#like one of those times he’s been cornered by a HARE

[writefightandflightclub]

“Yes man” (Cecil Dennis {fuck me, how did I get here} x fem!reader)

Summary: Blurby McBlurbFace. Mainly chat, slight fluff, smut, pining / friends to lovers vibes.

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Warnings: alcohol consumption; drug use mentions (weed); smoking; dumbification of Cecil, I guess. Mommy kink if you squint. Public erections / handjob sorta, premature ejaculation / cum in pants. Mentions of dead fish but no fish were harmed. Actually, a surprising number of animal metaphors. Oops. Rimming I’m sorry that one snuck in very last minute Omg.

A/n: having a shitty mental health day (boo) and this Cecil blurb (whilst not my best) is my self-care ☺️ I don’t remember his character well aside from wet bloody cat boy, but I’m damn sure not rewatching that again so this will have to do 😅. Feedback appreciated! 🧡 (Is the rimming too much? 🙈) Not proofed and I’m almost positive autocorrect will have screwed me over.

Also totally inspired by @my-secret-shame’s meme and @foxilayde’s amazing blurb. I will not pretend to have had an original idea! 🧡

“Come onnnn, Cecil,” you whine, poking him in his soft belly with your index finger. He giggles lightly, almost like a hiccough. “It’s always me coming up with the ideas. What do you wanna do next?”

He turns his head as though in slow motion. Moves as if he’s underwater, this one - at least when he’s got food and several beers in him (which is most of the time). He looks up. Blinks at you; dumbly. “What do you mean?”

Eh. You’d really thought your statement had been quite clear.

You resist the urge to pinch his cheek and tell him It’s a good job you’re pretty.

“I mean, that I suggest things, and you go along with them.”

He blinks again. It’s like everything is just a little slower in Cecil’s world. Takes a little longer to filter through. It’s refreshing, in a way. He’s in no rush, and it encourages you to slow down too. To smell the roses.

Cecil is beyond easy-going, come to think of it. Goes with the flow like a dead fish. You’re pretty sure, in fact, that he’d go along with just about anything. With just about anybody’s hare-brained schemes, without once thinking through a single one of the potential consequences.

Scratch that - he probably already has done just that; which would explain a lot of the trouble he’s routinely gotten himself into since you’ve known him.

Though, you suppose, in a way that’s refreshing too. You always did worry too much.

Besides, he always seems to muddle through, somehow. Though quite how has you stumped. It’s hardly due to his charm or his smarts, now, is it? Even so, despite whatever attributes he is lacking in, you can’t deny that he must be doing something right. Trouble simply seems to slide right off the man’s back. Like water off a… well. A dead fish, you guess. What a versatile metaphor.

He blinks at you again. Maybe those big pretty cow eyes help, just a teency bit, to get him out of trouble, you would wager.

Look at him though. You’ve never seen anyone more relaxed. Practically horizontal as he’s hunkered down in the booth, seated next to you in the corner of your usual dive bar. Maybe there’s something to be said for all the pot and seedy hotel room fucks he indulges in. You bet his shoulders are inordinately loose. Maybe he really does have it all figured out, despite appearances.

As you ponder this, Cecil -eventually- makes a non-committal noise, before his bloodshot, glassy eyes flick back to the TV hung up on the wall. He is barely even watching it. Just letting it happen to him, like he does with most everything else.

That’s probably why you’ve never fucked him, you realise, like a bolt out of the blue. He’s pretty, sure. But you wouldn’t.

You don’t mind control - that’s not it. You don’t mind taking charge. But with Cecil? You think he’d take it lying down - a little too literally. If you’d ever suggested you and he fool around, you’d never know for sure. Never know if it really was his idea - a thought or desire he’d ever had before - or if he was simply far too agreeable and opportunistic to decline. So agreeable, that he’d let you ease your vagina up and down on his cock until you came on him. You were intrigued by the thought, sure. But you refused to go there simply because Cecil couldn’t come up with anything better to do.

You look at him, and immediately bat that thought - the vagina all over cock one - away though, as you regard his complete lack of gumption. It’s tangible. Look at him now, for example. He’d seemed to like the way the air from his non-committal noise had filtered over the neck of his bottle, tucked under his folded chin. Indeed, he is now pursing his full, curvy lips, and blowing over the mouth of it until a soft series of “hoots” fill your booth.

You fold your arms and sigh.

You reckon that will amuse him for the next ten minutes at least, so clearly, once again, Cecil’s not the one coming up with a plan for the remainder of this evening.

It’s not that you ever really have to do anything with Cecil to have a good time. It’s just that, tonight, you’re antsy, and it’s making your thoughts wander in directions. Down below his zipper directions, so help you.

“Beer’s empty,” Cecil states flatly, finally noticing after sucking on the bottle for a mo, poking his wet pink tongue around the rim like the little wet cat boy he is. Cute though. Does things to you.

Anyway. You register his statement, but you observe that no action follows. He doesn’t look at all like he plans to do a damn thing about it.

You decide to test your theory, then. Your theory that Cecil’s simply a dead fish swept along in your river. That maybe he doesn’t even want to be here at all. Never did. That you are just another something that happened to happen to him.

“Do you wanna go get Mexican?” you offer, with ulterior motives Cecil is not shrewd enough to pick up on.

His eyes tick back from the captivating, shifting lights of the TV. “Sure,” he smiles softly at you, perfectly content, it seems - and yet, you are less than satisfied.

“See!” You smack the palms of your hands together in triumph, and he jumps. Pushes himself up a little straighter in the seat, his palms disappearing into the worn, lumpy upholstery. “See what I mean?”

He blinks at you blankly. Again.

Clearly not, then?

“You just go along with anything I say. We ate two hours ago, Cecil,” you complain, recalling the all you can eat Chinese buffet you and he had gorged on with two coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper. You drop your hands to your lap, dejectedly. You’re getting agitated with him, which surprises you, in truth. And still… there Cecil is. Unflappable. Calm. Constant. There are pros to his cons, for sure. “I just… I never know if you actually like what we’re doing, you know?”

“But. You always suggest things I like. So why would I say no?” He shrugs a little. “Tacos are good. I like tacos. I like…” he hoots into his bottle again as he says the word. “You-ooooooh.”

You hate to admit it, but his answer has you stumped for a moment. Cecil’s statements may generally be simple. Uncomplicated. But they can be oddly profound at times.

Christ. Maybe… Does the man actually have a valid point? Or, perhaps you’re looking too hard for meaning in his words - it’s possible. You feel like you’ve spent a lot of time lately looking hard at Cecil, perhaps to justify your bizarre and inexplicable feelings.

Possibly you’re even projecting. His seeming lack of independent willpower would certainly make that easy enough to do.

Maybe the man has a point though. Maybe he’s not as “easy-going” as you think he is. Maybe you’re just coincidentally so attuned to his desires that he’s never had cause to deny you. Maybe you are aligned with his desires. One and the same. “What if I asked you to do something you didn’t like, then?”

You slurp up the dregs of melted ice through your straw and Cecil blinks again as though it’s taking all of his processing power. Damn, though. You’re surprised that the fanning of those endlessly long cow lashes didn’t cause the curtains behind you to billow in the breeze they threw up. “Like what?”

You shake your head. Touch his arm to placate him. “Never mind, Cecil.” Christ. If he can’t even think of a single Thing He Wouldn’t Like, maybe you can safely stick to your dead fish hypothesis. It’s all the same to him. Just happening to him. He’s not choosing you.

That particular thought, when it arrives, niggles you more than expected, but you quash the growing agitation which rides in alongside it.

Meanwhile, Cecil looks around, quite visibly thinking. “I wouldn’t get up outta this seat,” he states adamantly, his voice croaked from all the blunts he’s worked through today. “I wouldn’t like that.”

You believe him. He’s practically sliding down to become a puddle on the floor. Dissolving into the bar furniture; becoming one with the upholstery.

Your lips curl up into a tender smile, remembering one particularly ridiculous night at Cecil’s. The night involving a 3am bong sesh, culminating in him genuinely believing he had merged with the couch, becoming a half-human half-upholstery monstrosity. He had waved the two huge, puffy couch cushions around as though they were his arms, and he’d grabbed you up in the middle of them like a grilled cheese, sandwiching you and taking you down to the floor where the two of you had rolled and laughed until you’d cried.

When the laughter had subsided to only the odd titter here and there, and you had lain on his disgusting rug almost nose to nose? That’s the first time you’d wanted to kiss him, and it turned out not to have been the last.

Fuck. You are rather fond of this idiot, aren’t you? How the fuck did that happen?

Engaged fully now though - slightly more lucid than your fond memory- Cecil sits up. Still slouched but this time over the table, his forearms bracing him against the surface. As he moves, you get a waft of his layered, stale cigarette smell. It’s… confusing, in its appeal. Should be off-putting, but you find, in fact, that it’s a comfort.

“No? You don’t wanna?”

With a rush of affection you link your arm through Cecil’s, and he slumps his head on to your shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You weren’t ready for the way his knotted curls brush your cheek, and it inspires a similarly dense and tangled knot to form in your middle.

“No.” It’s the most sure you’ve ever heard him sound. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“A minute ago we were going for Mexican food, Cecil.” There’s a beat. “That kinda involves movement, you realise?

He swivels his head towards you then, gaze all doe-eyed and pathetic, and the proximity of him parroting on your shoulder knocks you for six. “You mad at me or something, Hottie from Walmart?”

You snort. He doesn’t always pull out that nickname for you - how you’d been known to him before you had been known to him - but it always makes you sentimental when he does.

He shifts from you then, tilting his body towards you. Scrutinising you with apprehension in his sweet face.

Fuck him actually, and fuck his pouty beautiful kissable lips most of all.

You sigh, and you deliberately soften your face. He’s easy-going, sure, but he’s sensitive. Trouble slides off of his back, but other things… other things don’t slip off quite so well, and he often gets like this. Like he’s done something wrong, when he hasn’t.

You actively resist the urge to coddle him. To tenderly rake his somewhat grimy but beautiful curls off of his forehead.

You hardly want to examine the fact he brings out your… motherly instincts; but it doesn’t escape your attention that he always seems like he’s craving just a little nurturing. You want to take your thumb and smooth out the creases in his troubled brow.

“No, Cecil. I’m not mad at you. I’d tell you if I was and we’d talk about it.”

He nods.

You’re not mad at him. Really. And so, you take pause to wonder why this happy-go-lucky trait of his is particularly irking you today. “It’s mostly a good thing, I promise.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

He looks pleased for a minute and then: “Wait. What’s a good thing?”

You want to kiss his stupid mouth until he can’t think. Which you don’t think would take long at all, actually.

“That…” You think about how to phrase it, and it quickly occurs to you. “That. You’re my ‘yes man’.” He is expressionless for a moment, and you wait for comprehension to slowly crawl over him. “I mean, Cecil,” you take his clammy hand in yours. “That it’s always fun with you. I mean that you never shoot down my ideas. Even when you probably should.”

His face splits with a brief - goofy, but wholly endearing - smile. “You have fun with me?”

His big cow eyes go all soft and wet.

Oh boy. This idiot. If you didn’t have fun with him, even just sitting on his grotty couch, what other reason could you possibly have to hang out with him, huh?

You open your mouth to say as much before thinking better of it, but for once Cecil beats you to it.

“I have fun with you too, Hottie.”

It’s another one of those moments of levity that you’ve experienced surprisingly often with Cecil. One of those moments where everything feels a just little more profound. A little more magical. Sometimes, Cecil gets you in the gut just a little harder than expected.

Great. And now you’re thinking of Cecil all up in your guts.

“I should think so - I’m awesome. But, right now? All I’m saying is…” You tap your noggin. “Tank empty. No ideas. It’s your turn to decide what we do tonight? Okay?”

You search his eyes. His big, beautiful, sincere and secretless eyes. You silently ask the true question you want to ask him. I want to know what you want.

You’re not yet ready to admit the questions buried right beneath that one: do you want me back? Could you? Would you, Cecil?

“Yeah?” Cecil responds, unsure, and you immediately worry that you have, in fact, given him too much responsibility. His expression compresses in a frown of deep, deep concentration. Like he’s really wrestling with this.

You watch with bated breath, dying to see what he comes up with - if anything at all.

And then - aha - he finally has it.

“I could jerk off.”

“Wha-?” You playfully bat him in the arm, aghast. “Cecil!!”

“What?” A surprised, contrite laugh bobs in his throat.

“I mean.” You swallow. “How is that an idea for both of us?”

Oh that’s your problem with his idea?

That it’s not participatory enough?

“You could help.”

Your jaw drops open. “Cecil! I’m not gonna-” you switch to a loud whisper “-jerk you off!”

He blinks again, his eyes glinting with a gentle - ever so gentle - flicker of amusement. “You’re not a yes man,” he complains softly, his curly lips sneaking up into a curly smile. “Always shooting down my ideas.”

He bats his lashes at you and oh boy - even Cecil must be starting to figure out that you’re a sucker for those big, pretty brown eyes. Your one true weakness.

“That’s really what you want?” you ask, trying to keep things light. To keep your tone jokey and jovial, like always, despite the rising tremor in your voice. “It would involve getting up, you realise?”

He winks at you - a gesture which seems entirely unlike him and yet somehow works - and smirks down at his crotch. “Already am.”

“If you’re really so uncontrollably horny, why don’t you get someone else around here to help you, huh?” Your heart skips a beat. “Why me?”

He’s looking at you like he wants you but… he’s an opportunistic guy. Goes with the flow. That’s how things come to him; he’ll take his cigarettes and beers and fucks wherever and whenever he can get them.

He unceremoniously pulls out a rolled blunt and lights it up, the filter end pressed between his plush pink lips.

“No.” It bobs as he talks and he takes little, peppered drags to get the burn going.

“No?”

You blink at him dumbly now.

“No. I only want you.”

Correction. That’s the most sure of anything you’ve ever heard him.

He slips forward, exhaling his smoke into your mouth as his lips caress yours. “Come on,” he encourages. “Get going. Before my penis turns into a couch cushion.”

He kisses your laugh, and as his tongue slides hungrily against yours suddenly it isn’t quite so funny. Suddenly, you feel like maybe Cecil has the best ideas.

“Right here?” You reach down, and you smooth your palm over the clothed bulge at his crotch. “In the booth?”

“I’m already barred. Heh. What are they gonna do?”

You smile at him, licking your lips as Cecil bucks up into your hand, his head lolling back against the lip of his seat, and his pretty eyes fluttering closed.

He groans, as your fingers snake to tease open the button at his fly.

“Oops,” Cecil whispers contritely, almost immediately, his cheeks and his ears darkening with a deep crimson flush as he looks over to you. “I just… I…”

Oh God. He just came in his pants, didn’t he? Oh Lord that makes you inexplicably hot.

His big, pretty eyes are wet with apology. “Are you mad?”

“No, Cecil.” Poor baby. “I just think I should take you home and get you cleaned up, hmm?” You next words all run into one, as you struggle to get your new genius plan out of your mouth. “Mayberimyoualittlewhatdoyousay?”

Did you actually just suggest that you take him home to rim him? Good Lord.

He blinks rapidly, the colour in his cheeks flowering more, like a beautiful rose unfurling. “Y-Yes. I say yes.”

It’s a hare-brained plan, for sure, but you decide that for once,

you might as well just…

go with the flow.

It certainly works for Cecil.

[winterspellsfrozenkit]

Twisted Wonderland's Grim is a Grimalkin.

Okay TWST fandom, so today I was chatting away with another friend who plays TWST explaining that it's highly likely that Crowley summoned us due to the opening you get when you first start the game and she asked why he'd do that. And I said this without thinking:

Once I said that, it hit me: GRIM IS NOT NAMED FOR GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES, HE'S A GRIMALKIN.

Let me explain! (This is a long post, you've been forewarned. There is a TLDR at the bottom if you need it.)

So I like reading fairy tale books, retellings, etc., and I learned a long time ago during my high school hyperfixation on reading faery based YA readings about Grimalkins. What are Grimalkins?

Grimalkin (Also spelled Greymalkin) is an archaic term that was often used to describe cats; particularly haggard, female cats. Grimalkin, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, likely comes from compounding the words "Grey" and "Malkin". "Malkin" is a term with several meanings including: a low-class woman, a weakling, an untidy slovenly woman. It's also used to describe cats and hares.

Grimalkins were listed in Scottish legends as a faery cat that dwelt in the highlands, but during the 16th Century witch trials, cats became associated with the devil and witchcraft. Women on trial in Scotland were frequently accused of having a familiar, a ‘demon in disguise’, which was often a Grimalkin. One example of Grimalkins being tied to witchcraft and the devil at the time is William Shakespeare's play MacBeth, which shows the Three Witches who foretell Macbeth's future as having a cat familiar named Grimalkin. They're also in Louis Le Breton's Dictionnaire Infernal, which is a book on demonology.

So how does this relate to Grim?

Grim's design is heavily influenced by common media portrayals of the Devil with a pitchfork tail and fiery pointed ears that can look like horns at times.

One reason that fire is blue like Hades, Idia, and Ortho's hair is because thanks to the Pop Culture understanding of Christianity, people heard Hades and thought to equivocate him to Satan which is why he's the bad guy in the Disney movie, Hercules, when in the original myth, Hera is the one antagonizing Heracles.

Also, most of the fandom believes this creature in the pre Prologue scene when you first start the game, is Grim.

Just saying this looks a lot like different representations of devils and demons.

Note the human hands and clawed feet on this statue of Pazuzu.

And the incorporation of animal traits blended with humans

This is some concept art for Bald Mountain in Fantasia and I can see leathery wings like a dragon/bat, one has a snakey tail, and some have those human-like hands, but clawed feet.

As stated earlier, Grimalkins are tied heavily to devils and witchcraft and TWST tends to push this at us. For Halloween, while all the Dorms have different monsters such as mummies, ghost pirates, headless horsemen, but Ramshackle's Halloween outfit is this:

Not only that, but when we wake up, this is what Crowley says to us about Grim, when he finds us in the library after Grim cornered us, trying to get our robes:

Again, the most common familiar that people accused of witchcraft were said to have was a Grimalkin. A demon cat. This also ties into why we and Grim are put in Ramshackle Dorm.

