least,”  he says, going right back to his drawing.

‘Fortunate’ is not a word Stan would apply to any part of this situation.  It’s hot, he’s thirsty, he scraped his arm climbing this tree, the branch he’s on is too skinny for his butt, and there’s two rows of sharp, slobbery teeth about ten feet below his ankles.  

Ford, predictably, has ignored these and every other grievance Stan has tried to air over the past five minutes, so Stan just snorts.

Ford ignores that, too.  He just says, “Watch out for the seedpods—my research indicated that these pods release a smell similar to hydrogen sulfide if they’re crushed.  Probably to deter predators,”  he adds, mostly to himself.

“Hydrogen what?”

“Rotten eggs, Stanley,”  Ford says solemnly, before getting sucked back into his drawing.

And yeah, Stan’s feeling pretty petulant right now, but he’s not gonna make this experience worse.  He scoots over a little, just to be safe.  Now he’s sitting on a really knobby, more wobbly, part of the branch.  Fantastic.

Stan’s pretty much over his fear of heights these days, but he’s definitely got a normal, healthy, self-preservational fear of falling.  Especially when it’s a long drop and a short stop to being a devil dog’s lunch.

Said devil dog is still staring at him with all three of its ugly yellow eyes, tongue lolling hungrily over ugly yellow teeth.

Ford, who wouldn’t know things like ‘normal’ or ‘healthy’ or ‘self-preservational’ if they bit him with all the teeth in the world, teeters out over thin air again.  He’s higher up and to the left, on a branch that looks even thinner and more uncomfortable than Stan’s, but he hasn’t said anything about it.  Stan doubts he’s even noticed.  “I wonder if there are more of them.  Surely they would have heard the racket and come looking?”

“Ford, I will literally give you a dollar to shut up,”  Stan says.

That, of all things, gets Ford’s attention.  “Really?”

“…Would you go for fifty cents?”

“No, I was just shocked that you were offering to part with money for any reason.”

“Yeah?  Well I was shocked that you were offering to shut up for any reason.”

Ford flashes a smile, sharp and challenging.  Stan’s about to meet him with another insult when the devil dog, apparently unable to handle not being the center of attention for ten seconds, rears up on the tree trunk and makes a noise like a stuck pig.

Stan makes good and sure he’s got a solid grip on the branch before screaming back.

The thing squeals louder and lunges, jaws snapping shut just below Stan’s boots.  Stan promptly pulls his feet up on the branch.  These are new boots, and if they get chewed to pieces before he’s even broken them in—

His perch shivers and bounces as Ford scrambles to his feet above him.  “Stanford for the love of God and money sit down.”

Ford does not sit down, choosing instead to hang halfway off the branch, talking all the while about “cross-species” and “evolutionary advantages” and other stuff Stan doesn’t bother to follow.

Instead, he finds himself a long twig and swats Ford’s leg with it, hard.

Ford cuts off, glaring.  “What was that for?”

Stan pokes him again.  “I know you’re super excited about this dog thing, but I am tired and sweaty and almost lost a chunk of my leg climbing this tree that I’d really like to keep and please sit down.”

Ford sits, and he even has the grace to look somewhat contrite.  He promptly ruins this by saying, “iI’s not a dog, Stanley, it’s—”

“Sixer, I literally could not care less.”  There’s a moment of silence while Stan nurses his physical bug-related injuries and Ford nurses his mental Stan-related injuries.  Stan sighs.  “Sorry.  Rough day.”  It’s more explanation than excuse, but it’s the best he’s got right now.

The devil dog yips.  Stan almost wishes he was a bit lower, just so he could try to kick it in the face.

“It’s fine, Stanley.”  Ford leans over to put a hand on his shoulder.  Stan doesn’t waste his breath telling him to stay put, because the last six warnings have made no impact whatsoever, and it’s kinda nice anyway.  “This creature is fascinating, but there are plenty of of other anomalies that can be studied without resorting to hiding in a tree.  Besides,”  he adds, sitting back and waggling his sketchbook,  “I finished my drawing.”

Stan rolls his eyes, but he can feel a smile coming on in spite of himself.  Ford has always been the most uniquely frustrating person Stan’s ever known—and Stan has known a lot of frustrating people, himself included—but there’s a kind of oblivious honesty to his frustrating-ness that Stan hasn’t found anywhere else, did without for thirty years, and would really like to never be without again, regardless of how much Ford pisses him off at times.

