#of course the point of a disguise is that the truth will be discovered eventually...

[abyssalmermaiden]

A mermaid who can transform herself to walk among land-dwellers

the process, although painful, is temporary and her teeth and scales remain as marks of her true identity

This form also renders her unable to speak or sing

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(TFATWS) Bucky x Reader: Protective- Part 1

 (Author’s Note: I watched TFATWS and loved it.  So here we are).

 The tension had finally fizzled out an hour or so into the trip- at least for a little while.

   Your consulting criminal, Zemo, made himself comfortable as soon as he set foot on the jet.  He was leaning back in his seat across from you, looking very pleased as he read a book and took an occasional sip from his champagne glass.  His contented demeanor had visibly affected both of your friends, Sam and Bucky, causing their irritation with him to skyrocket earlier.  But after some of the confrontations concerning Bucky’s inherited notebook from Steve, Sam’s music, and Zemo’s observations of you, things had finally calmed down.

   He was a crafty one.  He knew how to push buttons, knew exactly what to say to trigger each individual’s weak points.  Things had begun to escalate especially when Zemo turned his attention to you.  His piercing gaze had you frozen in place as he made inquiries.  While he didn’t ask anything outwardly uncomfortable, the probing questions about your life were starting to make you uneasy.

   The other two males didn’t take too kindly to Zemo’s attempts at conversation with you.  Bucky stared out the window with his jaw clenched.  At one point, Sam let out an exasperated sigh, causing the criminal to halt mid-sentence. He leaned over to raise his brow at you diagonally across the aisle of the jet.   “_________, is he bothering you?”

   You didn’t have to speak: the look on your face said it all, and Sam shifted in his seat again to look over at Zemo.  “Alright, that’s enough.”  His tone was firm and leaving no room to question.

   Directly across the aisle from you to your right, Bucky’s shoulders relaxed when Zemo followed Sam’s command.  The jet had fallen silent except for the muffled whirring sounds of its mechanics.

   You pretended to skim through a magazine that you’d found laying on a tray.  With one hour down and twelve more to go on the flight, you felt the need to unwind a bit.  Everything had happened so fast from the moment you agreed to go with your friends to Berlin to see Zemo.  After Thanos’ horrible plan came to an end, things heated up when John Walker went public as “the new Captain America.”  He’d even offered you a place working with him since you were part of Team Cap back in the day.  You declined, of course, and found yourself even more determined to help Sam and Bucky.

   You were happy for Steve.  You were.  It was still hard to have him gone.  For years, ever since the Avengers broke apart over the Sokovia Accords and Bucky’s framing, you’d followed Steve.  Even before then, when it was discovered that Hydra had been infiltrating SHIELD, you’d left the broken agency to join him as he continued his fight against threats to the world

   You hadn’t imagined that you and the others would be left to keep fighting without him.

   “You in the market for a new grill?”

   You were drawn from your deep thought to a set of dark blue eyes that looked from you to the magazine page that you hadn’t turned in at least ten minutes.  You chuckled and closed the magazine, playing along.  “Yes, I figured with all this extra time, I’d do a little shopping.”

   The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up in a brief show of amusement.  You rose from the seat to go to his side, kneeling down beside his chair.

   “Why does he even have this?”  You lowered your voice as you glanced at the eccentric baron, setting the magazine back down onto the tray.  “You’d think there would be more European fashion magazines or something.”

   Bucky’s eyes flickered to the man in question before leaning in to speak in an equally quiet tone.  “I have to admit.  We lucked out with him.  Not only does he have a lead, but he’s got private transportation so we can stay under the radar.”

   “I think we made the the right choice going to him,” you replied.

   “We can only hope,” he muttered.  “Seriously though, what were you thinking about when you zoned out?”

   “Oh.”  You averted your gaze, playing with the hem of your jacket.  You didn’t want to delve into your train of thought.  It was plain as day that Bucky and Sam were both dealing with Steve’s departure in their own ways, and you didn’t want to add to it or open up any healing wounds.  So, you settled on being vague.  “Just...everything.”

   He seemed to know what you meant anyway.  The silence that followed made guilt gnaw in your chest, but before you could say anything, Bucky spoke.

   “Hey,” he nudged you with his shoulder, making you meet his gaze again.  His eyes had softened significantly and forehead smoothed in absence of the lines caused by furrowed brows.  It was a nice change from the scowl he had since the mission started.  “Sorry we dragged you into this.”

   You dismissed the apology with a casual wave of your hand.  “You guys didn’t drag me into anything.  I was along for the ride from the beginning.”

   A comfortable silence fell between you then.  He returned to gazing out the window while you stood up and headed back to your seat, sinking into it and letting your head tip forward.  You figured that a cat nap was in order since you hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.  All that business with an internationally-known criminal breaking out of prison had you on edge.  With nothing but the sounds of occasional page-turning from Zemo’s book and Sam tapping his foot lightly to the beat of music he listened to on his phone with earbuds, sweet sleep claimed you in no time.