Now, as some know, Ramshackle Dorm is based on the Haunted Mansion. But the Haunted Mansion had a specific haunt that was cut before the ride came out: The One-eyed Black Cat.

Now, if you don't know this cat, it's okay. He was cut before the ride came out. To sum up, X Atencio, the Imagineer who came up with the basic story ideas and the script for the rides of Haunted Mansion and Pirates of the Caribbean, had many drafts of the Haunted Mansion's story. One of these cut drafts had a distinct villain character: The One-Eyed Black Cat.

Now, people might argue the Bride/Constance Hatchaway is the villain of the Haunted Mansion, but the One-Eyed Black Cat was different. In that draft, the Ghost Host would warn guests about the One-Eyed Black Cat and the One-Eyed Black Cat was specifically trying to attack/get the guests on the ride and detested mortals, especially happy ones. Guests would've seen signs of the cat throughout the ride as if he was stalking them (Think something akin to the little glimpses of Catnap as he stalks the player throughout Poppy Playtime Chapter 3). At the end of the ride, they would've faced the cat, who's face would turn into some form of human-esque skull like head.

Now the cat made it pretty far before he was cut, because we do have surviving sound outtakes of Paul Frees, the voice of the Ghost Host, saying "Except for that unnatural and dreadful one-eyed black cat" which implies he's not one of the 999 happy haunts, but something truly evil, like a demon.

Now, One-Eyed Black Cat's not mentioned in the Haunted Mansion ride, and there's an idea that his role was passed over to the Raven, another cut antagonistic character who would haunt the rider specifically, but was less unnatural than the cat, but the more likely reason is both the raven and the cat were cut due to the ride changing from story driven to an atmospheric ride. However, nowadays, you can find the One-Eyed Black Cat on the Composer's Crypt in Walt Disney World and as a statue in Disneyland's Haunted Mansion (Funnily enough, during the Haunted Mansion Holiday, the cat statue gets a black and white pinstripe bow...).

Now, this may be reaching, but Grim chasing the player throughout the school, trying to steal their robes because he wasn't allowed to attend NRC, feels like a reference to this possibly demonic cut cat character. Also, his smirk face does make one of his eyes look smaller than the other, kind of like the image on the Composer Crypt.

Anyways, back to Grimalkins. So besides being tied to the devil and witchcraft, Grimalkins were also known as Scottish faery cats. Why does this matter? May I draw your attention to these moments from Book 6 and Book 7?

(Warning minor spoilers)

Idia discussing what Grim is.

Idia and Ortho describing powerful magic cast on Grim.

And from Book 7 Chapter 106

Soi in Book 6, Idia notes Grim is some magical mix of direbeast and animal. In a lot of faery stories, faery animals like Grimalkins, Cat Sidhe, and Kelpies look very similar to normal animals, but they are distinctly a fae, which makes them much more dangerous to mess around with. Much like how Grim is not fully an animal, he's also part direbeast which, considering what has been mentioned in game about direbeasts, sounds like a distinctly magical species that is far more dangerous that regular animals.

Grim is also noted to fluctuate between full Phantom and absolutely no blot levels, but Idia does note a complex magical spell on him that later Papa Shroud mentions is very similar to Malleus's magical realm, which is a faerie spell... (Again, there's that faerie connection). Likewise, depending on the story context, Grimalkins can either be demonic familiars to witches (more akin to TWST Phantoms) or they can be faery creatures (more like TWST Direbeasts).

I've also noticed people point out some kind of connection between Malleus and Grim. There's a blog post by ventique18 does a really good job about pointing out the similarities between the two. Here's the link: https://www.tumblr.com/ventique18/721267245925400576/three-pronged-tail-bringing-back-the-grim-is?source=share

So perhaps one of the reasons for the tie between them is Grim is at least in part based on a Grimalkin, a faery cat, and Malleus is a dragon faery. With all these little things lining up, maybe Grim got his name in part from Grimm's Fairy Tales, but I really and truly do believe Grim is some form of Grimalkin and his name is more a reference to that, but whether he is based on the demonic familiar, faery, or BOTH, we shall see.

TLDR: I'm pretty sure Grim is HEAVILY based on a Scottish fae cat creature/demonic cat that act as a witch's familar called a Grimalkin because there's a lot of references that seem to point to that.

[lackablazeical]

Addams! AU snippet 2: 'Lab'

FULL CREDIT TO WRITER NewFallenLeaves ON A03! SHE IS THE BIGGEST SUPPORTER OF THIS AU, AND IS INCREDIBLY TALENTED AND SWEET. GIVE HER A COMMENT, KUDO, SHARE, WHATEVER. MAKE HER DAY JUST A BIT BETTER, SHE DESERVES ALL THE LOVE!

This specific snippet had actually been inspired by some art! Im pretty sure I've posted it before, but might as well also include it too! (It is pretty old, forgive meeeee LOL)

Full snippet below the cut! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

-----

Donnie had the setup exactly how he wanted.

The rat specimen was pinned to the exam table, paws impaled and spread. Its belly fur was scraped clear and the bloated, pink flesh exposed. It had died in the trap before Donnie could get to it (thank you, Mikey, for setting the couch on fire again and delaying him.) So no vivisection. But that was fine, dissection was the next best thing. Especially of a pregnant rat, oh, giddy grin, he was going to get a whole clutter of partially-developed babies to experiment on! And with Mikey and Raph off in the tunnels and Leo traipsing around the Hidden City somewhere, Donnie finally had a quiet afternoon to himself.

He intended to make the most of it.

Swiveling the lamp so the lighting beamed down on the specimen, he curled his fingers in anticipation. The mechanical scalpel joint lined up just at the top of the rat’s throat, where he could cut a straight line to open the abdomen–

“Donnieeeeeeeeee!”

Leo burst through the double doors. He waltzed across the room and flung himself over the dissection table, swooning like a lady in the throes of a fainting spell.

“Wha–” Donnie grabbed for his tray of needles and surgical knives before it upended and strewed across the floor. “Nardo! You’re squishing my specimen!”

Leo fixed him with a dreamy, half-lidded gaze. “I just met somebody.”

Donnie glowered. This was the reason Leo had barged into his lab? To annoy him with ceaseless gushing over some new simpleton he’d decided to pursue?

“You’ll never believe it,” said Leo. “I rescued him instead of mugged him.”

Donnie shook the table. “Didn’t you hear me? Get off.”

“He was cornered. By two smelly thugs. They had these adorable little switch knives, trying to be all intimidating. Donnie, I’m telling you, it would have been pathetic that he got himself hemmed in like that, if his cowering wasn’t so adorable.”

“Nardo…”

“You should have seen how cute his face was, all covered in blood!” Leo kicked his feet. “Oh, I couldn’t help myself. Don’t worry, don’t worry, you’ll be so proud of me, I only licked him a little–”

“I don’t have time for this–”

“--so I’m sure he knows I’m a gentleman. Oh, it was such a good thing I was there, those brutes were so unsophisticated, they wouldn’t have done anything right–”

“Oh my god would you just shut up!” Donnie dragged his hands down his face, opening a sliver on his cheek as the scalpel on his finger caught flesh. “What level of disinterest and indignation do I need to achieve before you get it through your addled brain? I do not care.”

Leo’s smirk never wavered. He held up his hand, smudged deep with red, and waggled his fingers. “Wanna sample?”

Donnie opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated. He peered a little closer at the smear of not-yet-coagulated blood. “...it was a yokai?”

“Mmm-hmmmm.”

“What type?”

“One you don’t have any blood work for yet.” Leo’s grin widened. “Rabbit. Or bunny. If there’s a difference.”

The swab was in Donnie’s hand before he realized he’d made the decision to reach for one. He soaked up a dribble from Leo’s wrist and snagged a clean Petri dish. “Of course there’s no difference, why do you think the combination term ‘bunny rabbit’ exists? It’s a hare that comes from another genus. And what do you want, huh? You don’t just saunter in here and offer me free DNA for my trials for nothing.”

“Can’t I help my dear brother with his evil lab experiments out of the goodness of my heart?”

“As if you have one.”

Leo dissolved into giggles.

Donnie capped the dish and pulled a fresh label from the drawer. “So? Spill. What am I beholden to you for after this oh-so-generous and selfless donation?”

“Oh, you know. Age, blood type, zodiac sign, debilitating allergies or hypersensitivities. Aaaand if you happen to match those to any particular medical records and it leads to a place of employment or a home address…”

“Don’t you have enough stalking victims already?”

Leo hopped off the metal slab and pirouetted his way out the door. “No such thing.”

[the-al-chemist]

Any Happy Little Thought

A/N: Truthfully, Ben Copper was never my favourite of the HPHM cast. But, I can’t help but feel sorry for him — I think he has it worse than most of those kids. So, when I received @eternalchaoschocolaterain’s request below, I had to go for the most uplifting of the choices. Poor boy deserves a little happiness.

Warnings: angst, references to violence and death of a young person, memory loss, understandably poor mental health.

The day was drizzly and overcast, but the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was bright, illuminated with a silvery-white glow, so radiant that it had to be magical.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the first meeting of the Circle of Khanna, and so far, the society had been more successful than anyone would have guessed, in spite of their differences and almost constant bickering. Bill Weasley had proved to be as effective a DADA teacher as any of the six others they’d had in as many years - in fact, he was a better teacher than most - and with his help, they had managed to fill many of the gaps they had in their patchy, disjointed curriculum.

Today, however, Bill had decided to teach them something different, something that they might not even have covered for their NEWTs: the Patronus Charm.

Ben Copper had always been good at Charms. At one point, before he had started to make friends, his Charms lessons had been the only thing he had liked about school. Even after five and a half years of education, it was still the only subject that really came easily to him.

So why, then, could he not cast this charm at all?

He knew that the Patronus Charm was exceptionally complex, famously so. It was the most difficult defensive charm known to wizardkind, with many adults unable to fully master it. Ben wasn’t expecting to be good at it immediately, but he had not expected to be quite so bad at it in comparison to his peers.

Of course, Bill had already been able to cast the spell — he wouldn’t have been teaching it to them if he couldn’t — and it had transpired that Tonks was already capable of conjuring a corporeal Patronus, one in the shape of a large rabbit or hare. At first, the others had struggled, but now many of them were also managing to produce Patronuses that were not just discs or clouds of light, but had the forms of silver-white animals: a dolphin for Penny, a peacock for Andre, a dove for Chiara. Even Barnaby, who had never gotten good grades in most of his subjects, and little Bea Haywood, who was only in her second year, were improving with every attempt they made.

Ben, however, had been trying just as hard, and yet he had barely produced even the tiniest wisp of silver from his wand. As the others continued to practise, he was growing increasingly frustrated with himself. What was he doing wrong?

“I think you might be using the wrong memory,” said Bill, who had clearly noticed that Ben was having difficulty. “It can’t just be any old thing, it has to be something really powerful, the happiest memory you have.”

The happiest memory Ben had. What was the happiest memory he had?

His mind drew a blank. It often did when he tried to remember, had done ever since his second year at Hogwarts, when he had been found trapped in the cursed ice with no recollection of how he had become so. All his memories of that day had been lost, and the more that time went on, the more he had noticed other gaps in his memory from his life before then. Perhaps his happiest memory had vanished with the rest. As for the memories he had from after that…

The cupboard in the dungeons, dank and dark, and filled with the Devil’s Snare that had wound its way around his legs. The piercing screams of his classmates each time they had encountered a Boggart, and the anxiety that tightened like a coil in his chest each time he had opened a cupboard, or turned a corner, convinced that he would be the next person to face their greatest fear. The strange feeling of déjà-vu he had gotten the first time he ever saw Patricia Rakepick, that he couldn’t explain then and still couldn’t explain now. The looks of betrayal on Artemis and Rowan’s faces when he woke up to find out that he had been threatening them without his knowledge and against his will. The great rumble of the ceiling in the Buried Vault and the scent of burnt flesh that pierced his nose once the dragon entered the room from one of the portraits. Rakepick’s wand pointed at him, the green light emanating from that wand towards his chest, Rowan appearing from the shadows and jumping in front of him, her body hitting the ground, limp and lifeless.

Ben’s hand had been raised ready to cast his spell, but now it was shaking so badly that his wand fell to the floor. His head spun as he bent down to pick it up, and it took everything he had in him just to stay standing once he had straightened himself up again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, conscious that Bill was watching him. “I, er… Yeah, I’ll have another think about what memory to use. Thank you.”

It was a lie. There was no memory Ben could use, not anymore. He waited for Bill to turn his attention to Alanza before lowering his wand and sitting down at one of the tables that had been pushed to the side of the room. He wanted to have a moment to himself, to shrink away from the thoughts that threatened to drown him: the memory of Rowan’s death, the guilt that she had sacrificed herself to save him, the idea that she shouldn’t have bothered, that he wasn’t worth saving. He was a coward. He was a Mudblood. He was useless at everything except for Charms, and apparently he wasn’t even good at that anymore.

“You alright, mate?” A voice interrupted Ben’s thoughts, and he was joined by Charlie Weasley. Charlie leant back against the table rather than sitting in one of the chairs, his eyes scanning the room. “This spell’s really hard. I can’t get the hang of it at all.”

Ben couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or just trying to make him feel better. He made a quiet humming noise instead of speaking.

”I think Jae might’ve cracked it, though. Look.”

Charlie nodded his head and raised his eyebrows, and Ben followed the direction of his eyes. Their friend Jae had his wand held aloft, his Patronus swirling in the air in front of him to take a more substantial — if small — form. It had tiny silver legs, a twitching nose, a long tail.

“It’s a rat.” Charlie half-smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Bill is not going to be happy about that…”

But Jae’s rat-Patronus disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared, the light it had cast on Jae’s face replaced with a surprised and proud-looking smirk. Seeing them looking, Jae walked towards Ben and Charlie with a swagger in his stride that irritated Ben, but made Charlie laugh.

“Not bad, mate,” said Charlie. “You really had it that time.”

“Dunno what all the fuss is about. Piece of cake, that.”

“Got any tips for us?”

Jae seemed to consider Charlie’s question before nodding. “Yeah. Ignore what your brother says. The thing about memories is a load of crap. I tried it, and it didn’t work. Had to improvise, do my own thing, y’know?”

Ben frowned. Charms were cast with precision, everyone knew that. You couldn’t just improvise a Charm.

“And what was ‘your own thing’?” he asked, more sharply than intended.

“Well, instead of thinking about good stuff that’s already happened, I just thought about even better stuff that could happen. It works, look.” Jae cleared his throat. For a moment, he seemed to glance over his shoulder in the direction of the Hufflepuff girls, but his focus returned so quickly to his wand that it may have only been a twitch. “Expecto Patronum!”

A small burst of white light issued from Jae’s wand, and a moment later, his rat-Patronus had returned.

“Possibility, lads. That’s the secret to happiness. Why look back, when you can keep on moving onwards and upwards?”

“I guess anything’s worth a try,” Charlie said with a shrug. “Expecto Patronum!”

Another raised wand, another Patronus. Though Charlie’s was incorporeal, he had at least managed a half-decent shield, which was more than Ben had achieved. Charlie’s Patronus grew brighter as Bill did a double-take at Jae’s rat and flinched away from it.

Then, both Jae and Charlie’s eyes were on Ben. He sighed before pulling out his own wand.

Something good that might happen. Again, Ben struggled to think of something. When so much that was bad had already happened, who was to say that the future wouldn’t hold something even worse in store? He always had found the idea of the future unnerving. The future was uncertain and out of his control and an endless source of worry. Possibility had never made him happy, only anxious.

Ben shook his head. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I can’t think of anything that’s good right now.”

Jae and Charlie shared glances as Ben lowered his wand and his gaze.

“Wow,” said Jae. “Bit rude, don’t you think? I mean, we are literally with you right now.”

“I don’t… You know that isn’t what I meant, Jae.”

Ben looked at Charlie for back up, but Charlie did not back him up.

“Actually, I think Jae might have a point. I mean, we’ve all been through some pretty rough stuff the last couple of years, and Godric knows what else we’ll be up against with the Vaults and the Cabal…”

Jae leaned towards Charlie and muttered, “Mate, I dunno if that’s going to help.”

“All I’m saying is that we’re still here. We’re still trying.” Charlie shrugged. “The fact that we haven’t given up yet is something, right? And I guess… Well, I guess that’s all thanks to you.”

Was it thanks to Ben? Ben wasn’t sure that it was, but Jae nodded his head emphatically.

“That’s right, this was all your idea. The defence lessons, and the name. The Circle of Khanna. That was genius, that was.”

Ben had been surprised that the others had liked his idea for a name as much as they had. He wasn’t going to suggest it at first. After all, would they really want to be constantly reminded of Rowan, of the loss of Rowan? Did they need to be reminded? Ben didn’t think there would ever be a day where he didn’t think about her, about her death, the way she had laid down her life for his. He didn’t think there would ever be a night where he didn’t dream that he was back in the forest, reliving her death. That memory would stay with him forever.

But, then again, Ben knew better than anyone what it was like to forget. He knew that forgetting was far worse than remembering. And so, he had suggested the name. The Circle of Khanna. With a name like that, none of them would ever forget the reason why they had joined together, who they were doing this for.

“It is a good name,” agreed Charlie.

“It’s all good, what we are doing here.” Jae paused, his eyebrows furrowing. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever really done anything good before.”

It was good, what they were doing — fighting, trying, working together. Rowan was gone, but they were all still here. They hadn’t given up. They hadn’t lost hope. Not yet, anyway. That was how the others were able to cast their Patronuses, Ben realised. It wasn’t because they had the happiest memories, or liked the idea of possibility; it was because they still had hope. If they could stay hopeful, then why couldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he?

He didn’t need much, just one thought. One hopeful, if not happy, thought. It could be anything. Maybe just being here was something. Here, surrounded by bright silvery light that had been created from his friends’ happiness.

“Expecto Patronum!”