“Well, as long as you got your drawing.”  Stan looks at the devil dog.  The devil dog looks back.  It feels really unfair that it’s got three eyes to stare with, but that’s life for you.  “What do you wanna do about this?”

“I would suggest running for it, but that didn’t prove especially effective the first time we tried.”  Ford considers the monster below.  It hisses at him.  “Also, it’s ready for us now.”

“It’s gonna take us time to get down this tree, too,”  Stan says.  He really doesn’t want to lose these boots.  Or that chunk of his leg.  Or anything else, really.

“Hm.”  Ford stands up.  “If I can jump on it, I think it would stay stunned long enough for us to get a head start back to the Stan O’ War."

“Okay, hold up,”  Stan interrupts, loud enough to make the dog squeal.  He ignores it.  “I’m heavier’n you—if anyone’s gonna jump, shouldn’t it be me?”

“An additional nine feet should give me enough velocity to match your weight on impact,”  Ford says, like this is a reasonable thing to be talking about.  The way he’s eyeing the branch over his head is worrying Stan; he decides to nip this whole thing in the bud before Ford gets really into it.

“Yeah, no.  Way too many ‘should-be’s’ in that plan, bro.  I want to get out of this with all my bits attached.”  Redirect, redirect, redirect— “How about we throw sticks at it?”  Fantastic plan, Stan.  That’s gonna win awards for sure.

Somehow, it does.  Ford brightens like Stan said something genuinely smart and impressive.  “Stanley, that’s brilliant!”

“Throwin’ sticks?”

“What?  No, not sticks.”  Ford reaches up for one of the fist-sized green pods from the foliage around them.  “These.”

The last fifteen awful minutes are suddenly worth it, and better.  Stan knows he’s grinning like a moron and he doesn’t care.  “We’re gonna stink bomb this dog?”

“We are.”  Ford’s got that crazy glint in his eye that Stan recognizes from their wilder childhood escapades, and he doesn’t even correct Stan about the dog thing.  He hefts the pod in his hand.  “How’s your throwing arm?”

Stan puffs out his chest, brandishing a stinkpod of his own.  “You’re lookin’ at the reigning dart champion of Joe Shmoe’s Bar and Grill.”

“That was forty-odd years ago, and you cheated.”

“Still won!”

Ford rolls his eyes.  

The best way to shut the critics up is with a practical demonstration, so—

Stan lets it fly.

It hits the dog square in its ugly face and bursts.

“Moses that’s bad.”  Between the dog’s shrieking, the awful smell, and the shakiness of his seat, Stan’s not sure if he’s riled up or terrified.

Probably both.

“Impressive throw, though,”  Ford says, lining up a headshot of his own.

Thirty seconds and about half that many stinkpods later, the devil dog is but a distant memory.  Or would be, if not for the lingering stench and fading squealing of its flight.

“That’s right!”  Stan shouts, high enough on adrenaline and the choking smell that he doesn’t feel any kind of worry when he leans out over nothing.  “Tell your friends!”

“Here’s to hoping he has no friends,”  Ford replies, flinging his last stinkpod into the woods.  His mostly-level voice does nothing to hide the fact that he’s practically vibrating where he stands.

“Hell yeah,”  Stan says, fervent.  

It takes him a minute to get down, what with his legs being almost numb from sitting on that useless skinny branch for so long.  Ford has an easier time, probably on account of his near-constant jittering and jumping around.

“So I’m all for coming back here with my knuckledusters,”  Stan says, after a moment where they both just sort of stand there staring at each other across burst and battered stinkpod shells, “but can we do it tomorrow?”

“That might be for the best,”  Ford says, lifting his arm over his face and wrinkling his nose.  “I’m going to try that new odor remover I’ve been working on,”  and Stan didn’t know about that but he’s not even a little surprised,  “because I like this coat.”

“You might wanna use that stink cleaner on yourself too, Sixer,”  Stan says as they’re walking back down the beach.    “You smell like a skunk’s nightmares.”

“You could use a bath yourself, Stanley,”  Ford replies, and trips him into a tide pool.

Stan yanks him in after, and he’s laughing all the way down.

[soapxmactavish]

missing from his arms (soap mactavish x ayela gonzalez oneshot)

also on ao3

Three nights had passed since Sergeant Gonzalez had been announced MIA.