   You were pulled from your dreamless slumber by voices, but your body wasn’t ready to respond just yet.  The first thing you noticed was that you were leaning against something on your right side, your face resting on a soft material that held the scent of leather and cologne. Bucky’s scent.  It must’ve been his jacket balled up to serve as a pillow.  In fact, it was his voice rumbling closest to you.

   “Stop looking at her like that.”

   “Apologies, James, but I don’t know what you mean.”  Zemo’s accented voice was quieter, but there was a sprinkle of amusement in his tone.

   “You’re doing it right now.”

   “Bucky, come on,” Sam interjected.  “We managed to make it a few hours without killing the guy.  Don’t let him get to you now.”

   Zemo’s tone took on a new intensity, as if he was gripped by fascination.  “You seem very protective of __________.  The way you move around her is intriguing, as if prepared to defend her at a moment’s notice.”

   “Don’t engage,” Sam warned in a low voice.

   By now, you were almost fully awake.  Despite the potentially awkward situation that Zemo was creating with the analysis of your friend, you figured it would be best to intervene.  You shifted, blinking your eyes open.

   “What’s going on?” you muttered, voice still a little rough from sleep.  “It better be good because I haven’t slept that well in a while.”  You lifted your head from Bucky’s jacket, eyes darting up to see him staring out the window again.  “Sorry,” you muttered, brushing a bit of drool from his jacket before handing it back to him.  He stole a glance in your direction again, not seeming to mind.

   “No big deal.  You needed the sleep.”

   Bucky didn’t say another word, so you turned to Sam for answers.  He shrugged with the shake of his head.  “Zemo’s being... well, Zemo.”

   You nodded in understanding, as if that simple phrase was all the explanation you needed.  Zemo caught your gaze, the corners of his lips turning up a smile.

   “As I mentioned before, we will have to go undercover to meet with Selby in Madripoor.  I was merely thinking of disguises for you and Sam.”

   He seemed like was telling the truth, but you didn’t doubt that he relished the added bonus of getting under Bucky’s skin in the process.  While Bucky had been protective of you and those who chose to put themselves on the line to prove his innocence when it came to the UN bombing, you hadn’t expected him to be quite that defensive in this situation.  As flattering as it was in some ways, it made you worry.  Zemo knew what buttons to push.  Would he eventually push a button to make things go his way?  To forward some plan of his?

   You got up to stretch and use the refresher.  You took your time since there were still several hours left in the flight.  Zemo had informed the group that upon landing, there would be  limited window to get into costume and go over your characters before heading to Selby’s club.

   - - - - - - -  

   “Only an American would assume that a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp,” Zemo complained.  You stole a glance at your friend who gave his outfit another displeased look.  “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing.  The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.”  He handed his phone over so Sam could get a look at his character’s picture.

   “He even has a bad nickname.  He does look like me, though.”

   “And who am I supposed to be?” you asked, pulling the jacket over your form tighter.  You wore a dark blue dress that went to your knees.  The material was soft and had a subtle glimmer in the light, and the outfit was complete with a pair of black heels that clacked on the pavement with each step, a shiny silver bracelet, and the black jacket that you were glad to have in the chilly air.  The group was walking to the halfway point of the bridge to be picked up.

   “You will be my date,” Zemo replied casually.

   You gave him an incredulous look.  “Really?  I’m just the date?”

   He released a sigh before launching into explanation.  “You don’t exactly resemble any crime bosses.  Besides, it’s not uncommon for dates to come and go in this town.  No one will be asking who you are.  No one will expect what’s coming to them if we need to fight.  You may have the greatest advantage out of all of us.”

   As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point.

   “Just remember to remain at my side at all times,” Zemo continued.  “Make it look convincing that we are together.”

   You refused to meet his amused look.  “Yeah, yeah.  Whatever.”

   A black car idled just ahead, and Zemo once more reiterated how important it was to stay in character. He told the group about High Town and Low Town, though you were a little distracted by the city lights reflecting off the water.

   You squeezed into the backseat between Bucky and Sam.  The ride was tense with only the sound of your breaths in the small space.  Bucky stared straight ahead through the windshield even as motorcycles surrounded the car and escorted it the rest of the way.  The car dropped you all off near the club, and Zemo held out his hand to help you out of the vehicle.  He put an arm around your waist at a respectful level, but Bucky took one look and halted.

   “Okay, this isn’t going to work,” Bucky snapped.  Everyone’s eyes were on him.

   Sincerity was written all over Zemo’s features as he responded.  “I assure you, it will.” Suddenly, his eyes flickered with realization, though you glanced between the two men in confusion.  “I know you don’t trust me, James, and I understand your discomfort.  However, you are playing the part of the Winter Soldier.  It is best if she remains inconspicuous as my date.”

   “Wait, that’s what this is about?” Sam asked in disbelief.  “Who ________ pretends to date?”  Your eyes fell to the pavement.  The situation was already unpleasant.  The last thing you wanted was to bring confusing feelings into the mix while in the middle of an important mission.