This time, when Ben raised his wand and spoke the incantation, something happened. A small wisp of silver furled upwards into the air in front of him. It was only little, and it wasn’t corporeal — it wasn’t even shield-like — but it was at least something.

For now, he would take something. For now, that would do for him.

[iris0gardens]

〣"Run Baby, Run"〣 - Wrench x FEM!Reader

_"you think you ever left my mind? I WAS CRAZY ABOUT YOU."_

TW/TAGS: Romance implied, Violence, Blood, Wrench being Wrench, DEPRESION AAA-

Description: Wrench left San Fran to leave his dedsec Days behind after some drama had happened, going to london to seek revenge for a busted deal. However one particular person didnt seem to stay behind as Wrench has hoped.

Footsteps echoed across the hallway as laughter was heard from the direction Wrench ran from. His Heist of receiving blueprints a bust, someone managed to hack into the system he thought was under his control. Displays all around him displaying a laughing Hare mask, the laughter resembling a female as guards ran across the hallway.

Wrench cursed under his breath as he kept running, attempting to navigate the maze of a building in a hurry as laughter was heard from every place a monitor stood. He wasn't aware he was being tracked or followed as he prepared for the heist and neither did he know the hare mask displayed on the various screens he came across. The male went through every single scenario as to how this heist could've been a bust until he heard an explosion from one of the directions he came from along with a female voice coming from a mega phone "SUP BITCHES, THIS IS HARE TERRITORY NOWW HAHA". The familiar feeling of knowing that voice popped up in his head but due to the circumstances had no time to think about it as he ran out of the building.

Wrench looked around in panic for a car as his LED googles displayed exclamation marks, as soon as he saw a car close by , he sprinted towards it as he heard guards yell for him and shots being fired before another explosion went off. His heart beating heavily as he took out his phone, hacked the cars security system, jumping in and driving off. As soon as he got further from the wreckage, Jackson came onto his com channel. "Dude, what happened?!" Wrench asked hastily as he sped around corners.

"Seems like the Hare really wanted the servers for herself. She wasn't active for years before you came around.." Jackson explained, his voice at the end turning into a mere mutter as he thought of possible explanations. "Did you make any enemies here in London, Wrench?" He asked as Wrench nervously chuckled in response. "Not that I can think off, I piss off people here and there BUT NOT A MAFIA BOSS LIKE THE HARE." he responded annoyed. Jackson laughed into the coms "alright alright, don't get your panties in a knot, Wrench. I will figure out why The Hare wants those servers and you think of ideas as to why she knew you were there."

Wrench signed off the coms and proceeded to make his way back to his safehouse, running through every possible solution as to why the Hare knew but non seemed plausible. Once he came across the thought of the Hare sounding similar to an old friend, he shook his head in disbelief. +It cant be anyone from san fran. Marcus told me everyone was around and safe..+ he thought as he pulled up to the complex, jumping out the car and hurrying up the stairs.

As he got into his safehouse, he closed the door and put his back against the door, sliding to the floor and letting go of a deep sigh he didnt feel before. He barely got out but somehow managed to with the help of The Hare distracting the guards. However he wasnt sure if they shared the same side.

"You know. For a tech Master, you suck at hiding your traces to the fullest extend" A soft female voice rang out and Wrench shot up in shock. He pulled out a gun which happened to be Princess ratarat as looked around frantically, trying to figure out the source of the voice and its owner. "Dont worry Wrench, im not here to hurt you." The female called out as she took notice of Wrenchs panic "I just wish to talk to you..old friend." from behind another wall, a female silhouette walked around with her hands on her waist and a firm stance.

"The hare?! wha- I dont fucking know you and how you got into my home but I highly suggest getting the fuck out" Wrench threated as anger began to boil into his body. How dare this masked stranger think they could just walk into his home without any consequences and especially how they managed to.

"Such a shame. I thought we could share a beer and laugh about it. Like good ol times." The female laughed as she proceeded to slip off the hare mask, revealing it to be Y/N, Wrenchs good old friend.

"I- no..noo. I must be fucking dreaming."Wrench said in disbelief, seeing his old friend and partner in crime right in front of him. "you..I must be high, Marcus said you all were in san fran and you forgot about me.."He explained as he put his gun down slowly, not believing the reality he was currently in.

"forgot about you? Oh darling, I never did. After you left, I was in deep pain because of the hole you left in my heart. YOU were the one who forgot about his friends and me. After everything we went through....you just turned your back on me and left." Y/N hissed out in anger as their E/C darkened. Her body language tensing up and hands clenched into tight fists to the point you can barely see them turning white. "YOU CONFESSEED TO ME AND IN THE NEXT MINUTE LEFT SAN FRAN. NOT CONSIDERING HOW I FELT. IT WAS ALL A ROUGE WAS IT? FOR YOU TO ESCAPE AND GIVE ME A LAST BIG FUCK YOU, Y/N?! I BET I LEFT YOUR MIND AS SOON AS YOU SAW AN ESCAPE"

"you think you ever left my mind? I WAS CRAZY ABOUT YOU." Wrench yelled back. "I WANTED TO TAKE YOU WITH ME SO BADILY BUT I WAS IN A HURRY, I WANTED TO TELL YOU-" His mask turning into red as he proceeded to lift his mask up, throwing in to the side as he looked at her with hurt and anger. "I literally couldn't as I knew you would get hurt trying to follow me. You have no fucking idea how many times I wanted to reach out to you." As he explained his true intentions, his expression turned into sadness as he realised how much he hurt her. Y/N on the other hand approached him, starred deep into his eyes before slapping him. "you..fucker." she laughed out as tears began rolling down her face.

"you have no idea..how much you hurt me and how much I ached to see you again."The female laughed out with sadness as she looked down to hide her tears. Wrench sighed and proceeded to take her into his arms, putting his head ontop of hers as he muttered "I deserved that slap...but holy cow you got stronger"a small smirk creeping onto his face as he thought about the last time he saw her, so excited and happy to know he felt the same love she felt. That memory soon got interrupted by Y/Ns sobs and her holding onto Wrench trembling. They stood there for a couple minutes before the female quieted down, seeming to have calmed down.

"you..fucker."She whispered out before letting go of him, looking up to him with a smirk of confidence. "You believe I would be that stupid as to not follow you?..you are wrong, Reggie."Y/N said before grabbing his shoulders, pushing him down towards her level and crashing her lips on his. Before Wrench could react, she quickly pulled apart and went to grab her mask as he stood there dumbfounded . "As much as I would like to "catch up" about our feelings for each other. Unfortunately we have found ourselves on two different sides, making us enemies. So lets hope you can catch the Hare, sweetheart" she winked at him before putting on her mask and running out of his safehouse with her laughter following behind.

Wrench stood there for a moment before he looked towards the door his past love ran out of and breathed out a frustrated sigh. "fuck..She's gotten more confident."

-AYY as you can tell, I was a bit more inspired with the Wrench one as it was definitely fun to write. Let me know if you want more!-

-not keen on constructive critism as I do this as a way to enjoy myself and share it, so PLEASE NO COMMENT ON MY WRITING STYLE UNLESS ITS A GRAMMER ERROR. THAMK YOUU-

[aylacavebear]

The Traveler - Chapter 16 - Wonderland Pt. 3

You're from a specific dimension, Solaris Eclipse. It was a dimension of magic. When your kind, the Eldrathiren, turned fifteen, your unique power would awaken within you. Most times, it was something small, levitation, teleportation, creation, elemental manipulation, and things like that. Once in a while, a fifteen-year-old would just disappear, and those were called Travelers. None of them had ever returned. Your parents had told you stories about them, and you hoped that wouldn't happen to you.

Please don't take my work. I'll post warnings for each chapter. Will probably be 18+ I haven't decided yet!

Word Count: 4488

Pairing Eventually Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You & Sam Winchester x OC Reader/You

Warnings: Angst - pretty sure that's it - just some tense situations. A/N: Don't think there's anything else in this one. It's fairly relaxed.

A/N: This dimension was suggested by @snowayumi, and I absolutely LOVED how it came out. I hope you all love it as well.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 16 - Wonderland Pt. 3

The Hatter helped you return to your normal size with the mushroom pieces from Absolem. It was a little trickier than with the cake, which you had eaten first. With what was left, you only got to half your normal height. The only downside to the mushroom piece was that it made you sleepy, or perhaps it had been the tea. You weren’t entirely sure.

Although you yawned several times, trying to force yourself to stay awake, the Dormouse took pity on you, showing you inside their quaint little home. It looked just as weird as you’d figured it would, given how Wonderland seemed to be. Plus, it fit the style of the Hatter, with different hats adorning the place in the strangest of ways.

If it weren’t for being as sleepy as you were, you would have taken far longer to admire the madness within the home. Hats of every imaginable shape and size hung from the ceiling, nestled in corners, and balanced precariously on top of bookshelves. A tea set was in perpetual motion, floating from one side of the room to the other. You had barely laid down on the bed before the dreamworld of Wonderland pulled you from the waning night. Your dreams were filled with visions of the brothers that night, feeling an almost ache in your soul.

Over the next couple of days, the three of them shared so much with you about Wonderland. You learned of the Queen and her rather ruthless ruling of the world. Then there was a woman named Alice, and you noticed how they all seemed very fond of her. The Hatter told you fantastical tales of elusive creatures. Like tiny fuzzy mushrooms called Mome Raths, that only came out at night in the forest, illuminating the path and another creature that would come behind them, dusting the path away as if it were never there at all.

The Dormouse, perched on a stack of teacups, told you about a bird with a cage for its body, where it kept its young until they were old enough to be on their own. It was quite the protective creature, hiding in the treetops of the forest near the clearing. The Hare became quite animated when he told you of the creature that had shovels for faces, digging holes in search of shiny objects all throughout the forest.

You laughed so much, enjoying their stories of Wonderland and the oddities it held. The Chesire Cat had even joined The Hatter and others for tea a few times. Watching a cat drink tea was quite the site, as he seemed to levitate the cup occasionally versus using his paws. “A touch of magic and madness in every sip,” he’d say, his grin never fading.

The longer you stayed in this world, the more you thought you saw, just beyond what was there. Shadows would flicker at the corner of your vision, and whispers seemed to carry on the wind, always out of earshot. Then, they would be gone just as quickly as they appeared whenever you attempted to focus on them.

Near the end of almost a week, you felt a pull to press further into the madness that was Wonderland. The three of them made sure to give you lots of treats from the large variety that adorned the table. Then, The Hatter hugged you, his hat slightly askey as he did. “Remember, you’re always welcome here, dear Traveler,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He then handed you one of his scarves, the color of which matched your eyes, “For the road ahead,” he added with a wink.

You thanked him, then bid the three of them farewell, instead of going the way the Knave had gone, headed beyond the Hatter’s home. There were those odd signs that, of course, made no sense, but it was where you felt pulled to venture. Numerous times, you thought you saw things, but when you attempted to focus on them, they disappeared completely.

Curiouser and curiouser.

With it being daytime, you were able to see the forest in the light, what came through the canopy anyway. The trees were vibrant in color, with scattered flowers blooming along the forest floor. Ferns and short tufts of grasses dotted the sides of the path, along with mushrooms. The thorny vines had beautiful yellow blooms larger than your hand which was a stark contrast to the color of the tree it had wound itself around.

The air was filled with the scent of wildflowers and a hint of something sweet and unidentifiable. There were what you wanted to call a bird, but it had no wings. It was by far the oddest thing you’d seen, or at least, that’s what you told yourself. The odd creature had a pair of large, round eyeglasses as its body, with two small bird legs protruding from the bottom. The glasses had a nose bridge that resembled a bird’s beak, which made you look at it curiously.

There were several of them perched on branches, watching you from above, seeming just as curious about you as you were them. However, they didn’t get closer, so neither did you. This time, as you walked further into the forest, you didn’t have a destination in mind. You knew you didn’t want to go toward the Queen’s castle, so you avoided any path with that direction.

As the day wore on, illusionary things drifted in and out of view between the trunks of different trees. You remembered how you were warned to stay on the path, but your curiosity was beginning to get the better of you. The shadows also almost seemed to move on their own in the distance. 

I really should stay on the path.

It was something you kept trying to remind yourself of. Your ears twitched with the sound of whispers that you couldn’t quite make out. You attempted to focus on how no two trees were ever the same shade in color, as the forest had been vast and almost neverending. It only lasted so long, though, seeing a door standing on its own, nearly fifty feet into the forest. 

You would look over at it, trying to make out the details from a distance, but would eventually give up and continue along the path, turning down different directions when it would fork. In true Wonderland fashion, the door would appear again, the same distance away, almost as if it were following you. You were watching your surroundings less and less, and the door more and more. Finally, when your curiosity finally won out, you stopped walking forward and toward the very edge of the path, staring at the door.

Momentarily, you remembered back to the warning your parents had given you, so long ago. Don’t leave the village, especially on the day your powers were to awaken. Then there had been the warning from the creatures of this world you’d already spoken to. The one that kept your curiosity on the door was what Absolem had said: The path will reveal itself to you, as it always does in Wonderland.

The door seemed to be following you, and your resolve to stay on the path was quickly waning. It looked completely out of place, nestled amid the myriad of colored trees and tufts of grass, yet it also seemed as if it belonged there. Your eyes drifted down to the edge of the path, which your shoes were only an inch from, then back up at the door.

Damnit.

You took a deep breath and stepped off the path. The grass below your shoes felt soft the further you walked. You turned around halfway to the door and let your head hang low when you saw how the forest had completely changed. The path was gone, replaced by dense trees and undergrowth.

Looks like I’m either going to get myself into a lot of trouble or perhaps find a way out of this.

Turning back to face the door, you pressed on. The closer you got, the more details you could make out. It was an elegant, ornate structure, its base nestled into the earth below it as if it truly did belong there. The door itself was made of dark, polished wood, its surface intricately carved with patterns of roses and vines. The doorframe was equally elaborate, wrought from iron and twisted into shapes that mirrored the carvings on the door. Thorny vines wrapped around the frame, blooming with vivid white roses that seemed almost too vibrant to be real. The handle was an antique brass knob shaped like a rosebud, cool to the touch and slightly tarnished with age. 

You walked all the way around it, but both sides looked exactly the same. The white roses reminded you of the one who had helped you in the garden when your journey here had begun. A smile tugged at your lips while your ears twitched with the sounds of the forest. Whatever was on the other side of this door, it felt as though it was calling to you.

You took a deep breath and let it out with a new determination as you reached out, gripping the doorknob. Your heart pounded a little harder, knowing nothing was what it seemed in Wonderland. Upon turning the knob, it silently slid open, revealing an entirely different landscape on the other side. Hedges of vibrant green adorned both sides of a cobblestone path. The sky above was a soft blue, clear, and without clouds. There was also a sweet, beckoning scent of roses that wafted through the open door. Lamp posts dotted either side of the cobblestone path with lanterns that seemed as though they were floating just below where they’d be clipped in place.

Cautiously, you stepped through the door, only taking a few steps before looking behind you. With a sigh, you saw the door was gone, leaving a dead end in its place with another hedge. 

Looks like I’m committed to this now.

Turning back to face the path ahead, you moved forward, taking in the scents, and realizing there were no sounds. Not even of bugs. So far, you hadn’t seen the flowers that were giving off that sweet scent of roses, but the further you walked, the stronger it got. You took several turns before you came to a fork, leading in three different directions. The hedges were far too tall to see over, and due to the thorns that adorned them, there was no way to climb them either. That was when you finally noticed a contrasting color against the green of one of the hedges. A red rose?

Gingerly reaching out, you gently touched the petals, finding them velvety soft against the skin of your fingers. You were almost hypnotized by the rose's beauty, the depth of its color, and the gentle scent that drifted from it. You pulled back and shook your head, looking down the three paths and choosing the one to your far left.

Where am I?

You were clearly still in Wonderland, you just weren’t entirely sure where at the moment. This was a place that hadn’t been described to you. You did, however, remember the words of the doorknob: Stay away from the red roses. If it was only the hypnotic scent, you could understand why, but the Hatter had also warned you of the Queen. The further along you went, the more roses you saw, identical to the first. Their scent was getting stronger, seeming to pull you along the path. When it finally got too strong, you slipped your bag off your shoulder, rummaged through it for a piece of cloth, and then used your claws to cut off two pieces, which you used to plug your nose with. It mostly worked, but some of the scent got through even that.

The path twisted and turned through the hedges adorned with red roses. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by your footsteps along the cobblestone path. At least you could walk softly, having learned how to properly balance your weight on your feet with each step, quieting the sound. You also began feeling as though you were being watched but couldn’t seem to locate where someone might be able to watch you from. 

Taking yet another turn, you began hearing footsteps, although they sounded far away. They reminded you of how the card soldier boots sounded when they approached the tea party that first night. Only now, they were loud against the cobblestone path.

I have to get out of here.

You were well aware that if they found you, it wasn’t going to end well. There was a chance you could fight them if you needed to, but without your spear, you would have to get close, and you weren’t sure how many of them there were. Then you wondered how a playing card could be damaged. 

Do they bleed like other creatures? Are they just playing cards that were animated and a spell would have to take them down? Could I knock one out if I hit it hard enough?

Those and so many more questions went through your mind as you continued along the path. It was a maze of hedges and roses, or a labyrinth of them. You came across several dead ends, having to double back and choose a different fork, or a different way entirely when the place seemed to have rearranged itself. One large downside to being stuck in this labyrinth of rose hedges was that the scent you had been following wouldn’t have been strong enough to pierce through the roses' scent. Then there was the cotton you had stuffed in your nostrils, dulling the smell as much as possible. This place seemed to be one to leave someone confused or end up lost. Perhaps even frozen in place, hypnotized by the scent of the roses.

You were in no mood to get stuck here, so you continued on. The sounds of the card soldier boots could still be heard, and your ears twitched with each echo. You tried to take paths that led you away from the sound, and for a while, it seemed to work. However, the sounds got increasingly closer after only a minute or so.

Then, out of the blue, there was silence again. You stopped and looked in all directions, your ears twitching in an attempt to find some semblance of sound, but none came. Swallowing hard, you turned another corner, only to see half a dozen red card soldiers standing there, blocking your way. You turned, wanting to run in the other direction, but what was behind you now made that impossible.