Captain MacTavish sat on the desk chair, head aching and drowsiness sweeping over him. The lights caused a pounding in his head and he gave another rub at his eyes, trying to get rid of the sleepiness threatening to make him fall unconscious. He hadn’t closed his eyes for 36 hours, and even then he had little sleep. Thanks to commander privileges and the kitchen’s endless supply of caffeine, the impossible was possible for a small while.

“She’s gotta be somewhere around there,” he whispered, sipping at his fourth coffee within the past two hours. Their mission had gone badly wrong, when Ayela had been chased down by a group of militia, drawing them away from the small party of MacTavish and Sanderson. The latter had taken the blow of an IED left in the jungle, leaving him in a heavily-damaged state. Of course, something else had triggered the mine, and the force of the shrapnel and fire threw them backwards.

Ayela had taken it upon herself to draw the incoming savages away from them to allow them to escape.

It had been the last time the captain laid eyes on her since, her last words being, “Both of you get to safety!’, before she disappeared behind the thick foliage of trees. She had left a wounded man and a capable but distraught commander. A lover who had screamed for her name as he lost sight of her and desperate for her return back to him.

Captain MacTavish flicked his attention back to the files on his desk, satellite imagery of the Vietnam jungle spanning hundreds of square miles. They showed the area of operations of where they last saw the Sergeant before she disappeared. She could have been anywhere on there – near waterways, underground caves, or even captured behind enemy lines, or worse…

He shook the thought, hand slowly pulling back into a fist. The captain had barely been restrained from his commanding officer, General Shepherd, after the search was discontinued 24 hours later to look for Sergeant Gonzalez. He had called his personal pilot, Nikolai, but the whole operation had been banned by the US Army General. MacTavish knew what game he was playing and thought of reporting him, though he knew that was as suicide task. If the captain complained, everything he’d worked for – his rank, his position in the SAS, the Task Force he’d built from the ground up – would be snatched away from him as soon as the General ordered it.

              The soldier wouldn’t hide it – he was angry, terrified, and panicking about what could happen to her. Not only was guilt gnawing him up on the inside as he’d failed as a field commander, he’d lost the one thing he swore to never lose. Had he known the outcomes, he would’ve ditched Sanderson and placed her in charge without a second thought.

              You’d never, ya lovesick bastard, he thought to himself. It was true – he’d know how much stress his sergeant would’ve been under. MacTavish would rather he go through the trouble of looking and worrying and late nights than her. It came at the cost of her being missing, though, and he didn’t like it one bit.

              Jolting back to an awake state of mind, the soldier heard footfalls coming from the other side of his cabin’s door. He faced the door, rubbing his face as the handle turned, and the door opened, without a care of being loud at oh-two-hundred hours, a godforsaken hour.

              Sanderson stood there, his arm resting in a sling, his left foot in a boot. A bruise was forming up on his forehead where medical tape was stuck, covering his wounds which would scar in a while. There was a mask of tiredness over his face and body. The image of a beaten-up member of his team made MacTavish feel sick to his stomach, and only increased the guilt he felt within himself.

              All your fault. You did this.

              MacTavish watched with saddened and pained eyes as the sergeant eventually made his way to the made bed, easing down to sit on it without hurting himself any further. Sanderson sighed with his eyes closed, probably trying to endure the pain he was in. They reopened, and shifted from the Scotsman’s tired face to the papers strewn on the oak wood desk. A soft shake of his head came, and understanding dawned on his face. A look of confusion was also there, and sympathy, as far as the captain could read on his face.

              MacTavish didn’t want it. He didn’t need it, cared for it, nor deserved it. Who should feel bad for the one responsible?

Sanderson broke the steady silence in the room, which was weighing MacTavish down like a blanket. “You’re still looking.” It was more of a statement than a question. His captain stayed silent and only gave a small nod. His eyes were looking off somewhere at the blank wall in between them, unfocused. There was nothing to say, nothing which would fix the wrongs he’s made in the past few days.

“I am,” he replied, his voice low and soft, hardly there. This was the first time he’d spoken to someone within a dozen or so hours. The captain had been cooped up in his room, looking for answers to questions he couldn’t answer. This unexpected visit at this ridiculous hour was welcoming, yes, but not sure if he could bottle up his emotions like the officer he was supposed to be. This wasn’t how you acted when you’re meant to be a leader, an example.