   Bucky began to protest.  “No, I-”

   “Relax,” Sam said, holding up his hands to show he meant no offense.  “________, you can stay by me.  Smiling Tiger can have a date, right?”  He looked to Zemo for confirmation.

   “Excellent idea.”  He nodded in approval.  “Just remember to stay in character.  All of you.”  

(Link to Part 2)

[rivkahwastaken]

The Peter Pan Oneshot

This has been sitting on my pc for a while so I thought I’d post some of it since some of the writing is decent. Enjoy.

➳

What if I told you that belief was one of the most powerful forces in existence? Growing up, different versions of belief are passed down to us. Religion, willpower, philosophy, silly childhood legends like the Tooth Fairy. No matter how different, they all came from the same place. As we grow and learn, we gradually accept what we see in front us as the honest truth, and lose our capacity for wonder. So did I. For a long time, I’ve known that all these myths are based off of some form of truth. Humans take what is real and given and let their thoughts and emotions run wild. What I never knew, was that more often than not, the truth hides in plain sight, disguised as a silly story. What I never knew, was that fate was real, and mine was interwoven with these tales. What I never knew, was that the very stories I thought I grew out of, were the truth, and that I’d come face to face with it.  

➳

               The town of Storybrooke looked exactly as the Shadow had expected it to. Despite the fact that it had been touched by powerful magic, it was still like any other place in this realm. After all, this was the realm without magic, and humans from this place were as boring as ever. That’s why he found himself still taking young boys back to the island, where order didn’t matter, and only what you wanted and believed in did.

           He’d had many opportunities to explore the place and observe how these unordinary people would deal with this unmagical place. He figured it out too quickly for it to be any fun. Of course, none of them believed in any form of magic, or even anything out there that could defy cold, hard logic. That was what the curse did to them. They lived in a constant cycle of waking up, working, falling asleep, repeat. The blessing of knowing such things like fairies, goblins, magic and the like exist had been stolen from them, and in being so, their happy endings had been stolen too. Perhaps he felt a small bit of sympathy for them. Because they no longer could believe in what was beyond their surroundings.

           But the Shadow was not here for Storybrooke. Even with their crazy little curse lifted, they were still a town in this realm of all, and he was not interested in it. What did interest him was the sudden arrival of something. Something strong, something pure, something important. It was almost familiar. Where had they been all this time? He couldn’t say. He had sensed it long before now. It was the main reason why the Shadow willingly went through the trouble of coming to Earth, to find it.

Yeah, the guy he worked for sent him to pick up different children for his own agenda and he complied, but there was always this feeling that drove him to do it, something beyond this other person’s self-interest. The urge to pursue this something else just wouldn’t go away no matter what. So, he went with it, discovering different children with the capabilities to believe over the centuries. Aimlessly searching. Hoping. Every time, they all turned out to be just another child. This time was different. This time, he was sure of it. It was like finding the missing corner of a treasure map, and he wanted it.  

           Coming upon the secluded little settlement, he could sense that what’d drawn him out here was not in the town itself, but a little to the south, nearing the small town very, very slowly. Luckily, the Shadow was not slow, so he took off in that direction. He had to congratulate Storybrooke. It was useful for once. If not for the location’s prominent magical properties, he’d have never found the missing piece without Storybrooke as a vantage point.

           Sweet satisfaction flowed through him as buildings dwindled away into trees, eventually revealing a small highway road cutting through the woods. He felt himself getting close. At the sight of a small speck moving at ground level, the Shadow slowed to a halt, letting himself sink lower in the air until he could get a better look at it. It was right there. He felt it.

           It was small from where he was, but a figure was walking along the side of the road towards the town. The Shadow sank down further, stopping just above the tree branches, and crept up towards the road to get a better view. A hooded flannel covered their face and wrapped around a slim build. A backpack hung on their shoulders. Boots padded silently on the asphalt. As the speck strode onward towards Storybrooke, a small bright lock of hair swayed into view from underneath the hood, just for a split second. Whoever they were, they didn’t seem like much, but there was no doubt that this stranger was who the Shadow had been spending a frustrating amount of time for. He inched closer from behind on the other side of the road, brimming with excitement. A little too close, and a little too fast.    

           Abruptly stopping, their head tilted upward, then whipped around in the Shadow’s direction. Good thing he was fast enough. He peered at her from up above, concealing himself in the pine trees. After doing a thorough 360, they began walking again, faster than they had before. The Shadow drifted along with them in the trees. A couple minutes must have passed before the stranger’s gaze began to move around. Eyes mingling with the road, the sky, the trees. A twig snapped on the ground. Flinching in response, the mysterious traveler pulled a small flashlight out and clicked it on, holding it up tightly in their fist.