Another half a dozen card soldiers stood where there had been an empty path. You wondered if they were here to possibly kill you, but you quickly shook that off. You had no intentions of getting killed, determined to find a way back to Earth, to the brothers, to those that were your new family.

“I was wondering how long it would take before I found you,” a deep voice from behind you spoke, and you recognized it instantly: the Knave. “Aren’t you an odd thing?”

Your tail flicked in agitation as you turned to face him. “I just want to leave,” you began, but three of the card soldiers grabbed you faster than you could react, and the Knave just smiled—a wicked, evil smile.

“The Queen will want to see this one,” he instructed the soldiers before turning from you and waving his arm at the hedge that was now in front of him.

As it moved out of his way, your eyes widened. It had revealed a straight path toward a castle, and you instantly knew where you were. You were on the Queen’s grounds, and all you could guess was that this was some sort of contraption to capture intruders. You also wondered how none of them seemed to be affected by the scent of the roses but weren’t about to ask.

The card soldiers held you firmly, their grip unyielding as they marched you out of the labyrinth. The Knave led the way, his figure tall and imposing against the contrasting greenery of the hedges. The walk out of the labyrinth wasn’t long, and things seemed to instantly change on the other side. The sky had grown almost dark, like twilight, in a blend of purples and blues, hinting at the waning daylight. There were more of the lamp posts with the floating lanterns, which were now lit, giving off an eerie glow on the cobblestone. Here, shadows seemed to flicker and dance just out of sight, giving the illusion of movement. Manicured rose bushes lined the strange, winding cobblestone path that was elaborate as it snaked its way toward a castle.

The castle loomed ahead, a gothic structure that combined the whimsical elements of Wonderland, with its white and red stones adorning every surface, with an almost gothic darkness that felt as though it loomed over the castle itself. The spires reached toward the sky, their silhouettes jagged and twisted. Yet, atop each one was a topper in the shape of a heart. If nothing else, it was definitely grand.

The Knave led the guards through a huge heart-shaped entrance made from the same bricks as the rest of the castle, with a guard tower on either side. If circumstances were different, you probably would have explored the place, being fascinated with its design. The atmosphere grew heavier, the air thick with anticipation and the faint, metallic scent of impending danger. Your ears twitched at the unfamiliar sounds of the place while your tail flicked with your growing concern.

The courtyard itself was well-kept. More rose bushes and floating lanterns adorned the area. You were in no position to get away or fight off this many soldiers, let alone the Knave. So, you focused on paying attention to your surroundings, planning a possible escape when the opportunity presented itself.

The soldiers tightened their grip as they ushered you forward, their expressions blank and unwavering. The Knave glanced back at you with a smug smile, his eye glinting with malice and amusement. The doors of the castle loomed large before you, intricately carved with scenes of the Queen’s reign, a reminder of her power and authority. Inside the castle was a contrast to the outside. Instead of being white and red, the stones were shades of gray, from light to almost black in places.

The grandeur of the castle's interior was overshadowed by its oppressive atmosphere. Tall, dark columns lined the hallways. In a checkered pattern, some were adorned with menacing gargoyles that seemed to watch your every move—the others were draped with red curtains that seemed to brighten the dark space.

Red velvet curtains and banners added a splash of color, but even they couldn’t dispel the gloom that pervaded the place. The chandeliers, dripping with crystals, cast a cold, harsh light. The path down the center of the columns lay a red rug with intricate patterns and designs, bordered with vining roses, a darker red than the rest of the rug.

As you were marched through the corridors, you couldn’t help but notice the portraits of the Queen in various regal poses, her stern gaze following you. Finally, you were brought to the throne room, a vast space with a black and white checkered floor and a high, vaulted ceiling. The throne itself was an elaborate creation of gold and red, sitting atop a raised dais.

Along either side of the column, adorning the walls were high, stain-glassed windows with identical designs of hears on vines, allowing the waning light of the evening to shine through. Between each window, a tall mirror bordered with a golden frame befitting her royal chamber. Behind the Queen’s throne were heavy red curtains, pulled back with golden ropes, revealing more stained glassed windows that stretched from almost the floor to just below the ceiling—each one with thin red curtains.

The Red Queen sat on her throne, her presence commanding the entire room. Her dress was a mix of crimson and black, adorned with hearts and lace, giving her an imposing and regal appearance. Her face, with its stark white makeup and exaggerated features, was a mask of both beauty and cruelty. You noticed she wasn’t wearing a crown atop her red curls, which you found odd, but so far, everything in Wonderland was odd in one way or another.

“Your Majesty,” the Knave began with a bow, his voice smooth and dripping with feigned respect, “we found this peculiar creature wandering through your labyrinth.” He explained, approaching her side before kissing the back of her hand that she’d outstretched for him.

The Queen’s eyes narrowed as she examined you, her gaze intense and unyielding, “What is it?” she demanded, her tone imperious and filled with curiosity.

“It, Your Majesty, is the intruder you sent me to find,” the Knave answered, turning his gaze to you as the Queen continued to study you.

All you had to go off of were things you’d watched on Earth when it came to royalty, as you’d never encountered it in any other dimension. Well, not to this extent, anyway. You wondered if perhaps you could outsmart her and find a way to escape.

“That doesn’t tell me what it is,” The Queen snapped, her gaze still on you, but she was clearly annoyed at the Knave for his lack of explanation.

“I am a Traveler, Your Majesty, and I would bow, but the soldiers are holding onto me very tightly,” you explained in quite a respectful tone.

The Queen raised an eyebrow, “Let her go,” she stated plainly, but there was still authority in her words, and the soldiers released you. The Knave could only watch in annoyance.

You kept the smirk of triumph from making it to your lips as you bowed before the Queen, keeping your gaze from meeting hers until you stood straight again. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” you replied with gratitude.

“Now, what exactly is a Traveler, and why do you have cat features but also look human,” she inquired quite curiously.

This just might work to my advantage.

“I come from another world, Your Majesty. All of my kind have these features, but I am a little special. Not all of my kind can travel to different worlds. Only special ones can. When I came upon your world, I was only seeking the doorway to move to the next world,” you explained to her, keeping that respectful tone and posture.

It was easy to see that the Queen was quite intrigued by you, but the Knave was getting quickly frustrated at the Queen’s lack of command to either remove your head or lock you in a dungeon. He stayed quiet, though, as he knew his place, and it was never to question the Queen, or she’d have his head removed. At the moment, you were just thankful you had the Queen’s curiosity and not her wrath.

The Queen’s gaze remained fixed on you, her curiosity piqued. “A Traveler, you say?” she mused, leaning forward slightly on her throne. “And what makes you think you can just wander into my realm and disrupt my order?”

You maintained your respectful stance, careful not to let any sign of defiance show. “I apologize for any disruption, Your Majesty. It was not my intention to intrude. I merely seek to find my way to the next world, as my journey requires it.” She really didn’t need to know the details, and it didn’t seem as though she’d understand them anyway.

Her expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained sharp. “A fascinating tale. And yet, you have found yourself in my labyrinth, a place meant to trap trespassers. Tell me, Traveler, what makes you so special that you can traverse worlds?”

Of course, she’d ask you something like that, and you’d now have to come up with some sort of explanation she’d understand. So, for a moment, you pondered all sorts of explanations before finally giving her an answer. “It has to do with something we’re born with that no one can see. It’s deep inside and can never be removed or taken away, as it is more of a yearning than anything else.”

The Knave, still standing beside the Queen, couldn’t hold back any longer. “Your Majesty, surely this… creature cannot be trusted. We should lock her up until we know more about her intentions.” The Queen shot him a withering glare, silencing him instantly. “I will decide what to do with our guest, Knave,” she said coldly. Turning her attention back to you, she asked, “And what proof do you have of this ability? Can you demonstrate it?”

You took a deep breath, knowing that showing any sign of weakness could be dangerous. “I cannot demonstrate it here, Your Majesty. Traveling between worlds requires specific conditions and a certain amount of preparation. However, I am willing to help you in any way I can to prove my intentions are sincere.” 

Her eyes narrowed, considering your words. “Help me, you say? And what exactly can you offer to the Queen of Hearts, who already has everything she desires?”

That one made you think. What could you offer her, as you had nothing you felt like parting with? It wasn’t like your senses would help her. The scent of her roses had been overpowering in the labyrinth, even if that wasn’t the case now. Then, you got an idea.

“It is true, Your Majesty, I don’t have anything to offer, not in the way of riches or items. I could offer my services, as my senses are better than your Knaves or the soldiers that guard you. I can hear things they cannot,” you explained to her, hoping she wouldn’t take it as a threat of any kind. She leaned back, a smile playing on her lips, “Intriguing indeed. Very well, Traveler. I will grant you the opportunity to prove your worth. But, be warned, any attempt to deceive me will be met with the severest of punishments.”

You bowed deeply, relief washing over you, “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will not disappoint you.”

The Queen nodded, satisfied for the moment, “Good. Now, Knave, see to it that our gues is given quarters. I will decide her fate after I have seen what she can offer.”

The Knave’s expression was a mixture of frustration and resignation, but he bowed and gestured for you to follow him. As you were led away, you couldn’t help but feel a small spark of hope. You had bought yourself some time, and now, you needed to figure out how to use it to your advantage. 

----------------------------------------- Chapter 17 - Wonderland pt. 4

Link to the series Masterlist.

A/N: If you'd like to get in on the Dimensional Traveling, go to this link and leave me with a comment, or several, with as much or as little detail about the dimension you'd like the Traveler to end up in. If you'd like to have something specific happen, share that too. I'll make sure that you get credit for the idea you shared in the chapter in which your dimension is featured. I'd love to have as many readers involved as possible. I think this could be a lot of fun.

As always, if you'd like to be tagged, let me know and I'll add you to the tag list. If I missed anyone, please let me know.

Tag List: @littlemadamred @mxltifxnd0m @foxyjwls007 @supernaturalfreakout @roseblue373

[lenisoldi]

Part one and Genes reaction

Masterlist

!TW!: Self harming!

BoB boys reaction to your self haring (part2)

Nix:

Lewis Nixon sat comfortably in the worn-out leather armchair, sipping on his Vat 69 whiskey. The dimly lit room was filled with the scent of old books and wood varnish, giving it a familiar and cozy atmosphere. The only sound breaking the silence was the occasional ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. He glanced over at you, noticing something unusual. Your sleeve was rolled up higher than normal, revealing marks on your arm. Lewis' heart skipped a beat as realization set in. "Darling," he said, setting his glass down carefully on the side table, "What's going on with your arm? Those don't look like accidental cuts." He leaned forward, brow furrowed with concern, genuine care evident in his brown eyes. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to take another sip of his whiskey as he studied your expression, trying to read your emotions. His own experiences had taught him that sometimes people needed someone to reach out, someone who cared. "Listen," he continued, his voice gentle but firm, "I've seen things like that before. If you're going through something tough, I'd like to help if I can, sweetheart." He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, "We're in this together, after all." His hand absently stroked the head of his Dachshund, lying faithfully by his side, seeking comfort in the familiar touch as much as offering it. Lewis knew that opening up wasn't easy, especially when you've been carrying a burden for so long, but he hoped that his concern and understanding would encourage you to share what was troubling you. Seeing the distress on your face, Lewis couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy. He knew all too well how heavy life's burdens could become, and the unhealthy ways people coped with them. He got up from his armchair, glass forgotten, and approached you cautiously, not wanting to overwhelm you. Crouching down to meet your gaze, he reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching your arm. "I've been where you are," he admitted softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and sincerity. "It's not easy, but there are better ways to handle it, I promise." The Dachshund at his feet whined softly and looked up at the both of you before laying his head on your lap, which made you smile. Lew smiled as well and kissed your forehead. "Just speak to me the next time you feel alone or overwhelmed, alright, baby?" He said and you nodded.

Bull:

Bull's eyes widened as he noticed the faint scars hidden under your sweatshirt while you both were sitting together at the edge of the sun-kissed ranch, the soft hum of cattle in the distance, and the rustling of nearby trees playing a melancholic symphony. His heart sank like a stone in his chest as he took in the sight, his gentle nature taking over his usually jovial demeanor. With his strong yet tender hands, he carefully placed one on top of yours, gently pulling it closer for a better look. His face contorted into a mask of worry and concern, the lines on his forehead deepening. "What happened here, darlin'? Why are you hurting yourself?" Bull's surroundings were typically ones of comfort and serenity, the vast Arkansas ranch that he called home. The warm, earthy scent of the cattle mixed with the crisp aroma of freshly cut grass painted a picture of a simple life filled with love and hard work. His ranch hands were off in the distance, tending to their daily chores, while the sun dipped low behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the land. But at that moment, none of that mattered. All Bull could see was the pain etched into your delicate skin, and he wanted nothing more than to take it all away.

Tab:

Floyd Talbert, leaning against the bar in his favorite whiskey joint, caught a glimpse of something that didn't sit right. The dim lights illuminated the scars on your wrists as you nervously fiddled with the straw in your drink. His heart sank, and he swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He pushed off the bar, setting his half-empty glass down with a gentle thud, and made his way over to you. "Hey, sweetie," he started, trying to sound casual as he took a seat beside you, his eyes lingering on the marks that marred your skin. "What's going on there?" He asked, nodding towards your wrists. His voice was laced with genuine concern, softening the usual rough edges that came with his playboy persona. He reached out to gently grasp your wrist, pulling it closer so he could see better. His thumb traced one of the scars absentmindedly, trying to understand the pain you must have been going through. Why would she hurt herself like this? He thought, feeling a pang of guilt for not having noticed sooner. His German Shepherd, Trigger, lied next to the both of you, watching you. In the smoky haze of the bar, Bunny's gaze never left your face as you spoke. His usually charming smile faltered, replaced by a look of deep worry. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as he processed your words. His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against his leg, betraying the turmoil within him. "Shit, kiddo," he finally muttered, running a hand through his hair. He paused, struggling to find the right words before continuing, "Look, I ain't gonna lie. I'm no expert on this sort of thing, but... you can always talk to me, got that?" His voice was gruff but sincere. He looked around the bar, then back at you, "Let's get out of here, yeah? Some fresh air might do us both some good." He rose to his feet, offering you a hand up, his grip firm but gentle.

Renee: (A/N: Btw when u guys find any fanfics of Renee, TAG ME PLS!!!)

The room was dimly lit, casting soft shadows across the floor. The walls were painted a calming pastel blue, adorned with pictures of blooming flowers and pictures of the two of you together. Her eyes fell upon your arm, the concealed marks were no longer hidden, and her heart skipped a beat. The warmth in her gaze turned to concern as she knelt down beside you on the plush carpet. "Sweetheart," she whispered, her voice filled with compassion and worry, "What happened here?" Her delicate fingers gently traced the edges of your sleeve, careful not to cause any pain. Renee was suddenly struck by the harsh reality that someone she cherished so deeply was hurting themselves. At that moment, her entire world seemed to shift, and her only desire was to alleviate your suffering. She carefully pulled back your sleeve, revealing the pain etched into your skin. Renee's eyes welled up with tears, but she fought them back, not wanting to add to your distress. Instead, she offered a tender smile, her voice steady and soothing. "Oh, my love," she said softly, "Why didn't you tell me?" The room seemed to hold its breath as she gently cradled your arm in her hands, her thumb lightly tracing over the marks. The concern etched deep within her heart was evident in her every touch and word. The young nurse wanted nothing more than to take away your pain and heal the wounds, both physical and emotional. Her thoughts raced as she tried to find the right words to express her feelings without overwhelming you. "We'll get through this together," she reassured, her voice a gentle melody in the quiet room. "You don't have to face this alone anymore."

[shivunin]

aaaaand one for Elowen :3 something written by one of the advisors about your OC?

happy writing friend <3

Thank you again for sending all of these in! I've been rather more the tortoise than the hare with them, but we got here in the end c: Thanks, friend!

(Codex Prompts)

A Missive to the Deep Roads

(991 Words | No Warnings)

A letter tucked into a leather belt pouch. The paper was once fine and creamy, but now dirt smudges the surface and there are large splotches of blood on one corner. It is addressed to the Warden-Commander and reads:

My dear Arianwen, 

I do hope that this letter finds you well. This thing you have undertaken is a dangerous task indeed, though I do have my doubts that even an army of ogres could keep you from doing what you’ve set your mind to. 

No doubt you have heard about our troubles here on the surface. Surely you must have heard tales about the sky splitting open, no matter how deep you have delved in the Deep Roads. If matters were any less dire, I might say that it amuses me to think of you being safer below than we are above for once. As matters are very dire indeed, I will instead say only that we need your help. 

I know what you will say, and I know better than most what I am asking of you. The Inquisition is not the sort of organization you might be inclined to trust. For good reason, I suppose. The Chantry has not been the friend to you that it should have been. We both know this to be true.

Our networks, our might, and the faith of those who have pledged themselves to us will not sway you. Let me instead tell you of our Inquisitor and what she has already done. 

Several weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt on your favorite king. Many such attempts have been made before, plenty of them averted by your personal intervention, but this one involved an especially troublesome faction of mages from Tevinter. The Inquisitor sent our people to intervene—and just in time, too, it would seem. To hear him tell it, he was all but frozen solid before our people intervened. I have requested a contingent remain nearby in case there is any more trouble. 

There are many victims of this war between mage and templar, no shortage of bloodshed. Even so,  Lavellan has reached out her hand to the refugees and the downtrodden at every turn. I have watched her haul children from the muck of a ruined street with her own two hands. I have seen her hunt for supplies for the same families even when she was ill or out of sorts.  I have seen her clear the roads for people to move freely again. It is not so light a thing, as you very well know, for people to be able to escape when they are besieged. 

I have known Elowen to sit alone on the hills, the better to watch the pale hares move through the brush. I have watched the wild wolves heed to her call as if listening to a dear friend. I know that she would leave us for the wilderness and the roads if she could. I know that she stays because she feels there is no other choice—rather like somebody else I once knew well, if you will forgive the comparison. 