Silent as a mouse, MacTavish adjusted himself on his chair, grabbing a mustard yellow folder from the unorganized mess laid out on his table. Carefully, he held it in his hands, handling it as if it was art. He flicked it open, his heart aching, whole body in pain in plain sight yet hidden from Sanderson who sat only a metre or so away, who’d remained quiet the whole time.

Ayela’s character profile. Her face ID, rank, military history, date of birth, and the rest of the important information which were necessary, were laid out in front of him. Not that he was interested in the first few pages, anyway.

MacTavish’s finger felt the small paper clip gripping onto the side of a random papers in the back/bottom of the pile. He slid out what it held, and it revealed a photo of the main squad of Sanderson, Riley, Price, MacTavish, and Ayela. Nikolai was also in the photo, on the other side of MacTavish. The Scotsman had his rifle in one hand, his other free arm around his sergeant. Though unprofessional in the eyes of the code of conduct, neither of them really cared at that moment.

The captain remembered that day clearer than any other in these past few years. They were about to head out for a mission and were all fatigued from hardly any sleep after being on an all-nighter mission. Ayela had the wonderful idea of taking a group photo to somehow lift morale. It’d worked – they were all smiling after it and were much more talkative to one other.

MacTavish had managed to get the photo printed out and kept it. He’d planned to give it to the sole female soldier in the photo but hadn’t known exactly when seemed the appropriate time was to. The two hadn’t taken many pictures together, and he wasn’t sure of what ones she’d kept in hand.

The soldier’s thumb grazed over Ayela’s cheek, reddened by the bright smile she bore. Her hair was considerably messed up, her braid in somewhat need of tightening up. The tired look from her brown eyes was still there but coated up with joy and happiness and humour from whatever dumb thing Sanderson had whispered in her ear when they’d taken the photo. She looked so beautiful in his eyes, the one treasure he’d never known he’d needed. His lifeline, purpose to keep going easier in this life and not be a total die-hard soldier who would just serve his country and not make every day “just another day at the office”.

When she’d first been transferred nineteen months ago, there was admiration at an instant. She was the first female to be associated with the British SAS and was more capable than a considerable amount of the soldiers already here. Her confidence and ability to stand up for herself when someone thought of her position to be undeserving was staggeringly amazing to the captain. How easy it was for her to belong here, in this team, side by side with her mates, never failed to knock MacTavish off of his feet.

What made him fall in the last depths for her was just how understanding she was, and how she motivated everyone around to keep going, to never give up. During his darkest times which lasted over a year after he’d lost his own Captain, there was an uncertainty to how long he’d last without mentally losing it, succumbing to the demons which were eating him alive. He’d become so sick of being himself – a leader who had to set an example and inspire and make change for the world. The weight was getting to him – of responsibility for himself and those around him.

No one was even aware at times, though Ghost had seen glimpses of a breaking man, something which he was very familiar with. They had never spoke about it though since the captain always brushed him off and denied anything was wrong with him. The Lieutenant wasn’t about to argue with his superior officer, and the two never brought the subject back up again.

Ayela was the only one whose help he’d accepted – more or less because she’d somewhat forced him to. He would never forget that first conversation where they’d sat down in his room and spoke for hours about only him and his troubles. There was nothing put in about her history – about how her mother neglected her three children and Ayela became the unofficial guardian of her two younger brothers who needed someone to take care of them.

The only thing that did come out of her mouth was how she believed in him and this was not the end, that he had more life to live and shouldn’t have to spend it worrying about who he’d become and how losing his Captain was not his fault. There was no judging, no shaming, no pointing out flaws or mistakes – only motivational, uplifting speaking. Words that were equally truthful and evidence that he was better than this.

That night was one of the longest, sleepless nights MacTavish ever had, but it was out of good circumstances. He’d laid in the dark, and thought long and hard about what she’d said. More importantly – about what they’d become. It was evidently something more than a commander/subordinate relationship. His feelings for her had only become so much more dynamic, and he knew he had to do something about it.

The captain had made the first move the very next night after seeing Ayela for the first time since their talk. She was more than ready for him, and so was he. MacTavish had accepted and realised that she was what he needed all this time – someone to talk to, someone who listened and wouldn’t stop until she knew he was okay, someone who saw him as other than a soldier. He was more than ready to intake her mindset of never giving up and keeping it at like an addict was hooked on a drug.

He had fallen in love with her, and that had been the seal to lock it in.