           A rabbit below the Shadow stared back at the beam of light before hopping away into the brush. It was wise for the Shadow to stay still while in in the line of the target’s vision. Their eyes moved upward into the trees and narrowed, their flashlight shining directly in his face. This was the time to be still and blend in. His target wasn’t reacting rashly yet, but they shakily turned off their flashlight, keeping it in their hands as they broke into a light jog along the road.

If they weren’t going to look back, the Shadow was going to take the liberty of moving to the other side of the road again, the opposing side to the mysterious person. He wouldn’t come out though. He’d stay in the trees, lowering to nearly ground level. But he wouldn’t walk. No, he was much better at flying.

           As their jog sped up into almost a run, the Shadow’s speed matched theirs. It matched too well. Maybe it was how his white eyes stood out in the darkness. Maybe he was going too fast. Maybe the trees weren’t concealing him well enough. Maybe it was all of them. No matter what it was, the hooded head turned in his direction and looked him dead in the eyes. Trying to hide was futile now.

           The figure halted again for a second. After breathing a quick, “What the hell,” they took off into the woods across the road from him. But it wouldn’t matter how fast they sprinted through the wilderness or how many times their panicked, silvery voice called out for help. Storybrooke wasn’t for another couple of miles, and soon they would have nowhere to run.

           It wasn’t long before soon became now. Flying at full speed, the Shadow saw his target halt at the edge of the sea, with only sharp boulders below to greet them if they fell. Lucky for them, the Shadow would never let that happen.

           Glancing back at him, they started running along the rocky cliffs in a desperate attempt to put on as much distance as possible. Before they could get three steps in, the Shadow lifted them off the ground, silent against their desperate scream filling the air as they were whisked away into the night.

           It was quick, like it always was. First, they flew further and further out into the sky, wind picking up to hurricane speeds until there was no more wind to blow. Eventually, they’d gone so far out, they got so close to the stars, you would begin to see them pass by like dots of dust in the air. Then they were enveloped in a misty darkness, swirling around them like a cyclone, eventually beginning to thin and shape out into a dark, flat line. As the dark mist faded away, stars appeared into view again and reflected back on themselves perfectly from the lower side of the fine line of darkness. As they moved along, a mass of land rose up above where the sky met the sea, growing rapidly in size as they neared at a fast pace. Only a few more seconds to get past the water and to the beach, lower to the surface.

           The Shadow glanced down at his guest of honor, wide eyes looking back up, filled with bewildered panic. He released his grip on soft hands and disappeared into the jungle.

➳

           Muffled voices tugged on my conscious, finally making me crack one eye open. Something was moving around on the ground next to me, but I couldn’t quite make out what through the haze in my vision and my dizzy conscience. While seconds ticked by, my focus moved in and out, drowning out most of the conversation happening above me with the exception of a few words every couple seconds.  

           “…Slow down…” A throaty voice with a nervous edge to it.  

           “…We made it…” A higher, sweeter voice, maybe belonging to a woman.

           “Are you sure…my mom…”

           “…Any clock towers…from Storybrooke…”

           “…Can get here again…”

           “We’re not in the Enchanted Forest…”

Then came the pain. A small groan escaped from my lips in response. Aching shot from my legs up to my head in waves that varied in severity. My whole body hurt like I’d just taken a beating or fallen off a cliff.

           “Hey! Hey are you alright-”

           “…Away from…”

           “…Need our help!”

           “…Greg…Just let him…Might be able to help…” Something grabbed my shoulder and shook violently. Then there was a high-pitched voice that felt much closer in proximity than it was. It was a child’s voice.

           “Hey! Are you okay?” Forcing my body to roll over and sit up, propping myself up by the elbows, I finally got a good look at what was going on. Brown eyes looked right back at me, contrasting to very light toned skin. A dark jacket and a red scarf hugged his body. Dark, short, wet hair fell over his head. Why was his hair wet? He spoke again, “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

           I took my time sitting up, letting out a pained sigh.

           “What do you…” My question started out barely even a whisper, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “What’d you mean?” I asked the young boy groggily. Feeling some kind of tickling sensation down on my forearms, I looked down at them and saw sand caked all along them. “Oh, god what happened to me?” I began to start wiping the sand off my arms.

           “That’s what I was wondering.” When I looked back at him, the boy’s face had turned into a look of concern.

           “Greg.” The woman’s voice from before cut into our conversation. She was a dark-skinned lady with long, damp hair falling over her back like a black curtain and a fancy beige coat over jeans and designer boots. Around her neck was a rose-colored, skinny scarf. Holding out what looked like a walkie-talkie, her chocolate eyes were darkened with concern. “I’m not getting a status light on this.”

           The man, assumingly Greg, walked over and took the radio from her.

           “There are actual batteries in this thing, right?” When he popped the battery compartment open, grains of dirt sprinkled out and spilled out onto the beach. Silence and regret filled the moment that followed.

           “What the hell is this? A toy?” The lady snatched the radio away and glared at it, then at Greg, then at nothing.

           “It’s a good thing the home office can help us, right?” The boy said with a peculiar form of sarcasm in his tone. Greg’s face hardened. He quickly made his way over to me, narrowing his eyes down at me and crossing his arms once he stopped a couple feet away.