A teller of tales I may yet be, but I have related only the truth here. You already knew how dire our battles have been. Know, too, that the Inquisition follows one who leads with neither iron fist nor hope of recompense. Know that the woman we follow is worthy of the title in many ways beyond naming. 

Know that Thedas—that Ferelden—still needs you, just as it did all those years ago. If ever there was a time to take up the banner of the Wardens and lead those who remain to a worthy cause, it is now. 

If you will not come, Warden-Commander—and I hold no real expectations that you will—perhaps you will consider committing what resources you can to the fight in the world above. I cannot overstate how much that help is needed. 

Do give my regards to your Antivan beau. I would say that I hope to see the both of you very soon, but I hold no such expectations. Instead, I will say only that I will look for word from you, in whatever form it might come.

Your friend, then and now,

Leliana

A letter, wrapped in several layers of oiled leather and otherwise untouched by the elements: 

Leliana,

You’ve always been good with stories. I’ll give you that. 

I’m too busy to come myself. You know that. However great a mess the surface is right now, I cannot spare a single blade for your fight. I have more pressing things to turn them against at the moment. 

I wish you all the luck I can spare. I’ll throw in a few tokens for good measure, though I am sure you can find better on your own. You always were clever like that. 

You are my friend. It has been many years since I have said so, but it is no less true now than it was then. Be well, Leliana. You are greater than your words, however many of them you insist on tossing in my direction. 

The enclosed is for your Inquisitor. If even half of what you’ve said about her is actually true, I don’t mind her having it. 

Zevran says hello. 

—Wen

P.S. I did not say hello. I said that you will either have a grand tale to tell, Bard, or you will find yourself on the other end of a rather sharp knife. For your sake, I hope that it is the former and not the latter. How dreadfully dull it would be to leave all of this grandeur behind to attend a funeral and seek vengeance. You have no idea how often our adventures are interrupted to do silly things like that. 

Do take care of yourself. There is something here from me as well—have a glass by the fire and think of your good friends, yes? 

—Z

[faecaptainofdreams]

Six days in, three to go.

The zbornak sat alone by the campfire, her prey tied to a cactus, of all things.

Over the near-week they'd been together, his optimism and ability to handle anything she threw at him had grated on her.

She tried not to let him have the power of knowing he frustrated her, but Sylvia was losing her nerve.

He talked too much, escaped his binds too much, was overall just too much.

And he really though he could be her friend?

Not even in his furry orange dreams.

He must've been one hell of a joker, she thought, or completely batshit.

Either way, it wasn't any of her business.

In her remarkable contempt this night, she allowed him to eat only a couple of small desert plants for his dinner (and water), and kept him away from the fire to remain cold.

The cactus was just for extra touch; she wanted his spirit broken.

She wanted to see him crack and finally fight back against her, to give her a real reason to feel okay about dropping him off.

This was how she handled all her victims; no attachments, no feeling, no mercy.

You can't be a bounty hunter and feel remorse.

But even cold, even with an unfilled stomach, and even tied to a goddamn thorny plant in the open wilderness, Wander the fugitive continued to smile, and babble.

Even with blood staining his fur from being pricked by needles.

Even with his legs being so tired from walking all day, so tired they were bowing.

Even with the threat of death looming over his head, he found strength inside.

Sylvia listened to him stoically as she ate her freshly-killed hare.

It was obvious by his voice and mannerisms that he was deeply uncomfortable and exhausted, but what would it take for him to give up?

"--I mean, it's SOME consolation that they want me alive, don'tcha think?

Maybe they just want me to serve my time," he finished with a tired smile.

Sylvia, meanwhile, finally eyed him from the corner of her gaze, pausing.

He could not be serious.

"OH!

Maybe I'll get community service helpin' folks by pickin' up trash on freeways!

Or helpin' lil' old ladies cross streets or minin' for precious ores for hospital equipment!

D'aww, and they'd gimme some'a those cute lil' stripy outfits!"

Sylvia rose coolly to her feet, nostrils flaring, and quietly unsheathed a hunting knife from her ammo belt.

Wander noticed right away, but seemed unfazed.

"Oh my, that's an awful large knife!

You gonna cut me loose an' let me sit with ya?" he asked, now smiling excitedly as her shadow loomed over him.

"'Cos that'd be s--"

In a flash the zbornak was in front of him, jamming a knife into the flesh of the cactus, just an inch from the top of his tattered hat.

A tiny shriek escaped her captive as fluid from the injured plant squirted out and bled down its body and onto his hat, soaking into the fabric.

He breathed faster and with effort, peering deep into the piercing, laser-like neon-pink eyes of the bounty hunter.

She spoke low and grizzled, brow heavy with anger.

The nomad pulled his lip up, fighting gravity and his nerves, never blinking.

"They only reason they want you breathing, is to get the satisfaction of watching the light leave your eyes."

Wander fought to hide the trembling in his body.

He didn't want her to feel anymore in control than she wanted him to feel.

"You're gonna swing...

And I don't mean on a playground..."

Sylvia swiftly yanked the knife back out from the cactus, releasing more water and juices to drizzle down its lumpy exterior and to soak into Wander's hat and fur.

As she walked back to the fire, Wander allowed himself to shudder, exhaling after having held his breath for those last few moments.

Although he was now sweating, he somehow felt even colder after she walked away from him.

He'd pressed closer up against the cactus when he was startled, pushing more needles into his skin -- he already had a few jammed into the backs of his arms.

Thankfully his large head meant his body couldn't be pressed flat against it, and Sylvia had even given him a little wiggle room.

The way she'd seen it, if he had been tied tight to the plant, the deep impaling of the thorns might have killed him.

That or a broken neck from slumping his head harshly all night.

She couldn't bring him back dead, or she wouldn't get paid.

Rattled and suffering, Wander observed Sylvia sit back by the fire and finish her meal.

Despite everything, he still managed a tiny smile after swallowing the dry lump in his throat.

In the morning, Sylvia would be dismayed to find him having freed himself, and still positive and ready to follow her to his demise.

-------------------------------------------------------------

[sillymarigolds]

Between the Lines

I'm back writing fanfic after many years away from the wonderful community of writers and readers! This is my first THG fic and was inspired by the prompt "This Would Have Happened Anyway" on @promptseverlark but I just never got around to writing it in time for the challenge.

Also posted on my ao3 here (I'm sillymarigolds there, too!)

Synopsis: If the 74th Hunger Games had never brought them together, perhaps the 75th Hunger Games would bring Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark together instead. A canon-divergent AU fic based on the “This would have happened anyway” prompt on @promptseverlark

~*~

Early Summer

Crouching in the scrub, I strain my ears listening for the rustling of leaves that might give away any game. The chorus of birds is absent today, leaving only the hum of insects emanating from the trees.

I watch the shadows of the trees grow taller on the forest floor and sigh. It’s time to go.

I trudge back to the hollowed tree stump where I carefully wrap my bow in oilcloth to protect it against the elements. Readjusting my game bag with only two hares and some wild greens to show for my afternoon, I pick up my pace to a trot, making my way towards the fence. I stop briefly to listen for the hum of electricity. Hearing nothing, I wriggle under a loose section close to home.

The streets of the Seam are quiet, still awaiting the next layer of coal to be deposited off the backs of the miners toiling underground. I make this journey alone most days now. Since Gale has turned nineteen and started work at the mines, we are hunting partners only on his weekends off.

I have started to feel very envious of Gale sometimes. He no longer has to go to school and listen to lessons on the importance of coal production to Panem. He can finally support his family financially without relying on selling game at the Hob. And most of all he has survived the reapings.

The only place where I don’t have those terrible thoughts is the woods. Because in the woods there is no District 12. There is no Hunger Games. There is only green and bird song.

From the street, I catch sight of the clock atop the Hall of Justice and realise I am late to pick up Prim. Sliding my father’s hunting jacket off and dumping the game bag in front of an angry Buttercup who yowls in response, I cut through backyards to make it back to the schoolhouse.

The schoolhouse has apparently not changed in anyone living’s memory. It is only one room, built of whitewashed wood harvested from the forest that now lies outside the fence. Prim was supposed to wait outside on the front steps for me, but I can’t see her.

I fly up the steps, my braid swinging like a crazed pendulum behind me. Two of the long desks we sit at during classes have been covered in old cloths stained in many colours. The long bench seats have been pulled either side making it look more like a formal dinner setting than a classroom. Old jars stand filled with opaque shades of brown, grey, blue and violet atop the table. Pencils and charcoal are dotted between them. Darius, one of the younger peacekeepers is napping on a chair in the corner of the room, his hands resting on a folio stuffed with paper. The late afternoon sunlight casts a bright orange glow onto the crown of his head which rests on the window. The room is otherwise empty, but I see the back door is open, so I slow to a walk and make my way out the back.

I see the backs of Prim and Miss Flora our old schoolmistress standing over a tub together washing out paintbrushes quietly singing a folk song that calls for a good harvest. I take the stairs two at a time and walk around to stand opposite so as not to scare them knowing I have a light tread. “Prim, you said you would be out front,” I say hands on hips. Prim’s eyes widen pleading forgiveness. Miss Flora turns looks at me through her grimy spectacles and I swear I can almost see a hint of a smirk on her lips. She looks over to Prim and exclaims, “I’m sorry dear, time must have gotten away from us both. Thank you for all your help, I can take it from here.”

“But Miss Flora, Katniss and I could stay for a little…”

I open my mouth to rebut that no, we do not have time and that we need to make it home so I can cook dinner, but Prim continues:

 “We still have to take all the paintings inside!”

Miss Flora pulls her hands out of the tub and wipes them on her apron, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “I would certainly appreciate it if you two would do that, my knees aren’t quite what they used to be. If you could stack them all against the wall next to the blackboard.”

My stomach growls as I go to frown at Prim, but she is already wiping off her own hands on her skirts and skipping around the side to the building.

Miss Flora looks up at me and says, “Thank you Katniss, see you tomorrow morning,” and goes back to washing up, whistling the chorus of the song.

I follow Prim around the side of the schoolhouse to where the canvases are lined up to dry in the late afternoon sun. She has already got one in each hand and is heading inside with them. “Thank you, Katniss,” she says sweetly, and my face softens. I could never be angry with Prim.   

As we pass one another, I catch sight of one of the paintings —a portrait of a man opening the door as he comes home from work in the mines. It is every bit a beloved father painted by an adoring child. But everything in it is too clean – the house, the father’s face, his clothes. One thing strikes me as true though, and that is his smile. I can remember my father always having one on as he walked through the door, bending down to hug me as I clung to his knees, and then he would scoop up a baby Prim to plant a kiss on her temple. Always the left one, where she has a birthmark so close to her hairline it is almost invisible. Sometimes I see her touching it when she looks at the photo of our father on the mantlepiece. Suddenly my chest feels tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the emotion swelling in my throat from spilling over into tears.

When I close my eyes, I can still see President Snow’s face pulling that letter out of the wooden box, his eyes cold as he reads out the words: “On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the beauty and peace they enjoy at the generosity of the Capitol is still young, each district will send their youngest eligible male and female as tributes.” 

The art was Snow’s addition. That “all the potential tributes should showcase their district and the generosity of the Capitol in art to be displayed in the Capitol before the Games.” There have never been proper art classes at school before. Only ever graphite pencils and plain paper which were already scarce. Most of the children in Twelve had only ever drawn on frosty windowpanes when there wasn’t enough money to keep the fire stoked with the coal their fathers toiled underground to mine during the long, harsh winters.

The day after President Snow’s announcement, a peacekeeper-guarded train arrived filled with coloured pencils, paints and paintbrushes in all the colours I could imagine and some that I couldn’t. There had been an announcement to all parents that children were to stay on Friday afternoons until the reaping to work on their pieces that would be considered for the “great honour” of travelling to the Capitol and representing our district. Of course, that should have include me, but I was excused by Miss Flora on account of my inability to think of anything I was remotely grateful for that the Capitol had given me. How could I be grateful to people who killed my father and left me and Prim to starve? Who will take away twenty-four twelve-year-olds to fight to the death for entertainment?

What I love about Twelve has nothing to do with them. I love Prim and my mother. I love Gale and his family. And I love the woods. Besides, my artistic abilities are limited to drawing hunting maps in the mud with a stick.

I blink my eyes back open into the afternoon and rub my eyelids with the hem of my shirt before Prim comes back. I grab two more canvases trying not to look at them and head back into the schoolhouse to lay them next to Darius’s chair with the others. Darius is still snoring softly, but has been joined by Purnia, another of the peacekeepers who is sitting on the opposite side of the room. We nod politely to one another having seen each other around the Hob. Prim and I continue this dance, passing each other with paintings in each hand, until I see Prim heading for the last two and I wait inside for her while Purnia starts collecting up the art materials from the tables into a large metal box with a lock. Purnia has almost cleared the tables and Prim still hasn’t come back inside, so I head back through the door and around the side where I see her standing perfectly still.

I walk towards her, my steps quickening as she fails to look away. “Prim,” I say from a metre or so away, but I get no response. She is so enraptured by the canvas she is looking at.

I reach for her shoulder placing my hand on top of it and eyeing her with concern. “Katniss,” she whispers quietly in reply, never turning her head to look at me. And so, I turn my head to see what has struck her almost dumb.

I recognise the scene immediately — it is the woods at the outskirts of District 12; the woods I left to come here. The leaves are the perfect shades of green with streaks of gold reflecting the sun overhead.   There is even the dappled shade that covers the ground in the afternoons. I have this strange feeling of wanting to reach out and touch the leaves and hear them rustle under my fingertips. And then I focus on the figure in the middle of the painting, a girl with her face turned away and a long braid of black hair resting down the middle of her blue, floaty dress. Birds are perched in all the trees like a silent audience. Their beaks are shut, and they watch intently as if they have been held entranced by the girl.

“Katniss it’s you.” Prim says quietly, finally turning to look at me with tears in her eyes. It’s my turn to be struck dumb because I know she is telling the truth. My tongue feels like it has swollen up to the roof of my mouth and my throat feels as dry as if I hadn’t had a drop of water all day. Prim reaches out to me and takes my left hand in both of hers. She knows I can’t express whatever I’m feeling and not to make me try. She lets go of my hand to walk over and pick up the canvas with both hands, treating it with the utmost care, and starts walking it inside. I look over to the canvas next to it and see a warm hearth with a large scruffy yellow tabby cat and goat curled up on a rug and I smile knowing that Prim can always see the good through the grime.

Reaping Day - Part I

The sun is high in the sky, glaring off the windows in the square. There is no wind to flap the flag of Panem or the banners that have been hung on the Hall of Justice.

Prim and I have scrubbed ourselves to a healthy looking pink. My mother laid out her blue dress for me again, but at the thought of the painting I folded it and left it on the end of her bed. Instead, I am dressed in my favourite green blouse and skirt with my signature braid coiled up into a bun that sits on the nape of my neck.

My eyes flick between the stage and the younger girls a few rows ahead where I see Prim standing in her pink blouse and brown skirt. I have to keep reminding myself that she is safe. This time, my mind adds.

There is no need for the reaping balls this year. Everyone has known who will be going since the announcement or soon afterwards. The little girl Nona’s body shakes with her sobs. The boy Martin is trying to be brave, standing as tall as he can, but I can see the fear in his eyes. They are both Seam children — he the eldest of five, she the youngest of four.  I walked past their parents: one mother sobbing like her only daughter, the other completely silent as if she had no tears left to cry as the baby slung across grabbed at her chest for comfort.

The paintings going to the Capitol have been hung behind the stage on a large piece of red fabric that I learned is called velvet. Prim’s painting is there amongst a dozen or so others. The painting of me is there as well. Together they tell a very different story of District 12 — one with fathers who always make it home, where there is always food to eat and coal to burn, where we are all surrounded by cleanliness and greenery.

Effie Trinket is back for the televised broadcast of the reaping. As usual she sports the bizarre fashions of the Capitol, with a gold wig teetering atop her head and red jewels stuck on her face. I adopt as neutral an expression I can through the proceedings. The entire district is silent apart from the wails of babies and the soft wooshes of fans held by adults to keep them from fainting. I can see the faces of the peacekeepers starting to falter as they too are struggling with the prospect of sending our youngest away to die far from home for the amusement of strangers. They end up having to restrain Nona as she tries to run for her parents. The only person whose resolve seems not to be tested is Haymitch Abernathy which I think is simply because he is too drunk to be aware of what’s going on.

When Nona and Martin have been taken to the train along with the paintings, the crowd slowly disperses. Prim comes and takes my hand, rubbing circles with her thumb over the back of it to soothe me. I can feel the tension in my jaw loosen a little. “What should we do, little duck?” I ask her, pulling my mouth into a closed smile.

“Can we go and look at the cakes in the bakery window?”

“Of course.” I know Mother will have already gone home to lie down.

Hand in hand we walk over to the bakery, an old brick building painted white and kept meticulously clean. I know the baker, Mr Mellark, well as he is one of my best customers. He loves squirrel, although I can only sell them to him when his wife isn’t around. She is a proud woman who thinks it is beneath them to eat game since they can afford “proper” meat.

I catch sight of the baker at the counter through the glass in the door and he dips his head at me in greeting, his eyes twinkling. Prim drags me towards the window, her nose mere inches from the glass, eyes roaming hungrily over cakes we could never afford.

As I stand there bent over holding Prim’s hand, I notice a new tray being pushed into the cabinet. Small cakes decorated with bright iced flowers on top. They remind me of the paint boxes from the Capitol. I stand up expecting see the baker, but instead my eyes meet his in a different face, that of his son, Peeta Mellark. His reaping clothes are covered by a well-used apron that bears splotches in many colours and a dusting of flour. I notice Peeta’s hands are covered in the same bright hues.  

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, I feel like he wants to ask me something. But then I hear his mother call out for him and his shoulders sag slightly and he turns away and disappears out the back.

Peeta the painter. It must have been him. Which just begs the question, why Peeta who has this comfortable life choose to paint me in the woods?