MacTavish hadn’t known he’d teared up until he saw a drop of moisture hit the paper. Slightly embarrassed, he quickly wiped his eyes before setting the file back down on the table. He gave a sigh and slouched onto the back of the chair.

“We’ll find her,” Sanderson assured, who had witnessed the whole thing before him. MacTavish rubbed the tears and tired out of his face. He turned to Sanderson, his reddened eyes gazing down onto the blanket, pondering in thought still.

The sergeant spoke up again, slowly leaning forward to come closer to the Captain. “I spoke to Riley,” he began in a hushed tone, “and he’s more than willing to take us back there-“

MacTavish’s eyes darted instantly to Sanderson’s, full attention on him. His breath caught in his throat and listened to every word Sanderson had to say.

“-and more than willing to give whatever support you need, okay?”

The captain’s eyes looked into his squad member’s with such desperation, hands clasped tightly together as if praying to God. His breaths were slow and steady, and he felt the dried tears stained on his cheeks, a constant reminder of what was at risk. He was more than ready to go ahead, and ready to take the full blow of what his superiors will do to him once they return.

“What time are wheels up?”

“They’re up in ten minutes, mate,” Riley’s voice suddenly came from the doorway, and the two soldiers in the room turned to face him. The lieutenant was already dressed in his gear with his iconic skull balaclava. His rifle was in his hands and webbing secured around his shoulders and waist. How did he know what the Captain was doing? Must’ve been the sergeant sitting in front of him.

Riley jerked his head to the left, in the general directions of the hangars. “Better head out as soon as we can.”

“Come on,” Sanderson urged the Captain, giving his knee a slap as he slowly got up. “Let’s go get your girl.”

[creeping-crowley]

♰ Angel at My Shoulder ♰

12:46

44 minutes until lunch with Aziraphale.

The day had not yet gotten to the eventful part as Crowley went about minding his own business tending to the veritable trembling rainforest that made up his London flat. A careful golden eye was fixed on the time. Not too carefully, mind, for a fashionably late entrance was often favourable for the demon. After all, quaint little lunches and well-timed teas were Aziraphale’s fancy- it only felt right for the angel to remain the one appearing as the most outwardly keen of the two.

The lunch was what Crowley had planned for. What he had not planned for was the driving pull that sucked his essence out of the London flat with the force that one might be pulled from an aeroplane should the door be opened mid-flight. A forest of fearful foliage had now been replaced with candles, the smell of chalk, old cedar, books a few ages old and a pot of salt in the far corner by the door. The distinctive smell of burning sage tainted the air, making it cloud up as though someone had failed catastrophically at cooking something. Why did everyone seem to burn sage these days as though it could fright the devil? Plants had no godly power over the satanic realms or those who dabbled in them. If anything, (thanks to Crowley) plants possessed a healthy fear for the demonic and would likely ask to be removed from any supernatural settings whatsoever should they have the ability to express any opinion.

Collecting himself in a disorientated haze, Crowley stumbled, drunk on the sensation of the room spinning and the assault over the senses that all the items within seemed to cause.  It certainly wasn’t hell. The stench wasn’t anywhere near bad enough. Besides, hell didn’t smell like…Were those vanilla candles? Crowley grimaced in disgust.

Why did some fool have to be performing an evocation today?

The woman looked like a witch. Well as much as a woman with long hair, an extensive candle collection and sage bundles could as she stood facing him, clutching a bible to her chest. Did witches keep bibles?

“I call upon the demon whom holds the name Crowley.”

A slow sinking sensation settled upon the demon as he watched the reverse exorcism play out. Evocations had been a phenomenon that humans dipped their toes into less in the modern age, but it was not entirely unheard of. Crowley had never been subject to a direct summoning, however. It was not an honour. It was a chore. A dangerous one, at that.

An instinctive dislike of the space had Crowley’s feet prowling, attempting to pace (as much as the small expanse would allow). In a somewhat rash endeavour, he tested the boundary with a precursory flick of a finger- a flick that proved startlingly sore as though he had stuck his finger into a white-hot coal as it approached the barrier of the circle. With a hiss, the demon snatched the appendage back, popping it into his mouth as a moody child does with a lolly to take the sting away.

Ah.

Perhaps this was some sort of cruel retribution for the total tits-up of Armageddon. Some attempt to bind him to the world he cherished so much, to imprison him there as some sort of genie in a summoning circle, or other novelty for humans to enjoy and him to…enjoy less.