           He was a tall man with fair skin and a dirty blonde buzz cut on his head, the hairline clearly receding earlier than he hoped. He had tired blue eyes under furrowed eyebrows. He was wearing a navy, button-up dress shirt and a pair of jeans with a black belt around his waist, accompanied by dull-looking sneakers on his feet.  

           “Can you stand?” I pushed myself onto my feet, wiping any stray grains of sand off my hands. The pain in my body had receded to my back and my head, pulsating in gentle throbs against my skull. Rubbing my temple, I stood up straight, balancing on my two feet once more. He replied with a single nod. “Then let’s get moving.” I raised my eyebrows.

           “Where?”

           “Inland.” A panicked form of confusion washed over me.

           “Wait. Where even are we? Last time I was awake I…” Then it all came rushing back to me. Dark woods. Twigs snapping. Shuffling in the trees. Empty white eyes. But I’d just woken up, it all could’ve been a dream, right?

           If it was a dream, what was I doing here?

           Greg didn’t give me much time to say anything before he stepped up to me and started to say something with an interesting amount of conviction in his tone. “Look kid, we’re going through a lot of trouble to do our jobs and we don’t want to leave you here, but we will if we have to.”

           “This is not a place you want to be alone in,” The woman added on from behind him. The young boy reached out for me, queueing my instincts to make me take a step back. He noticed, his hand frozen. The concern on his face deepened.  

           “Well?” Greg’s stare didn’t let up for a second. I couldn’t even begin to think of a response. Last time I was awake I was on my way to some town in the middle of nowhere, nothing but money and survival on my mind. Then I get taken in the night by some strange dark figure in the shadows and thrown on a beach like a ragdoll, which I didn’t even know how to process. After that, I don’t know where I am or who these people are and they expected me to just shrug it off and go on their little adventure?

           “Fine,” Greg said after a long pause. He turned and pushed the kid towards a jungle behind us. “Walk.” The boy glared back at him.

           “Whatever.” Staying behind for only a second to give me one last chance, the woman followed Greg and the boy.

           Humidity hung in the surrounding air, thick and heavy, clinging to every inch of me. Where I was, the width of the beach didn’t stretch long at all. So, on the other side of the sand towered a line of trees that marked the border of a jungle. Massive trunks, with leaves I’d never seen before where I was from, overlapped one another in great proportions as the shadows of nighttime blackened them, making it appear more mysterious than it already was.

           I gently smacked my lips together several times, finally noticing the dryness in my mouth, stretching all the way down my throat. Growing up in the city, I rarely had to excessively worry about basic human needs such as food or shelter, but in that moment, water was the only thing on my mind. Where would I find some though? The salt water would obviously not be of help.

High pitched noises from bugs emanated from the direction of the forest, and if I hadn’t been in these circumstances, I’d have almost found it calming. It almost felt like the mass of trees were calling to me, daring me to venture in and see if I could make it out.

           Still, make no mistake, the forest was dangerous. I didn’t hike much in my life, but that didn’t mean I was stupid enough to think this place was safe. But soon, my justified confusion over the recent current of events turned putty in me as it became a much more primal emotion. Fear.

The dark waters of the ocean stared back at me, layered waves crashing onto the shore, eventually bubbling up into foam as it reached a couple feet away before pulling back for another lap. Stars stretched out over the sky, which eventually traveled down and met a straight line with the darkened waters of the ocean.

Something round bobbed out of the water, a little beyond the waves. I squinted to get a better look at it and stumbled backwards in panic when bright yellow eyes glared at me. Get away from it, my conscience yelled, white empty eyes flashing in my mind again. A howl echoed throughout the area. Then another joined in. And another. Wolves.

Suddenly, dealing with Greg compared to what threats would arise without company sounded much more appealing. I didn’t know much about surviving in the wilderness. Between creepy glowing eyes accompanied by the threat of wolves followed by dying of thirst and a couple people in the forest who made little sense but at least wanted to help me, my mind was made up.

I dashed into the undergrowth after the young boy, Greg, and the woman. Discomfort bloomed in my chest at the forest around me as it swallowed me up, but I kept moving forward until I heard rustling in the brush up ahead. When I glanced over in the direction of the shuffling, I saw damp hair and a beige coat push a mass of vines out of her way to move through the forestation. I hiked up behind her, clearing my throat. Once she glanced back at me, a look of understanding donned her features.

           “Good choice,” Her voice held a grim tone. Then she turned her back to me, beginning to move through the dense greenery again. She stopped abruptly, almost having ran into the young boy in front. She shoved him forward gently by the shoulder. “Keep going, kid.”

           “Do you know where we are?” I called from the back, pushing a glossy mass of leaves out of my way as I moved along. The lady answered me quickly.

           “Neverland.” My eyes widened into a bewildered frown, feeling a mix of confusion and offense swirl in me.