 Reaping Day - Part II

Later that evening, out of our reaping clothes, we are drinking mugs of dandelion tea in candlelight in front of the empty hearth. I am oiling my boots to keep my hands busy and Prim is sitting cross legged with Buttercup on her lap. Instead of turning in to bed, Mother has fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. She dipped into her emergency stash of Ripper’s white liquor, which means she found today more distressing than usual. Father’s photo looks down on all of us from the mantle. The only sounds are my cloth rubbing against well-worn leather and the purr Buttercup eminates as Prim’s nails scratch his scalp. The broadcast of the reaping is at last over, each face of the tributes flashing before my eyes making me rub harder, my knuckles turning white.

A gentle knock on the front door brings me to my feet. Prim’s eyes are wide and worried as she stays rooted to the ground. Mother continues to slumber on.

I tiptoe over to the door and take a deep breath in as I open it into the cool night breeze unsure of what I will find.

A young man stands outside half in shadow, his head tilted down. “I’m sorry to come by so late,” he says, moving towards the light.

It's Peeta Mellark.

The left side of his face is covered with an ugly hand-shaped welt that has swollen his left-eye half shut. He is still dressed in his clothes from the reaping, his hands awkwardly holding his elbows.

My brain struggles to pass words to my mouth, so I instead wave him in and lock the door behind him. Prim’s hands are over her mouth. Peeta winces knowing what a sight he must be.

His blue eyes meet my grey ones. “I thought maybe your mother…” his sentence trails off. Of course, he is here for Mother.

I go to her and squeeze her forearm, but get no response, so I move to squeeze her shoulder. “Mother, wake up,” I say, my voice a little shaky. She screws her nose up but resists opening her eyes. Prim comes to stand next to me, taking Mother’s opposite hand, “Mother, please, there’s a patient here to see you.”

Prim has said the magic word. Mother’s eyes fly open, and she pushes down into the armchair to stand, smoothing down the front of her dress. She turns to see Peter still standing near the doorway. She gives no hint of pity in seeing his swollen face or his broken spirit.

“Come, sit,” she says like someone who was asleep only moments before. “Prim grab my bag. Katniss, boil some water.” She takes Peeta by the arm and leads him to our kitchen table, settling him in one of the chairs.

As instructed, I head outside to fill the kettle from the pump in the backyard. Seconds later I hear Mother come out behind me, and in my peripheral vision I can see her outline heading for the outhouse. The liquor must have caught up with her.

We head back inside together, not speaking until, as we are a foot away from the back door, she whispers almost inaudibly, “She always did have a nasty temper, his mother.” I almost stumble and fall behind her, closing the door behind me. In the dim light, I catch my reflection in the glass panes of the door and feel like I am looking at a ghost.

I put the kettle on the stovetop and sit down at the end of the kitchen table, watching Mother and Prim working together like a well-oiled machine. They grind up herbs and roots out of jars kept in Mother’s leather apothecary bag to make a poultice. The train of thoughts in my head stretches on without end:

How could his own mother do this?

On a day she was able to keep her son?

I must have lost track of time as I am broken out of my reverie by the order “Katniss, make Peeta tea with some willow bark,” as the kettle whistle crescendos in the background.

I make my way over to the stove, shifting the kettle off the hot plate. “How do you take your tea?” I ask without turning to face Peeta.

“No shu-argh-no sugar, thank you,” he replies, wincing at the sting of whatever Mother is applying.

I steep the willow bark with the tea leaves in one of our nicer mugs, listening to Prim ask Mother questions about the ingredients in the ointment she has applied. When the tea is ready, I make my way around the table to stand in front of Peeta. He is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap, looking down.

I hold out the mug to him with both hands. He lifts his head up and I get a better look at the mark his mother’s hand has made. If I had a paintbrush, I could trace the outline of each of her fingers. There is a small section that is deeper and jagged where a ring has torn into the milky flesh of his cheek. Peeta reaches both of his hands out for the mug and his fingertips brush mine ever so gently. I want to yelp as the feeling of an electric shock runs up my arms, but I end up biting my tongue.

Our eyes meet again, and I look away.

Every time I see his eyes, I am back there, sitting in the rain outside the bakery.

“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers quietly.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “Excuse me,” I say to the room as I head back outside to rinse my mouth out. 

When his tea is finished, Mother sends Peeta home with a small jar of the ointment and a poultice to keep on it to reduce the swelling. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, so I sat there awkwardly with my stomach twisting and turning on itself.

She tidies up and heads to bed without saying another word. Prim gets into bed with her, pre-empting the nightmares she will have after today.

I crawl into my own bed alone, pulling the thin, woven blanket over me. I stare up at the ceiling and feel like the world is moving around me ever so slightly, pitching my stomach side to side even as I lie as still as possible. I feel so unbalanced and all I want to do is sleep to make it go away, but I also don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to watch the reaping replayed in my dreams. I don’t want to trace the outline of the mark on Peeta’s face. I can’t tell which is worse anymore, being awake or being asleep. I exhale all the air in my lungs and try to focus on the sliver of sky I can see through the roof, hoping sleep will take me by surprise.   

Late Summer

I take every opportunity after the reaping to disappear into the woods.

The weather is still warm, but I leave my father’s hunting jacket on and stick to the shade cast by grandfather trees. The song of invisible birds rings out through the small clearing not too far from the fence. There is no need to hunt today, but I carry my bow out of habit. “If you aren’t prepared to fight then you have already lost,” as my father used to say.

As my eyes wander through the trees, I am reminded of Peeta’s painting — all those birds perched, listening. I feel silly, but I want it to be real, so I lower my bow and clear my throat. The words are tucked deep into my memory, and so as I start to sing, I close my eyes to help bring them to my lips:

“Down in the valley, valley so low, Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The train, love, hear the train blow. Late in the evening, hear the train blow. Go build me a mansion, build it so high, So I can see my true love go by. See him go by, love, see him go by. So I can see my true—" I swirl around as a twig snaps behind me.

The corner of a blue shirt and brown boot catch my eye from behind the trunk of a red oak.  

I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears as I raise and draw my bow.

“Who’s there?” I ask. The birds are silent like curious onlookers.  

From behind the tree Peeta steps out his hands raised in surrender. The mark on his face has vanished.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up past me to the trees, “I’m just here to paint,” he leans his head over to his left shoulder which carries a canvas bag. “I was going to move along but…” his voice trails off.

“But what,” I snapped, my bow still raised at his throat.

“But you really can make the birds fall silent.” He gestured up at the trees and I turned around to see the birds had come out into the open, onto the edges of the tree branches like spectators in the highest stands of an arena. They all stood perfectly still as if Peeta and I were Covey midway through an act.

“I remember you singing that song when we were in music class.” Peeta adds.

“My father always said your father could make all the birds fall silent too.”

I am glad I have my back turned to Peeta at this point because I don’t know what to say. I just stand their silently, making eye contact with each of the birds in turn.

“He wanted to marry your mother you know, my father that is. I don’t think my mother’s ever gotten over feeling like a second choice…” He adds.

“I’ll go,” Peeta says after the silence between us grows, he shifts his weight with the resultant rustle of leaves.

“Peeta, I’m sorry.”  I blurt out as I turn back around and narrow the gap between us.

Now it’s Peeta’s turn to be confused. He looks at me with a furrowed brow, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes making them outline his eyes in gold.

“I’m sorry your mother did that.” I clarify, tipping my nose towards his left cheek.

Peeta’s brow relaxes, and his face twists into a sad smile. “She was so angry when she saw that painting,” he explains.

“But this was what I thought of when I thought about everything good and pure in District Twelve.”

I duck my head and feel the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks.

Peeta’s voice picks up where I left off:

“—so I can see my true love go by.

Go write a letter, send it by mail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.”

There is a commotion as the birds prepare to take flight, jostled by this new voice that sings in a slightly off-key tenor. To settle them, I join him to finish: “Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. Know I love you, oh, know I love you, Birds in the heavens know I love you.”

The last note of our voices intertwined seems to hang in the air, vibrating slowly.

Something different is in Peeta’s eyes when I meet them this time. It is both steely and determined, soft and enveloping. The trees behind him seem to shift back and forth despite there being no wind.

I feel myself drawn towards him and reach out for the same place that ugly welt marked his face. As lightly as moth wings, I place my hand where his mother’s lay. His skin feels like it is burning my fingertips.  

Peeta reaches up to encircle my wrist.

“Katniss,” he says softly, looking straight at me.

And to make everything straighten out I press my lips against his.

[mahougotham]

Youkai

Jervis had decided that on his way to visit Jonathan he would take a few wagashi to him with the help of his new found abilities. He had made sure to get two of most of the confections but four of each of the ones that featured anko, the former maiko took notice that while the Scarecrow ate most of what was offered he tended to be especially excited to see yokan, daifuku and ohagi.

When Jervis arrived however the door to Jonathan’s house had been busted open from the inside. Upon further inspection the interior of the hut had been torn apart by something with large sharp claws and apparently covered in drool.

“Hare,” Jervis called out worriedly as he carefully walked through the scene of the crime, once he found no sign of his companion he walked out to see a trail of large footprints leading to a forest nearby.

“Merry Unbirthday.”

Once those words left his lips, his face was decorated with geisha makeup, his hair put into a low bun held by long pins, a small woven hat and his casual pale blue yukata was traded out for a dark green and pink one with a cloud pattern with a puffy skirt with a blue and white pattern on them. He continued to follow the path with his basket of cakes in hand until he hit an end to the tracks.

“Huh. How curious…”

Jervis crouched down to get a better look at the last set of tracks. They look nothing like any animal he came across, they were far too big, not to mention these tracks in particular were deeper than the ones leading up to it. Where did all this fog come from?

“Jonathan,” Jervis called out, “Jonathan where are you!? Please tell you are okay!”

THUD!

Before the small man was a giant creature that resembled nothing that Jervis could even dream of with large hands with long sharp fingers, a large curtain of dark greasy hair and more disturbingly a face blacked out with no trace of eyes, nose or mouth, just a black surface that felt like it was staring back at Jervis, measuring him. The moment the Mad Hatter took a step back a large hand pinned him to the nearest tree, knocking the wind right out of Jervis’s lungs, he struggled a bit before he noticed the beast’s face or lack there of was right up to Jervis. This let him witness as many eyes literally blink into existence on his face and focus on him, watching him continue to struggle before the all closed and from the void a large amount hands reached for Jervis. They held his hand, pat his head, caressed his face (smudging his makeup in the process) it was all so very gentle. Jervis stood there in bewilderment before remembering the basket in his hands still. Perhaps he can bribe this beast to release him with a daifuku, surely Jon wouldn’t mind if there was one less wagashi for him.

“Excuse me.”

The beast retracted all of his hands from his face and returned to giving his face eyes.

“I-I’d like you to let me go please,” a deep growl could be heard from the beast before Jervis presented a small mochi in his hand, “I’ll make it worth your while. I-I-I have a friend who likes anko so I thought you’d like it too.”

The creature blinked a few times before the eyes closed out of existence and in its stead a large mouth with razor sharp teeth opened and out shout a long tongue to wrap around Jervis hand to feel for the sweet and shot back into its cavern once it had his prize.

“Now you have to hold your end of the bargain and let me goOOOOO!”

Jervis found himself still being held by the monster but instead of being against a tree he was just in the palm of this creatures hands, being held closer to the never ending void serving as a face as hands once again shot out of it to hold and caress Jervis, with a few taking treats from his basket to feed itself. Meanwhile, Jervis was confused by this behavior and looked around for any signs of Jonathan only to catch something in the corner of his eye.

A pumpkin charm hanging from the ear of the giant creature giving him affection. This creature was Jonathan this whole time.

Jervis felt an odd sense of relief and leaned into the hands’ touches.

“Jonathan how long were you able to do this?”

The only response he got was a hand offering him a dango.

“I suppose I can’t get an answer from you while you’re like this?”

The hands just continue holding him and making sure he was comfortable in Jonathan’s grasp.

Jervis nodded and sat on Jonathan’s hand, he took his hat off and proceeded to pull out two tea cups and a teapot filled with tea. He still had wagashi left and he’s with Jonathan now. The circumstances didn’t shake his determination to have tea with someone he cares for especially when they might be here a while.

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 9

[Read on AO3]

Written for @sepalina's birthday, who deliberated for two days only to suddenly remember, oh yes right she has a favorite fic 🤣

That Seiran chick might have a princess’s pedigree around here, but there’s nothing dainty about the way she grips the metal bar at the end of each of their cots, twisting her wrists like she’s picturing flesh and bone rather than steel.

“You two have to be the biggest boneheads I have ever seen stuffed into a drive suit.” Her fingers clench, and Obi could swear the mental dints. “A bare knuckle brawl in the dome? At a time like this? Are you two insane?”

“Ah, well…” The Big Guy may have looked tough when Obi took him to the mats, a more solid anti-kaiju wall than anything the PDPC could toss into the Pacific, but he cringes just like any other mortal would when Kiki Seiran looms over him, all her disappointment honed to a point. “It wasn’t really a brawl. Just a…regulated spar, like usual—“

“Usual?” Her arms fold the way steel does into rebar, and oh, the princess is not amused. “Obi’s more bruise than bone.”

“Aw, Princess,” he croons, trying not to wince from the effort. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

Her spine straightens, giving her all the extra inches she needs to give that glare of hers momentum, hitting him like a body off the Golden Gate hits the bay. “I can see the other guy. You’re both in the same infirmary, because you’re the same amount of stupid.”

“Actually, I’ve been wondering about the logic on that one.” He tilts his head, trying to go for that doleful dog stare that does wonders on sweet little nurses with hearts of gold. Too bad he’s got Yuzuri, who only wrenches his head back to the side, holding him still enough to swab when the skin’s split over his cheekbone. “Is this our— yikes, careful there, Florence— get along shirt or something? Two guys take some swings and you hope sticking us in a bottle sorts it out?”

“No,” she deadpans, taking a pen light out from the pocket of her scrubs. “I’m trying to quarantine the idiocy. You better be careful, Major” —she casts a long glance princess-side— “it might be catching.”

That regal mouth twitches, somewhere in the realm of amused. “Too late for me. No one ends up in a drive suit unless they’re born with it.”

“Ha, that’s for sure.” A light sears across his line of sight, leaving constellations in its wake. “As for you two, I didn’t see the point in sending you to your corners when you’re so friendly. Saves me space, and you can treat tonight like a sleepover. Braid each other’s hair and talk about cute boys.”

“Er…” How a big man like that can go through basic and still blush as easy as a school girl, Obi will never know, but it’s funny as hell. “I don’t really have opinions on cute boys…”

“Don’t worry, Big Guy,” he grunts, snuggling his shoulders into the pillows at his back. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

That gets him a real side-eye from GI Joe, one that only ends when he swings those golden retriever eyes onto the real authority in this room. “Is there any way I get to go back to my bunk tonight?”

“Sorry, Major.” No matter what she says, Yuzuri’s shrug doesn’t give a single hint of regret. “Gotta keep you both on observation. SOP for rangers with head injuries. Last thing we need is for you guys to hare off and play hero just because you heard the dinner bell.”

He grimaces, all perfect teeth in a perfect face. Pity this guy fell into the military before someone could get him a magazine cover. Obi would have loved to hang that pin-up over his bunk. “Ah, right. That…makes sense.”

Of course it did. They might all be kaiju-fodder in the end, but they were the expensive, top shelf shit. The kind the PDPC wanted to stretch out as long as possible, not waste on some idiot who went into the drift concussed and had his brain melt right out his ears for the effort. Obi half surprised they haven’t been shoved into an MRI just to make sure.

“Aww, but you don’t really want to leave, do you, bestie? Not when we’re gonna have so much fun.” The target of his grin shifts from bed to bedside. “What do you think, Yuzuri? Think we could borrow some ManGo For It or Red Hot Rio?”

“I dunno,” she deadpans, not even looking up from her notes. “I think he’s more of Rosy Future guy.”

“Really? Still running your mouth?” Her Highness tosses her head, more pony than princess. “Did you not get beat bad enough?”

“What, this little mosquito bite?” Obi gives his jaw a good clench and turn, displaying his medal of honor at its best angle. Hurts like a bitch, but it’s worth it to see even Princess get squeamish. “Lucky shot. I got three hits for his one.”

Her mouth does that thing it does, that twitch, the one he’s starting to figure out is a laugh. “Yeah, and that’s all he needed to make you crumple like a tin can.”

“I already said I felt bad about that,” Big Guy grumbles, all folded in on himself like a teddy bear longing for a good squeeze. “I wasn’t trying to…well…”

“It’s okay, Superman, we all know you’re living in a world of cardboard.” Obi leans over, giving one of those meaty shoulders a good pat. Probably feels like a whisper to a man that stacked. “How can I blame you, when you were only defending milady’s honor—?”

Her weight shifts, no longer balanced parade-style between their cots, but sitting back in her hips, displeasure heavily implied. That man-sized mountain straightens so much it Obi can practically feel the plate tectonics beneath his palm.

“I was not!” Big puppy eyes swing right around to the ticking time bomb at the end of their beds. “I would never do that!”

One elegant eyebrow arches, and ah, now he can see why half the PDPC pisses itself when she punches the bag right off its chain. Most of the rangers the Academy rolls out are brawlers, the kind of guys that get in between a kaiju’s punch and the Pacific coastline, but this girl— her power’s in the application of force, the art of finessing a blow to where the bones can’t bear it. Can’t get into a brawl with a fighter like that and expect an old fashioned beatdown, oh no— when princess steps on the mats, she doesn’t fight, she dismantles.

Ha, and by the way she chucks her chin, all challenge, she knows it.

Now how about that. It’s a whisper in his ear, a hum across the million and one electric impulses in his brain, dangerous and fond. Remind you of anyone you know?

Knew, maybe. Bright blue smears over stark white when he closes his eyes; suits that stood out, even among halls that housed living legends. Eye-catching, the higher ups had called it, but it caught all the wrong eyes when it came to Sonisay. They all learned, of course; even now he hears the sickening crack of bone, sees the sweep of dark hair as she steps out of her spin—

Not just that. That laugh jangles his nerves, too close to his own and yet infinitely different, inimitable. Not just her.