Crowley’s face slipped into a flat glare.

“You know, most god-loving people don’t dabble like this. Trust me when I tell you that God doesn’t tend to like dabbling.” If the bible was anything to go off, this woman seemed to have some value for scripture. Crowley could work with that.

Crowley merely dabbled with Adam and Eve, reminding them of their will of choice.

He had also dabbled with God’s plan (Or had it all been part of God’s plan?).

He had dabbled with Lucifer and the gang. (It had only been once. Well. Once before he had been outcast entirely, that was).

The demon had dabbled with earth (On multiple occasions. Dabbling on earth had become a favourite pastime of his).

Crowley had also dabbled with Aziraphale. (A treacherous occupation as far as both sides were concerned).

One could not get through life without dabbling, but if Crowley could convince the woman stood before him otherwise, then he would take every measure to accomplish such a feat. After all, as far as dabbling went, God’s rules were more stringent than others.

“God didn’t answer my prayer.”

Oh.

“Satan answered my prayers. He gave me your name directly.”

…Oh.

Well this was a remarkable little plot twist. One that inspired a little more hope than his latter presumption. Yes, there was rather the unfortunate mention of him directly by Satan, but he wasn’t dealing directly with Satan. He was dealing directly with a human.

A low, stirring sound brewed about Crowley’s voice as his bemusement furrowed his expression into a tangible question mark.  

“Listen, if demon hostages worked the whole world would be doing it. I don’t do the ‘three wishes’ thing. Not my brand.”

Steadily, the demon began to slink towards the threshold, punctuating his words in a low snarl.

“I don’t do good things. I don’t do favours. I don’t even take suggestions. So if you think that summoning a demon will get you whatever you were asking from God then I think you’ll find that you’re—”

A sharp action from the woman caused Crowley to bite his tongue. Quite literally. It was probably for the best, because as the demon had set about plastering himself as close to the threshold as he could get, the woman had become more and more tempted to throw the substance from the vial in her pocket over him and start over. For an awkward stretch the vial remained upheld , shaking a little from the weight of her arm and perhaps some nerves as she held it aloft as one does with a gun they have no clue how to fire.

Yellow eyes could not help but widen a touch.

Holy water.

Why, oh why, did it have to be today?

“Where the hea—” Crowley fumbled, correcting himself amidst the acrid unmistakable smell of the water. “—Hell did you get that?”

When Crowley had previously used the word ‘hostage’ he had intended it as a joke. It appeared, however, that the subject of his misfortune, had not.

“I’m not going to summon a demon without having some means to protect myself.”

“Oh yes, that’s very good. Very clever, really.” Crowley drawled mildly with a condescending note slithering through his words.

“A bit of overkill, you could say since I’M STUCK IN A CHALK CIRCLE!”  It was laughably humiliating, although Crowley was not laughing. If any of his comrades could see him now, they would be howling with laughter. A demon tethered to a human floor as a dog is tied outside of a shop. It was a new low for Crowley, one which he appreciated the lack of audience for.

Somewhere far away in the dim light of his London flat, the plants breathed a sigh of relief at his sudden absence. And somewhere within the flat was a clock, and the clock struck one hour into the afternoon, chiming a loud scream into the empty marble halls.

13:00

30 minutes until lunch with Aziraphale.

The woman had winced at the shout, but seemingly realised that discorporating the very being she sought out would be rather wasteful. She had noted the efficiency within which the chalk playground appeared to confine Crowley and this inspired faith in her boldness. She had heard of how demons liked to trick those who summoned them, worming their way out of their confines and infecting the space in which they were summoned.

Demons, like most twisted things were often favourable at a price. The same goes for Satan. In giving the demon Crowley’s name to the human, he had imparted his own price upon her. Once the use of the demon Crowley was done, she was to add the holy water to the chalk and draw a new circle about him to close the séance – to get rid of him, as it were. To ensure her safety, just as she was so conscious of doing. Nobody wanted a demon lingering around after that sort of thing, usually.

Throughout his frustrations a thought did occur to Crowley. If the woman was not on the side of God, then perhaps she would be easier to influence into creating a more lenient agreement regarding the confinement. Humans were awfully stupid at times, and weren’t half as well versed on the capabilities of demons as those who were demons. The only downside was that bargaining with the human would take time. And he didn’t have time. He had a lunch to get to.