           “Uh…is that some kinda code name for something?” The lady sent a look at me.

           “No.”

           “Uh-huh…” I couldn’t let go of my skeptical tone. What’re you supposed to say to something like that? This was obviously a serious situation. A serious answer would’ve been nice.  “Well…I don’t suppose you know a place to get some water?” She halted in response and pulled her backpack over to her side to open it and pulled out a translucent, cylindrical water bottle, proceeding to hand it over to me.

           “Here you go.” In the moment I was too thankful for water to worry about her strange answers to my questions. I grabbed the water bottle, unscrewed the lid and downed large gulps of liquid, feeling it run through my body, replenishing me bit by bit. Thank goodness.

           When I was done drinking, only about a quarter of the bottle remained. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I screwed the lid close again, holding it out for her. She snatched it back, buried it in her backpack, and started moving again.

           “I don’t know how long I was on that beach. Hopefully we can find a place with more water along the way.”

           “It’s okay, kid. We can get more. There’re rivers here.” That remark had earned another confused frown from me, though she couldn’t see it with her back to me as we hiked. How screwed were we if we had to resort to rivers for water?

We trekked through the forest for a little while before Greg had us stop in a small clearing. Greg pushed the boy into a sitting position by the crook of his neck over an abandoned fire pit. Only then did I notice that his hands were bound by white rope. They weren’t bound on the beach. I remembered that much. We were lost in the woods and they were tying this kid’s wrists together like he was dangerous to them. It was illogical. Then something struck me. If this was their job like Greg had preached about earlier, I wanted to know more about it.  

           “Why is he tied up like some kind of prisoner?” Greg answered me with a stern look.

           “Keep asking questions and we will leave you behind this time.” My stare deepened into a callous glare at him.

           “Why? Do you have something to hide?” I didn’t hide the hint of aggression in my voice. I narrowed my eyes. “Got something to say?” He glared back. After a pause, he replied.

           “Yes. You and Tamara are gonna gather any dry leaves around here you can find. Do it if you want to survive this place.” If he had left out that last part, I might have walked right out of there, or worse, but I wanted to survive, so I complied hoping he knew what he was doing.

Regardless of my cooperation, I didn’t have a one-track mind. I was suspicious of them now and I would not let go of it until I was sure they weren’t dangerous. He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket.

“We’ve got a fire to build,” then he looked at Tamara, “I’ll watch him. Go.”

           It wasn’t long before Greg was kneeling over a small firepit that obviously hadn’t been used in ages. Before any of the firewood that Tamara and I brought back, only a thin pile of burnt, blackened remains had been resting in the small circle of stones that marked the edge of the pit. He struck up a match and tossed it into the leaves.

           I’d gone about my task as quietly as I could, trying to sneak glances back at Greg or Tamara when they weren’t looking. Once I brought enough leaves back, I’d chosen to sit down close to the fire, next to the young boy. I hid it, but the longer I stayed, the more defensive I felt. I found my eyes on Tamara or Greg, trying to observe their every move, but the boy started speaking to me, so I had to multitask.

           “I’m Henry, by the way.” His face curved up into a kind smile, the precious kind of smile that a kid gave you and made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. He seemed like many kids, the kind that didn’t like to do their homework or eat their vegetables and still got injured doing something stupid in the house that mom yelled at them not to do, but had a smile that could lift your spirits effortlessly. It was hard to hate kids like that, which was most kids. I hoped his smile was genuine.  

           “Nice to meet you, Henry.”

           “What’s your name?”

           “Evie.” I whispered. He frowned.

           “Why are we whispering?”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I said loudly. I bent my neck slightly, my head tilting in the direction of Tamara adjacent to us, then shook my head. Hopefully he’d get the message. I wasn’t about to give Greg and Tamara my name while I didn’t trust them. Then I let my eyes float back over to Greg and Tamara again as Greg searched for a good stoking stick and Tamara dried her hair. Guard, up.

Then an idea pulled me out of my mission, making me turn my head back to Henry. I hoped he might tell me a different answer from Tamara, because if anything, this kid didn’t seem to be on their side. Maybe he’d give me a truthful answer about where I’d ended up.  

           “Henry?”

           “Yeah?”

           “Where are we?”

           “Neverland.”

           I rubbed my hand over my forehead. I should’ve known better than to ask the little kid, “I was hoping for a serious answer.”

           “That was a serious answer.” I had nothing to say to that, so I stared out into space, trying to forget any of this was happening and maybe just relax. But he started speaking again, pulling me out of limbo.

“There aren’t very many ways to get here,” The expression on his face was something in between concern and curiosity, “You’re definitely from the same place I am. How did you get here?” I narrowed my eyes and stared into the firepit, contemplating whether I wanted to relive the horror from before.  

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The weak flames of the campfire began to downgrade into embers.

“Are you from Storybrooke?”

“No. I was on my way there though, and then I ended up here instead.”