There’s a boy too, too small, too skinny, too…not enough. Might as well be a shadow for how closely he clings to that same dance, to those same stances. Might as well be a monster for how easily the bones crack under his heels too, no remorse, no regrets—

A boy that shouldn’t exist. A boy that no longer does. Obi closes his eyes.

You can’t look away forever. Too many voices to count on that one. Watch me, only his reply.

“Let me make something clear.” Big Guy’s grunt grounds him, dragging him right back down to his bed, to the finger waggling at him. “Kiki doesn’t need me to fight her fights for her. If she wants to kick someone’s ass, she can make her own bodies.”

Ah, great. Got back just in time to witnessing Bloodbath Barbie over there desire Big Guy carnally. Not that he notices; oh no, the Jolly Marine Giant only has eyes for him, serious as a heart attack. Makes him want to mention that these rickety little med cots can’t handle two ranger pilots going at it, let alone three, but of course Yuzuri’s gotta make it a rain out.

“All right, all right, visiting hours are over,” she sighs, and oh, by Princess’s look, this is the first time someone’s tried to shoo Kiki Seiran out of anywhere. “These boys need some rest, not an audience. Just gonna rile ‘em up.”

This guy benches almost twice Obi’s weight, a monster of a man, but the second Yuzuri aims that scold his way, he’s all puppy. “But I wouldn’t—”

“You might behave, but he won’t.” She jerks a thumb back where Obi lounges, pointed. “And if he doesn’t want to play nice, he’ll find some way to drag you along with him.”

Sounds about right, hums a nuisance that has no right to throw stones. Not at this particular glass house, at least.

“Me?” Obi a presses a hand to his chest; harder to see it tremble that way. “Why, I was only going to take a small snooze. A cat nap, really. How could I—?”

“No sleeping!” Yuzuri glares at him, incredulous. “Didn’t I just say you could have a concussion?”

“Aww, come on,” he sighs, hooking his hands behind his head. “First no fighting, now no napping? What else are we supposed to get up to in here?”

Princess hangs in the gap of their curtain coverage, and oh, she may not smile, but that’s one masterclass of a grin. “Strenuous activity.”

“Kiki—!”

“None of that either!” With an officious wave of her hands, Yuzuri succeeds in doing what PDPC has failed to do for years: tell Kiki Seiran where to go. “Now, get. These two don’t need a bad influence.”

“Aww, c’mon, Flo! That’s no reason to shoo Princess out,” Obi whines now that his entertainment has sashayed right out of his evening. “I’m an even worse influence, so—”

“You don’t need to tell me,” she sniffs. “Now give it a rest. Or else I’ll call Shirayuki down here, and she can read you the riot act.”

There’s a time he might have laughed. Might even have let one shoulder and a wry eyebrow do the heavy lifting as he said, I’m sure the Good Doctor has better things to do with her time than worry about little old me.

But a week ago he woke up in one of these cots soaked in his own sweat, ears still ringing from a klaxon that never rang. At least, not in this dome, not that day; his stomach churning from the heady brew of trauma and military grade sedatives. He’d turned, half convinced he’d see either six bodies or and empty room, and instead—

It was her. Tiny ponytail and all, clumps of it making a bid for freedom from that poor excuse of an elastic. A borrowed one,  all stretched out from trying to contain the fallout from Yuzuri’s nuclear-level event that she calls her hair, but it’s serviceable. Enough to bridge the gap between now and whenever Doc finally decides whether she’s gonna bite the bullet and grow it out again, or just chop the whole thing off.

That’s not the sort of stuff he knows about people. Not the sort of stuff he ever gets close enough to find out. But she was sitting right there, head tipped off the back of that chair, breath trembling the little flyaways splayed over her lips, and—

“Fine,” he sighs, settling back into his pillows. “I’ll play nice.”

Yuzuri snorts. “I won’t hold my breath.”

*

It’s when Big Guy lumbers out of their cozy little curtained love cave to go take a piss— or a shit; Obi might be nosy, but even he’s got his limits— that Yuzuri swoops back to his bedside, using his vitals as an excuse to say, “What the hell were you thinking anyway?”

None of her business. There’s a gruffness to that, a texture that implying barbed wire fencing with the prickly bits facing inside. Embarrassment, the kind a boy at the cusp of manhood couldn’t bear with any grace. Not that he had done all that well with other emotions either.

Could never bear being anything but the hero. A taunt, a snipe across the mess hall’s tables. Even in his head those two would never get along.

You can just admit it. Sonisay speaks the way silk would sting, if it could, a smooth stab with no mess left behind. A sliver beneath the fingernail, only noticed when it slips deeper. It’s not as if you were thinking of anything sexual.

Sure. There’s no need for the smile-like stretch over his synapses, too smug. But not from lack of trying.

He appreciates the honesty is the best policy shtick, especially from the girl who always spoke out both sides of her mouth as easy a breathing, but Obi settles on a nice neutral, “What?” instead.

Might earn him the sort of look that begs the question of just what is rattling around between his ears, but it’s better than having to explain that when he closes his eyes he sees red. Not spread out across his pillow or tangled in his fingers, but caught up in plain little hairpins, already slipping free.

“Are you kidding me?” Her gaze darts over the the empty bed beside his, pointed. Oh, so that’s what she’s asking about. “Did you somehow miss how big that man is? He could fit two of you between his shoulders!”

“Aww, Flo, he’s harmless.” Pain shoots up his cheek when he tries to grin, settling somewhere near his temple. Damn, that’s gonna put a real crimp in his game. “Big Guy’s a gentle giant.”

She stares at him. “Half your face is a bruise.”

Obi hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing himself in the mirror lately, but by the way one half of his face feels heavy enough to make him lean like a tower in Pisa, he doubts that’s an exaggeration. “He didn’t mean it though.”

“Doesn’t really make a difference to your capillaries whether he meant it or not.” One finger of hers brushes an eyebrow— yowch— and she scowls. “They’re broken all to shit anyway. God, you’re gonna be lucky if that smile of yours isn’t permanently lopsided from this.”

Already was, but she didn’t ask for his medical history. “I’ll be roguish.”

“You’ll be in PT, that’s what you’ll be.” She pulls back with a cluck of her tongue. “Lucky as hell that he didn’t break your orbital. Ugh, or your nose. That would have been a bitch to set. And your cheekbones—”

A cough, timid for how deep it is, rustles outside the curtain. “Sorry,” Big Guy starts, all doleful hound dog eyes as Yuzuri pulls them back. “I didn’t want to, er, eavesdrop, but…”

He’s smarter than to say, but you told us not to leave. Not to someone like Yuzuri, who’s already ruby red from the collar of her scrubs to her headband, ready to crack out of her shell like a crab left too long in the pot.

“You…I…” She slides out right around him, never once turning her back. “G-go. Lay down. Or something! Ugh!”

Big Guy blinks once at her back before swinging those hound eyes back to him. “Is she—?”

“Embarrassed,” he agrees. Yuzuri’s always happy to share her opinions, up until she get caught. “Big time. She’ll recover. But until then it’ll be your fault.”

“Oh…” He winces, though Obi can hardly tell if it’s from the thought of Yuzuri’s ill-wishes, or the kick he landed on his hip, making what should be an easy walk a bit of a hobble. “I am sorry about that, you know.”

That lantern jaw juts itself toward him, or more specifically, the shiner painted up one side. “This old thing? Don’t worry about it. Got worse from a mosquito.”

If Big Guy is impressed with his bravado, he’s got a funny way of showing it, looking all hangdog like that. “I just…I didn’t really mean to…”

Fuck you up is what the big guy can’t bring himself to say. It’s probably rude to tell him, I’ve had worse.

“No hard feelings, Major.” It’s half a laugh, half a groan as he hauls himself up his pillows, every muscle aching. “I did tell you not to go easy on me.”

A grimace is what he gets in reply, and a pained, “Still…”

The you didn’t know what you were getting into hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Like maybe he’s never fought a guy above his weight class. Like he’s never stood in front of a boy a third again his age, watching his knuckles crack beneath the cloth of his binds.

More like he doesn’t know how much he can mean it, a grim mouth huffs humorlessly. He will though. Give him a few months.

“Didn’t really expect you to try to kill me, though.” For a moment, he’s not quite sure who he’s talking to. He rubs at his jaw, pain scintillating beneath his palm, and, haah, yeah, he knows what fist laid a kiss on this cheek alright. “Damn, no wonder kaiju don’t walk away from you.”

“I wasn’t try to…” It’s funny watching a mountain hunch like that, shoulders riding up again his ears making him a whole range instead a single peak. “With someone who moves like you, there’s only two sure ways to win. I went with the one that relied on power. Wasn’t going to land many hits on you but had to make the ones I did count.”

“And then did too good a job.” That’s the thing with having a body that shares more in common with a jaeger’s chassis than human flesh; the fall back option is to just do everything more and harder. Obi had met more than a few men like that in his time, but none of them so friendly. “I gotta admit though, Big Guy, you got me curious. What’s the other way?”

Big lungs heave big sighs, and oh, this one feels like it could take a few trees with it before he settles back against the headboard. “Tire you out. Quick guys typically don’t have a lot of stamina when things drag on, so—”

“All right, all right, don’t let the ladies hear that one.” Or most of the men while he’s at it, even if Obi’s personal tastes tend more toward the techs tending the tin cans than the bodies they throw in them. “Don’t want anyone to get the idea that I can’t keep up off the mat either.”

That won’t be much of a problem. It’s rare to hear advice from that corner of his mind, but Buma’s habit always was to watch first and speak too late. Not with all the training you’ve done outside—

That’s Need To Know only. Obi casts a long glance over where giant feet nearly hang off the mattress. And I don’t think the Major needs to know.

“Anyways,” he huffs, the sort of quiet career boys get when they’re shy. “Sorry.”

“Aw, c’mon, Big Guy. I asked you to bring me a fight and you did! I’m hardly gonna blame you for that.” He turns his head, grinning at him across the poor excuse for a bedside table. “Besides, now I know what it’s like.”

Those puppy eyes blink, too innocent for a guy who could break him in half by breathing. “Hm? Do you mean—?”

His eyebrows lift —well, one of them tries to— enticingly. The wince probably doesn’t do him any favors. “Kissing your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend.”

Oh, it’s a real treat to see a lantern jaw drop so hard it nearly shatters. Too bad Princess isn’t here to enjoy it. “What?”

“You know…” His fingers weave through some hazy dips and lazy dives. “I can see what was good between you and High Highness, or whatever. The way you’d could compensate for each other in the drift. But you and me” — his hand flicks between them— “we don’t fit.”

“Oh.” It’s a pleasure to watch his mouth wrap around that noise, to see him really wrangle with the meat of what his meaning. “Yeah. I get it. I think.”

“I mean, for one thing,” Obi says, so casual. “We’re both bottoms.”

“Come again?”

“Kidding, kidding.” Kind of, Sonisay hums, and oh, he could swear he feels that forked tongue flickering where she coils in his mind. I doubt he’d complain if that blonde woman took it into her head to—

Hey. Maybe if he had a mirror, he could give himself a warning look, the kind Doc was always giving him right before he took a joke too far. But instead he had to settle for just thinking louder, like trying to shout over a crowded bar. I still gotta talk to this guy with a straight face for the next twenty-four hours.

Sounds like, that too-familiar voice hums, a real personal problem.

It’s too bad Major Do-Right over there can’t hear the speculation of the peanut gallery; then he might no be so quick to let relief bring those shoulders relax, to settle back into those pillows with a sigh that speaks of a light conscience. What did Yuzuri say? If Obi doesn’t want to behave, he’ll drag you down with him…?

Well, he hates to disappoint.

“Or am I?” The cot nearly cracks down the middle from how fast the Big Guy turns on it, sputtering. Obi just tosses him a wink. “Don’t worry, Big Guy. I’m not the kind of girl who likes to kiss and tell.”

*

For all that their lovely nurse devotedly frets over the potential stupors they could slip into with even the slightest bit of shut eye, or sometimes even something like getting up too fast or breathing too easy, she’s sure eager to encourage them to piss all by their lonesomes one she’s sure they can make the walk.

“What, this doesn’t get you going?” Obi asks, peeking around the door. “I hear some people really get into—”

“I hear some people really don’t get jello at dinner,” she replies, shoving him bodily through the crack. “Wanna see if you’re one of them?”

“What if the stream’s too strong and I get vertigo?” He winces, hearing all those words echo in so small a space, but it’s worth it for the noise she makes outside the door. “What if I crack my head on the floor and get a double concussion?”

“Then at least you’ll be quiet.”

There’s a slam— a door. Not this one, the particle board so paper thin Big Guy could probably sneeze it off its hinges; but the heavier infirmary door, one meant to withstand a mortar shell, maybe even nuclear blast— but Obi doesn’t bother to bite back his grin. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’s run into Suzu on the way to the commissary and give him a full run down of all the ways she could make Obi’s death look like an accident. Some real romantic talk to keep a nerd warm at night.

With shake and a wriggle— how Big Guy managed to move around in here when his elbows keep cracking into the tile, Obi’ll never know— he wraps up his business, sauntering straight out onto the infirmary floor. With no kaiju to keep the place hopping, it’s dark, the only light coming from the lamp angled over Yuzuri’s desk, and from behind their ring of curtains. A nice way to find his way back; or at least it would be if he didn’t already count two shadows there: one hitched up on the bed, shoulder big enough to overflow the outline of the pillows, and the other—

The other’s standing, tall enough to make Big Guy seem normal sized, and radiating authority the same way the sirens do danger.

Ah, fuck. It’s the Marshal. Hide, a cacophony of whispers hiss, which— he’d love to, if there was a single goddamn place to do it.

“I take it this isn’t a social call.” Big Guy doesn’t have a deep voice, not the way the circumference of his chest would suggest, but he’s pitched it low now. Still too much to be contained by a curtain, though.

The Marshal cocks his head, wry. “Would you believe me if I said, ‘yes?’”

There’s a hesitation, a huff that might be something like humor. “No.”

“Then let’s not waste time pretending.” It might be a trick of the acoustics in this room, a little reverb on that tinny echo, but Obi could swear His Majesty sounds amused. “I’ve heard you’ve quite the rapport with our new ranger.”

Oh, hell. As if this isn’t the cherry on top of his shit sundae: not only is he stuck, standing right out in the open as the top brass talks Top Secret, he’s the topic they’re having tea over.

“News travels fast.”

“Danger of living in one of these little warrens.” The Marshal shrugs. “Rats like to chatter.”

Air hisses between Big Guy’s teeth, the way it did right before he threw his haymaker. “Not a lot of people eager to be on the wrong side of the mat from him. Not after the way he and Zen went at it the last time.”

“So you…what?” It’s uncanny how even the Marshal can make his voice; no inflection, no judgment, no answers. “Thought you’d help him keep his edge?”

“He asked.” There’s a rustle, a creak, and even though he can’t see it, he knows mountains are moving to make that shrug. “Not like I’ve got much to be afraid of.”

If one half of his face didn’t feel as ginger as the oldest wicker chair on some grandma’s patio, Obi might take some offense to that. That’s what you get for being so scrawny, a gruff voice scrapes over his ear, everyone underestimates you.

That, hums another, too pleased, is kind of the point.

“Good.” There’s something final in the way the Marshal says it, less like an observation, and more like an assessment. A test passed with much anticipated flying colors. “Keep doing that.”

Obi could cut the consternation in this room with a knife. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Was I not clear?” His Majesty’s tone conveys his confidence that he was. Maybe even too much so. “I’d like you to pursue this…relationship with our new colleague. Foster this tentative trust you have managed to build.”

Ha. Obi’s heart stutter hard enough— loud enough— that even the peanut gallery keeps their opinions to themselves. He should have known something like this would happen; sure, all the paperwork calls Hachimaru a failure, one that should have never flopped its way out of dry dock, but to someone like Izana Wisteria, well—

He’s got a reputation for ruthlessness for a reason. Enough of one that it escaped containment, slipping past the PDPC’s iron curtain of silence to spread around the streets of Sitka. Buildin’ a wall to keep the monsters out, one of the wallmen had chuckled over his pint, but no matter how high we do it, that one will still be in here.

Obi might have called that unfair, once. Sure, His Majesty wasn’t exactly a friendly guy, at least not with the rank and file, though there were magazines enough that showed him being chummy with the higher ups, but, well— pedigree might have put him in a pod, but it wouldn’t have pulled him a position so high above it. No, that only went to the corps' top minds, the ones who knew what it took out there to take your lumps and drag your metal coffin home. The ones who understood what they were asking when they dumped two men out into the Pacific and asked them to stop a natural disaster or die trying.

But if that guy is gonna meddle in his business like this, well, maybe once they finish building that wall, they can dump him over it. Lets the monsters sort it out between themselves. Knowing the Marshal, he’d still find a way to come out on—

“No.”

“No?” The way the Marshal wraps his mouth around the word sends shivers up his arms.

“I can’t do that. I mean, I won’t.” Big Guy snorts, like there’s a stench in the air he can’t quite get rid of. “I’d do a lot for you, sir, I would. Take a bullet. Die for the cause. But I’m not going to…to manipulate that man back into a jaeger for you. Not like this.”

A breath catches in Obi’s throat, nearly choking him. Big Guy’s got a heart of gold, but he can’t possibly be stupid enough to— to—

“Well well.” To his utter surprise, the Marshal laughs. “Good thing that’s not what I’m asking.”

Big Guy grunts. “Isn’t it?”

“If you couldn’t manage to convince my brother into the cockpit, I doubt you’ll have much luck with a man you barely know.” For how casually it’s said, there’s a bite to it, each word honed to sting. “I only meant that he’s not responding to the typically recommended course of therapy.”

Right. Because after that one session with Doc post-drift, all his peanut gallery clamoring to have their turn now that cat had clawed its way out of the bag, he hadn’t been able to drag himself back. And with all the dinners and hallway-run ins they’ve had since, Doc didn’t seem eager to sit him back down on her couch any time soon either.