He’d ask her for a drink. A tea. Perhaps even a coffee. That was what a good host did, after all, except he had visions of her boiling a nice hot cup of holy water before adding the rest and the thought was enough to make his stomach churn.

Slowly, the demon settled (as much as one could when standing in a cramped slightly asymmetrical circle). His wings folded neatly between his shoulders, taking care not to touch the threshold. The woman stood there expectantly, almost as though waiting out the tantrum of a small child. Piercing golden eyes scanned the room, scanned the doors, scanned the windows, scanned the nearby books. Moodily, Crowley slumped into a posture that spoke less of  ‘I want to maul you’ and more of ‘I am a human who has not slept in a week’. If anger and arguments won, he would be discorporated at worst and severely delayed at best. It was time to change tactics. It was time to adapt a little.

13:37

7 minutes late.

“Fine. What do you want?” The voice was tired, but not without residual irritation that bubbled beneath the surface.

Just humour it long enough to find an out. That’s all that needs to be done.

“My grandfather died. And I need you to bring him back.”

The demon’s nose wrinkled.

Now. There was an obvious out within this scenario- one that many a demon would pick up on quite swiftly. A dead body was a perfect soulless vessel- one that could possibly transcend the bond of the initial summoning. It was an out. A gross out. But a possibility.

It did not, however, appeal to Crowley, who was in an awful rush and fond of cutting corners.

“That’s it? That’s what you want?” Serpentine eyes tested the woman’s for a long moment as his mind wove about a solution for himself.

“…I’m going to need something that belonged to him.” Ah yes, the fabled art of a tether- it was ridiculous in most cases, but humans seemed to think it made sense.

“An old tie, a sock, perhaps a gold chain or a pair of sunglasses…” A glimmer of hope caught in the woman’s eyes and she took off, turning to focus on her mission of finding a suitable article from the deceased whilst Crowley continued his spiral through the five stages of grief at his containment. By the time she began searching the second room, Crowley was sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand cradling his cheek in a tableau of swallowed impatience. Soon the woman would come back. Soon he would demand she gave him the article she had found. And she would. She did, after all, agree that it made sense for some part of her grandfather’s essence be included in the ritual. What she was not accounting for, by the demon’s reluctant act of compliance was that within his plan all along was the part where he waited for her to break the confines of the circle by means of delivering any object or appendance through.

Quietly, the demon’s spare hand began to tap a soft rhythm onto the floorboards.

Somewhere distant in a restaurant a clock ticked to the same rhythm.

13:59

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[acaseforpencils]

Tips and Tricks: Watercolors Edition.

It always surprises me that more current cartoonists don’t use watercolors. I know that Will McPhail and Carolita Johnson use them, but watercolors haven’t really popped up much in the dozens upon dozens of interviews I’ve conducted over the past several years. Of course they show up more in interviews I’ve done with cover illustrators (Barry Blitt, John Cuneo, etc.), but I think a lot more cartoonists would find a whole world of opportunities in watercolor, if they were to experiment with them a bit. I’ve been painting a lot of watercolor pet portraits recently, and thinking of (and using!) some tips and tricks that I have found useful over the years, but that haven’t come up in any of the interviews that I’ve conducted on this blog, so I thought I would take the time to share them!

Here is some of my more recent work: 

You can find more of my art on my Instagram, here. 

-Watercolor has a similar look to ink wash, but is less permanent. You put down a layer of ink wash and you’re stuck with it. But if you use watercolor, you can take a wet rag and practically erase it! Plus, if you don’t feel confident doing linework with a brush, you can still use ink or a pen for that. Look at this landscape that I did a few years back. The shadowy sand was done by putting down opaque watercolor, letting it dry, and then scrubbing most of it away!

-If you have discovered the joys of lifting up watercolor mistakes, but have gone about it a bit over zealously, and caused your paper to pill up (but haven’t fully dug a hole through the fibers), I have discovered that the Cliceraser, a Japanese tool that Roz Chast recommended in her Case as an ink eraser, is your savior. If your paper is still wet, blast it with a hairdryer until it’s fully dry, and then gently sand off any errant paper fiber until it’s smooth enough to paint on again. Now, this would not work on printer paper (you shouldn’t be using watercolor on there anyways—I generally work on heavy cotton watercolor block), but this has helped me on more occasions than I care to admit. It is basically a grainy eraser. I haven’t tried using sandpaper, but I think the Cliceraser is more gentle, and would allow for more precision.