“What do you mean my tha…” I interrupted him. Shaking my head at him, I motioned for Henry to pay attention. Any moment could be a moment for him to escape.

Greg leaned down and started blowing on the leaves, feeding the flames. In response to the oxygen supply, they began to jump up higher, finally surpassing the height of the firewood.

“Hopefully we can signal the Home Office that we’re here. We can’t finish this if we can’t find them.” Tamara’s expression turned grim at Greg’s words.

“What if that’s not enough?” She began, “What if that communicator sham wasn’t an accident?” Greg frowned at her, then spoke.

“Hey, don’t listen to the kid. He’s trying to get into your head.”

Rustling leaves and footsteps cut off the commotion. A cloaked boy stepped out from behind the brush. And another one. And another one. It was a swarm of them, all carrying various stone age weapons. I was up on my feet immediately, helping Henry get up.

“Who are you?”

“We’re the Home Office,” The tallest one answered Greg in a mocking tone with a dangerous looking club resting on his shoulder. Blonde locks fell over his face in wild side bangs, blue eyes flashing with danger. A red scar ran over his face, stretching from his mid cheek to the bridge of his nose. If I’d asked, I was sure there’d be quite a story behind that mark. His face spread into a threatening smile. “Welcome to Neverland.”

“The Home Office is a bunch of teenagers?”

“They’re not teenagers. They’re the Lost Boys.”

“Look at that,” the scarred boy’s reply almost sounded like a congratulations to Henry.

Henry frowned. “Why do the Lost Boys want to destroy magic?”

“Who said we wanna destroy magic?”

“That was our mission,” Greg cut in.

“So you were told.” The tall guy’s gaze floated around for a second before it landed directly on Henry. “Now, the boy. Hand him over.” Tamara crossed her arms and came up next to Greg.

“Not until you tell us the plan. For magic, for getting home.” Something felt familiar about the direction this conversation was going. Watch enough action movies and “bad guys” turning on each other becomes predictable. But even more so, Henry seemed to be the catalyst in all of it. Some kind of bargaining chip. A target. He was a prisoner and a child. I wasn’t a hero, but it was instinctual for me to feel protective over a kid who seemed to be nothing but collateral to the eyes of adults.

I poked Henry to get his attention. His eyes looked up at mine and I took a step back from the other bodies in the clearing.

“You’re not getting home.” The blond boy answered Greg without a hint of mischief on his face. An ominous silence passed through the air. He was being honest, like a magician revealing all his tricks. As though he tricked them.

“Then you’re not getting the boy.” Taking another step back, I sent an alarmed look at Henry. When he glanced back at me, he seemed to get the message. It was time to run.

The blond boy let out an arrogant chuckle in response. “Of course we are.” Something in between a gasp and a roar sounded from up above, and white eyes came at Greg, reaching its limb inside him and pulling out something dark and translucent. This was it. I tore my gaze away from Greg, trying to forget what I’d just witnessed and let the animal inside me break loose. The animal that would do anything and everything to survive, just like always.

I took off into the trees, trying to get us the fastest head start possible from this massacre. I heard something slump on the ground back towards the campfire as we went running into the woods. Then I heard footsteps close behind mine. A quick glance behind me told me it was Henry, following me.

“Get the boy.”

Loud, collective footsteps followed Henry and I as we breezed past trees and underbrush. Over the whooping and howling from what I assumed were the feral boys we’d just ran into, a high-pitched scream echoed behind us, and I knew instantly it had to be Tamara.

“Was that…?”

“Yep! Keep running!” I answered Henry, pulling him along by the ropes on his hands. I stopped and pushed him in front of me. They wanted him, not me. Better if I’m in back. I could handle it. I started running again, this time right behind Henry. A snapping sound echoed through the air, and then an arrow whistled past my head, right through my hair, making it woosh over my back.

My eyes followed the line of fire back to a cloaked figure, a mask covering the bottom half of his face, a bow in his hand aimed right at me. He reached over his shoulder for another arrow, and I pushed Henry forward again. Thankfully, the thickening forest must have disturbed the archer’s view of us because there weren’t more arrows.

“Go!” We got a little further into the forest before Henry tripped over a bulge in the ground. I was lucky not to have run into him. When I held my hand out for Henry, before he could take it, another hand reached out and grabbed it, pulling him up and over behind a dirt mound to the left. I immediately followed hastily, ready for a fight before I saw him kneeling next to Henry, listening.

Footsteps loudened and then softened. A shriek sounded nearby. “Where’d he go?”  

The boy who pulled Henry aside pulled his hood down. He looked to be about the same age as me, though he wasn’t much taller than I was. Maybe a couple inches height difference. Angelic facial features looked down at Henry, eyes matching the green of the forest with a silvery hue from the moonlight. Short, thick, tawny locks curled over his forehead into wild bangs, giving him a look of innocence.

“Pan’s forces are in tune with every grain of sand on the island,” A smoky voice with an elegant British accent rolled off from his lips in a serious tone. “We must be careful.” He bent down, picked up a jagged-looking stone, and moved his hands down to Henry’s rope bindings.