“But he seems responsive to you, Major Lowen.” Or at least responsive to getting his shit kicked in, whatever that said about him. “Rangers are typically taciturn about their issues. I thought this route might be worth encouraging, since he seems amenable. Sometimes it’s easier for military men to discuss their problems with someone who has gone through the same ones. Especially” —Obi doesn’t need to see his smirk to know it’s there— “if they’re with the same person.”

Obi might not have stuck around under his dome once the dust settled, but he knew all about guys like Lowen. The regulation haircut, the closet full of BDUs, the fondness for field rations and boiled chicken— just a thin veneer of muscle and bravado over a reflex to ‘sir, yes, sir’ his way out of any problem more complex than picking which socks to put on in the morning. He might have stuck his neck out for something that twinged the weather vane that was his moral compass, but now that someone with stars and bars has explained to him that black is white, he’ll—

“That all?” Big Guy’s too nice to spit out the “sir?” but that little hitch before it, that small hesitation— well, sky writing would have been more subtle.

“Yes.” There’s no tone to that one either, no flavor. Just the implacable bite of subzero. “Unless, of course, there’s something you’d like to discuss?”

There shouldn’t be, his tone conveys, clear enough it could be heard in the hangar. Obi could swear he hears Big Guy’s teeth grind from here.

There’s a long stretch of silence, the kind that makes his skin itch.

“Just one thing, actually. Sir.” The bed creaks, and his shadow shifts, pulling straight. “Been noticing there’s a lot of hopefuls hanging around the past few months. Thought they might be clearing out now that all this business with Tyrannis is done.”

The Marshal hums, distant. “There’s hardly any rush, Major. A few sets of extra hands is always welcome.”

“Even when they don’t come with their own ride?”

For once, His Majesty hesitates. “Even then.”

“Even” —Big Guy almost savors his next words— “if they’re Hisame Lugis?”

“Dangerous times makes strange bedfellows.” The Marshal laughs, sour. “Especially ones like Hisame Lugis. Now if you don’t mind” — the curtain pulls aside— “I think our friend might like to use his bed. Isn't that right, Major?”

Ha, a voice tingles in his ear, busted.

[a-bucket-of-trash]

Crashing Trust – Kelvin x Neutral Reader – Part 1/?

Prompt: You trust Kelvin to the bone, but maybe he is not the person you believe he is.

Tag: Angst

Your eyes looked up at the sky for a moment, seeing the heavy gray clouds move and you hoped it wouldn't start to rain, not yet. You sighed, feeling a bit cold on your face, but at least not on your body, not after walking so much on the island. You thought, walking again, with some of your weapons on you, studying the place, alert for any danger, while your head wondered if Kelvin had caught something in your absence. You denied to yourself, you knew he had done it. His skills acquiredafter years as a Boy Scout prior to the army were evident, he took prey from any corner and knew the use of most plants, whether they were edible, medicinal or poisonous.

You trusted him, that clumsy boy who little by little had recovered some of his faculties, just a bit of hearing and speaking, although there was still something blank as far as memories of him were concerned. There was a great majority of things that he still did not remember, but sometimes he would get up shouting, happy, with a new memory. He was kind, funny, caring and had trusted you as much as you trusted him. And you guys had even half flirted once. It was an island in the middle of nowhere, it was to be expected that you would flirt a bit, you were too close sometimes.

Your steps followed a hare, in the distance, but the animal heard you before, escaping. You growled, pacing the place, looking around, seeing the chopper in pieces on the ground. You passed, on one side, giving the military salute to the grave of your partner Fisheye, and Walter, the pilot. You had buried them a short time after falling there, a few months ago already.

You kept studying the place. It was something you did frequently, to keep yourself busy. You looked at a tree, the one where the helicopter had given the last blow at that time, before falling to the ground, and that it had half split it. It had almost no leaves anymore, partly because the blow had damaged it beyond repair, partly because it was autumn.

But your eyes fixed on something that was dark between the branches, and that you had not seen before because of the foliage. You celebrated in silence to not attract enemies, you were sure it was a backpack. It could be that of one of your fallen comrades, or even of Kelvin, that detail was irrelevant, what mattered was the content. Those backpacks were loaded with useful things, precisely for cases like this.

It took you a long time to get it down, you were forced to climb a tree that didn't look very safe, and the last thing you wanted was to fall in there, break something, and die of gangrene. But you managed to climb a little, hook it with your spear and pass it a rope, before lowering yourself and pulling, tearing it from the branch where it had been.

When it was on the ground you celebrated again, checking it, seeing the label with a K. You knew that each backpack had the letter of their code names, and the only one with the K was Kelvin. You opened it, more than anything to make sure it had the contents, check that no dangerous animal had nested there, or rotted or something. Everything was fine.

Among the things you found a hermetic bag with some content, a notepad like yours, a pen, a tactical knife, matches, useful things. You were euphoric, there was even a lot of medicine. You checked the notebook, it would be good for you to write things down, since yours was running out of pages.

And turning the pages, distractedly, you saw something written in the middle. You turned the pages back and stayed reading a familiar letter.

“Helicopter 1: Pilot Hubble. Soldier Gore. Raven Soldier. Private Cory. Destination: Eliminate. Method: C4 Installed in rear compartment. Detonation by control. Status: Stable.

Helicopter 2: Pilot Walter. Fisheye Soldier. Soldier Bucky. Destination: Experiment. Method: Sleeping pills. Leave outside Cube. Status: Stable.

Radio code to SaThe 885 510 931 074 Password #Puffton#”

You stayed static, reading that. You didn't understand well, but you understood enough. Kelvin's code name wasn't there, but yours, Bucky, was. The word EXPERIMENT resonated in your brain like poison. You didn't know what the Cube was, but you had seen enough of the mutants to associate them with some kind of experiment on the island. “SaThe” disintegrated in your mind. You had read a few things in the bunkers where you had been, in classified papers, and the word "Sahara Therapeutics" appeared next to Puffton, too much.

Your blood boiled in anger and betrayal. Kelvin hadn't gone there as a member of the rescue team, he had gone undercover as the Pufftons' competition to get information, experiment on you, kill your team and who knows what else. The man you had believed was a good soldier, next to you, was a lie. You put everything together, with hate and quickly walked back to your cabin, with the darkness of a hundred cannibals in your steps.

As soon as you got there, you saw him near the campfire, next to some fish he had caught. His ears couldn't quite hear you, he turned to you and smiled seeing you close, but you kicked him hard, making him stumble and fall on his ass to the ground. You kicked his hip hard enough for him to shrink into himself, covering his head in fear. You crouched down a bit to punch his arms a few times, hearing him groan and say “Stop” several times.

"You are fucking trash!" You stepped away slightly, furious and anguished “Son of a bitch, traitor! Killer!"

"What…?" He barely looked at you, very scared, still defending himself on the ground "I don't understand"

“I don't care if you don't understand me! I hate you! And I thought you were my friend!" You half sobbed, your trust breaking into a thousand pieces, as well as your heart.

“I do nothing…” He shyly extended his hand towards you “Honey… Explain me”

"Not honey, not anything!" You threw his backpack at his head, watching him hold it, confused "Trash" You threw the notepad in his face "Take your damn notepad and check what YOU wrote"

His confused and somewhat hurt eyes went from you to the small notebook that he had gathered from the floor, turning pages. Until he found what he had written. He read and reread, knowing it was his handwriting. His confused expression dimmed slightly, as some memory fragments flitted back into his mind. Kelvin stood still, his mouth open, searching for words he didn't quite have in his vocabulary.

“I can…explain…” He looked at you with sad eyes.

“I don't want a fucking explanation, Kelvin! You put a C4 on our teammates! You were going to kill me along with Walter and Fisheye! What fucking explanation can justify that!? None!" You furiously kicked his foot “Double agent, traitor!”

“Please… let me explain…” He reached out to you, pleading “I…” But he stayed still, silent. Even if he explained, he wasn't going to undo the fact that he had actually planned that. That he had forgotten about it, and the reasons why he had decided to do so, no longer mattered.

"Get out of here!" You took the fish and threw it on him “Take your damn dinner, your stupid backpack and go! Go away because I'm about to chop off your head, you son of a bitch! I see you around the island and I swear I will attack you like a cannibal!"

"But..." He stood up awkwardly, despairing "I love you... And... We'll survive better... together"

“Do you love me now!? You didn't give a shit about that when you wrote me down in your stupid little notebook as an experiment subject!" You sobbed again “I will survive alone! And I'll make it easier knowing I don't have a bloody traitor living under my roof!"

“But…” He tried to get closer to you, sobbing too “I really love you… I don't want to leave… Forgive me… forgive me… please…”

"I'm not going to forgive you! I hate you! I do not want anything with you! Go away!" You took your axe, firmly, ready to attack him “Get out! I said get out, you ungrateful deaf asshole!”

He looked at you, crying, almost more than you. He lowered his eyes, holding his backpack better against his chest and turned, walking slowly, moving away from you with a slight limp, the product of the pain in his leg, caused by one of your kicks. He kept walking away, crying, listening to you cry hard, knowing that you must be really loud for his poor hearing to hear you so clearly.

Kelvin regretted what he had done long before he got on the helicopter, regretted his decisions, his betrayal of his squad, something that had led him to lose you, his mate and the only source of security and comfort on the island. He was now alone, at the mercy of enemies and even at the mercy of your anger.

Part 2

[jovialjuggernaut-draws]

Ok last one: 97 hattercrow 🙏🙏🙏 (ur hatter specifically plzzz)

"You're so cute when you pout like that."

Bunny scrunched up his nose, waggling his whiskers. His soft-furred ears drooped back to brush his bony shoulders, tensed as they were. "Focus, Jervis," Bunny ordered.

The Hatter couldn't help but giggle. It was so absurd, the hare acting so serious, looking so cute as he did. He wound his fingers into Bunny's unruly mop of strawberry hair, kissing the sweet straw where it sprouted between knobby knuckles.

"This is not the time, damn it!" Bunny snapped, roughly shoving the Hatter's arm aside.

Jonathan stalked off, tension sharp in his shoulders. At his work table, he stilled, nails digging like claws into its weathered surface.

"...Shouldn't have dragged you with me…" Jonathan lamented. "Risky enough without dead weight dragging me down…"

"Sorry, Bunny," Jervis tried. His lip tasted of the tang of blood where his teeth dug into it. "Didn't mean to make you cross."

Jonathan shot a glare his way, but it softened in an instant, all fluff again. "Shit, Jervis, you're bleeding-"

Bunny rushed over, one of those thick, soft napkins he used for chemical spills pressed to the Hatter's bleeding lip. His wispy eyebrows drew close, etching deep wrinkles into his forehead. The Hatter lifted a hand, palm cupping Bunny's fluffy cheek, his thumb stroking a line from his twitching nose to his strawberry hair until the wrinkles softened and smoothed.

"...Listen, Jervis, I…" Bunny sighed, nuzzling into Hatter's palm. "It's not your fault. I'm just… frustrated. It's been very stressful, this business with Joker- with the Duchess."

Hatter nodded, catching onto Bunny's meaning. "Squabbling with the cook again."

"Yes." Bunny kissed his palm before drawing away again. Hatter let him scamper off, back to his work table with its potions in their beakers. "This power struggle with Harley has a body count already. They're dragging anyone they can into the crossfire, and it's only a matter of time before one of them turns eyes to us. I need to be ready for that. To protect you."

Hatter smiled fondly, his serious little Bunny pouting cutely again. "That's sweet, Bunny."

The wrinkles sank into Bunny's forehead again. Hatter checked his lip, worried the bleeding may have begun anew, but his fingers came away clean. "Jervis, please. I want to impress on you how dangerous this situation is. Those mad clowns will stop at nothing-"

Hatter beckoned his Bunny over, arms outstretched. The hare hesitated, of course, but he gave in in the end, allowing his Hatter to embrace him, wild strawberry hair tickling under his chin. "Bunny, bunny, bunny. So skittish, so scared. Aren't you already armed from hill to dale, keeping Alice and her cat from imposing at our table again?"

"It's not the same," Bunny insisted. "The Bat's goals are never lethal-"

"The Duchess also hasn't half the wit of that grinning cat," the Hatter countered. "Self-absorbed and singularly focussed. Even this squabble with the cook means only to teach Alice some lesson or other."

"But how can we be sure-"

"We can never be sure," the Hatter acknowledged, stroking Bunny softly as he did, to soothe before he could spook. "Nothing in this life is sure. A pawn may fall in battle, or she may become a queen. The tears you shed today may wash you into a sunny day the next. Time may speed or slow or still, but it does not reverse, and we cannot see what is to come."

Bunny shook his head, his hair scratching across the Hatter's collarbone where he pressed his forehead close. "You're mad," he accused.

"Aren't we all?" Hatter reminded him.

Bunny pouted up at him, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, fighting a smile. "You especially."

Jervis couldn't help but return the fond look. "You know, you're cute when you smile, too."

[in-the-noise]

"describe a place you think is beautiful"

-- beavie

unofficial issue #9 this is a completely unedited freewriting exercise that took me around 30 minutes to handwrite, the first "real" writing i've done in a while. (it doesn't make a lot of sense, very rambly and weird) will try to do one of these every day and see where it leads me. stay noisy! beavie

I watched as his light, fluttery eyes lifted slowly from their sleep.

He was perfect, the only truly, utterly perfect person I ever could have seen. Beauty of the strongest kind pervaded him, not of strength, or of cutthroat cruelty, of masculine weaponry, but of soft, long lashed and fairy like spring.

It was as if he had descended from the stars to weave wistfully in and out of my consciousness, through and through my dreams. I could see him now, racing through the walls of my mind, light of foot and swift in movement, darting from corner to corner like a hare determined to escape the fox, the toothy claw of my hands. Everywhere I endeavored to venture, the grounded forest of my consciousness, he left behind an outlying scent of vanilla and rose that struck me, spellbound and I would once again be lost in the hunt. In and out, up and down, round and round.

He was mine and ever shall be.

What was he made of? He was made of starlight, of the certain indescribable glow that you had wished to capture and make yours since you were a girl. Late august, dead of night, I remembered the summers I had spent gazing wistfully into the dark tropical hedge bushes of my grandparents' houses, seeing the soft firefly light dance around the humid air, teasing me. Catch it, I would try ; try to clasp my hands quickly and suddenly around this impossible insect lamp. It had to, it must be mine. But, the few times I had found success in their arrest, I had also found them dead in their glass jar by morning.

It was the same dewy, six- legged radiance I saw glittering in my childhood's eye that I saw him in now. It was the same starlight dream upon which I had eagerly tapped my mother's shoulder, yanked at her sleeve and pointed to the pitch black sky, crying out,

"look at the stars! look at the stars!"

I was to live there when I grew up. I had dreamt of the mechanically- fashioned, tin and lead spaceship where I would sit tightly, rocking to and fro in the solar winds, where I would take off at night and never return to this cruel, blue planet. Yes, I would land safely on those stars, live in their fire and burn with them endlessly as my new home of white hot passion wrapped and enveloped me, keeping me warmer than those humid, sultry nights spent outside at grandma's house. I would no longer be the wistful, the hopeful, or the dreamer. The stars would finally be mine. As I looked down upon the Earth from my incandescent plasma home, I would see the same blue waters and jungle hedge forests from a new perspective.

~~~

His eyes were the worst part. Something about the long lashed, freckled and round lid shape, contrasted sharply by his piercing green hue, startled me. I could never recover from the lasting infirmity, the permanent injury that stuck my innermost heart that inflicted me every time that green orb of pleading cruelty met mine.

It was not fair.

Yes, I did hold and guard him as if her were my own, I did fiercely claim and struggle for mastery over his will; but it was truly in his eye, the defiant and mystical, sharp and satirical, crying almond eye that brought me utterly and truly to my knees at his mercy. I could never resist.

The hare had been playing tricks, inside its light and quick foot he held a weapon, a secret move that he would bestow upon the fox forcefully and sneakily at his own delight. The chase through the forest floor, the endless howling and panting, the unsubtle cry for freedom and for posession, all that comes to an end suddenly, definitively, when the fox was injured with the hare's dazzling look.

It held me like a spell, not one that needed to be chanted, strengthened with dried herbs and pig's hearts and lion's feet, stewed in a cauldron until ripe and ready, but it was one that was cast instantaneously, all too suddenly and gripped me everlasting.

All he needed to do was say the magic word, and I was gone, lost under his endless waves of softness that filled me with a certain hopeless light.

I could find it nowhere else, this light had breached through the very fibre of my being, touching my fingertips, my hair and my feet, taking my heart and lifeblood along the way.

This light had claimed me.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Sweet Treats

I blame @cilil for this one as well...(and for their apparition in the Kinktober list...)

Characters: Curumo x Aiwendil

Words: 272

Warnings: /

Yavanna patiently watched her little Maia, tongue sticking out of the corner of his tense mouth, as he coaxed the trees and bushes into giving up their sweet syrup and ripe berries.

Knowing her own husband and his predilections, she approved of Aiwendil’s desire to make his affection known by preparing sweet treats for his intended.

In her experience, those beings of fire and steel were particularly receptive to the delicate and delicious delights that nature provided, even if they’d never admit as much willingly.

“I think this time, it will work,” Aiwendil declared, holding aloft a slightly irregular globe that would melt in Curumo’s mouth, releasing the well-balanced aroma of all the different nuances of sweetness that were possible.

Aiwendil had worked on the exact recipe, whenever he was not fulfilling his other tasks, with diligence and determination for so long that Yavanna couldn’t help but feel proud of his final achievement.

Her head snapped up as she heard a faint echo of steel on steel.

“Aulë has set down his tools,” she declared softly. “Run, little one.”

Handing her one of his precious creations to give to her beloved husband and throwing some seeds into the clearing for the birds as an offering, Aiwendil dashed off like a hare in search of the imperious forge-spirit he so clumsily tried to woo.

“Best of luck,” Yavanna whispered and laughed as she heard wings—big and strong as well as tiny and light—overhead as the fruits of Aiwendil’s skill and dedication came to the attention of the feathered inhabitants of the Realm almost as soon as they had been laid out.

@fellowshipofthefics here we go with the next one!

-> Masterlist

𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 <3