Image from Roz's Case

-Frank Cotham uses water-soluble crayons, which have a very unique look to them, but I’ve discovered that they can sometimes cause an unwanted glow in photographs. Say you spent ages painting a landscape, and thought it would be a great idea to use water-soluble  crayons to paint the leaves. Everything looks uniform and tied together, but when you try to capture an image for your portfolio, you discover that your subtle fall foliage is garishly glaring. Devastation. Use water-soluble crayons with caution, especially when you're doing mixed media, and perhaps take photos of your work as you go along, to make sure that what you see through the camera matches what you see in front of you (or at least to ensure that you won’t be faced with any horrifying realizations at the last second).

-Speaking of water solubility, a very versatile tool that hasn’t been mentioned in any Case interview is one of my favorites, and one that I think would make a lot of cartoonists’ lives a lot easier: watercolor pencils. They blend really well with regular watercolor paint, and work great for detail work, for building up an area quickly, and for outlines (though I sometimes like to have graphite peeking through in a painting, using it for initial sketches can be helpful, especially when using light tones, because you can seamlessly blend your lines into your painting).

A lot of cartoonists will use gouache straight out of the tube for highlights, but that can require extreme precision, and sometimes, watercolor paper will eat up the paint! However, if you use a very sharp white watercolor pencil instead, the highlights won’t get absorbed. If you’re feeling fancy (or using grainy paper), you can trace over the watercolor pencil with white gouache. 

Watercolor pencils can also be used for building up an area quickly. I find that if I’m using a thick cotton paper, it can be hard to get colors dark enough, so sometimes I’ll just lay down some watercolor pencil in whatever color is best suited for the task at hand, and then go over that with watercolor paint, which can lead to some interesting textures. I do that often with rocks.

-My rock painting leads me to my next tip, which is if you struggle with drawing something, that’s all the more reason to draw it. I used to struggle with painting rocks, so I sat down and said, “I’m going to paint a very rock-heavy painting,” (well, the painting itself is very light). Did I regret this decision greatly while painting all of those rocks? Yes! But I am now able to paint rocks fairly easily, so it ended up being worth the agony. This applies to many things in life besides watercolors, of course!

-Another tip (which also applies to the above rock painting) is to use the paint’s texture to your advantage. There are some really interesting paints with high levels of mineral separation, that can create beautiful grainy effects. You can do a light wash of a grainy paint over a flat wash of paint, and end up with a fascinating texture with minimal effort. This is an especially great technique for painting dirt. 

-Try to use shadows effectively rather than accurately. With portraiture, as with cartooning, you are telling a story. Such as writers use various devices (metaphors, etc.) to tell their tales, we do the same thing with how we use tones. If I’m painting a dog, I want all of the information in the image to go towards showing the dog. Part of this can be using background tones. In my average pet painting, I’m not going to try to make a meticulously true to life shadow, but rather use shading to either convey space or make the dog stand out from the background. If I am painting a pet with light fur, I am generally going to paint a more expressive background in darker tones that contrast with their fur. If I’m painting a chocolate lab, I will do a light shadow to convey that they are occupying space of some sort, but that won't cause them to blend into a dark background. I always want to make sure that the darkest (or sometimes lightest, if everything else is rather dark) color on the page is on the part of the painting that I want you to see first. Cartoonists do the same thing, but in a way that leads the viewer’s eye to the joke.

-If buying a whole set of watercolors is cost-prohibitive, I recommend buying a cheap set, and then buying a nicer tube here or there as you are able. That’s what I did. A lot of high quality companies also offer smaller sized tubes, that are often significantly cheaper than the large sizes with scary prices. Coupons are also your best friend. I’ve used a coupon on almost every single tube of paint I have ever bought. Plus if you work mostly in black and white, you only need two tubes! 

I hope this was helpful! I know people of many different levels of ability and knowledge read this blog, and it’s fun to be able to have artists share what they know, because the more we help others learn, the more wonderful art we get to enjoy! If anyone else has any tips or tricks, be sure to stick them in the comments! Also, if you’d like to follow my art, I have a fairly new-ish art Instagram here. Oh, and If you’d like to support the blog there is a Patreon and a Ko-Fi (essentially a PayPal account). And if you are hankering for some more art supplies on your social medias, consider following Case on Instagram and Twitter! Have a nice week!