“A-are you a lost boy?” Henry asked.

“I was,” he exhaled sharply as he sawed the ropes off of Henry’s wrists, letting the stone drop to the ground, “But I escaped. Now they’re after me too.”

“How? What happened?”

“No time for questions.” At first that response made me suspicious. But I suppose it made sense with armed boys scouring all over the island for us now with some crazy white-eyed demon on their side, which I still didn’t fully understand.

Then he looked my way, as if finally noticing me. Something sparked to life in his eyes and then died as quickly as it came. Could I tell if it was something malevolent or evil? No. I could not. It was only there for a second, but a second was long enough for me to see it. It was something, and it was ambiguous as far as I was concerned. That was reason enough to put my guard up.

And here out of reach from public authority, if someone kills, they kill. If someone dies, they die. There’s no one to punish anybody for committing something unethical out here. There was no right and wrong, and I would be an idiot to expect that from anybody I met here, even if they appeared friendly to me at first. Like with Henry, this guy might have been nice now, but he lived a life as complex as my own. He didn’t have to look evil to be evil.

“She’s stuck here too. We all need to get out of here.” Henry cut in, referring to me. The boy nodded hesitantly in my direction, then looked back at Henry.

“Alright. We must keep moving. Come on.” He stood up, pulled Henry onto his feet and pushed him through the trees, following behind closely. Getting out of here was the best thing I’d heard someone suggest since I got here, wherever we were, so I hurried along after them.

The running just wouldn’t end. Every time we slowed down a little, footsteps would grow louder or we’d hear voices nearby, clearly belonging to young boys. So here we were, Henry, mystery boy, and me bringing up the rear as we ran through the jungle from a bunch of teenagers. Eventually it got to a point where we hadn’t heard any voices for a long while and the only footsteps we were hearing were our own.

We slowed to a halt in a small clearing of boulders towering over us. Henry and I panted loudly, mystery boy letting out a small huff. He must have been out here for a while to have stamina like that. Or then again maybe Henry and I were just out of shape. I couldn’t tell what was under the boy’s cloak. He had simple brown, tattered pants tucked into tall boots, but under his violet-hued cloak, I couldn’t see the upper half of his body.  

“I think we lost them.” He whispered.

“Okay, can we rest for a minute?” Henry requested. Mystery boy nodded hesitantly. I rested my hands on my knees, letting my breaths slow down while Henry rested on a smaller rock.

“You’re new. Did the Shadow take you too?” My eyes went wide, as if he’d said a familiar name in a crowd of strangers. A Shadow? White eyes stared me down from my memories.

“No, I was kidnapped by some people who work for Pan.” The boy exhaled sharply in response to Henry, apology in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” There was a moment of silence before he spoke again, but I had questions of my own and I was itching to get them out. “If he sent for you, he wants you, and if he wants you, he will get y-“

“Excuse me?” His irises flickered over to me, darkened by the shade of the trees. “What’s this about a shadow?” He stared at me for a couple seconds instead of answering me immediately like he’d answered Henry.

Thunder boomed in the distance, white flashes concentrating in the sky a long way away over the water.

Then his eyes moved to look behind me, alarm growing in his eyes. My heartbeat quickened again when Henry started to get up very slowly.

“What?” I whispered. But I felt I already knew what they were going to tell me. The boys backed away from me slowly, their hands up in the air like they’d been caught at a crime scene.

“Behind you!” Henry gasped.

When I spun around, eight very large eyes stared back down at me. Then it lunged at me with its giant fangs.

No time for questions. This was life or death. I was lucky to have dodged it, even if I had to throw myself to the ground at my left side to get out of the way. It knocked the wind out of me, and that hurts, but it was either that or something much worse.

Because I’d been able to dodge it, the giant spider ended up chomping down on the boulder behind me, severing most of it off in big chunks, which fell in between me and the boys. The bug quickly crawled onto the rubble and roared at me, back turned to Henry and mystery dude. They were definitely panicking over on the other side, though I couldn’t see them. But their hysterical shouts made it through the spider’s angry noises even if I couldn’t decipher them into words. I could only make out one word from Henry.

Run.

And that’s exactly what I did.

[epitomees]

Here’s some info on the Spy x Family Persona AU: P4 and P5 Edition because this keeps circling around in my head: 

P4 Edition

- Naoto is an elite spy, person of a hundred masks, could come from a line of top quality spies and inherited her families abilities. The thing is, considering this takes place in a time where secret services was a more male oriented career, she has disguised herself as a man for many years. However, because of her rather androgynous/slightly feminine figure, she could easily make disguises pertaining to any gender. 

- Next mission comes along to settle down with a family and kid, enroll them in the country’s top notch school, and eliminate her target. The catch now is they want Naoto to disguise herself as a single woman, so it’ll be easier to find a suitor with a non-threatening past. She finds it rather surprising since this is a rather long-term mission, so Naoto easily could walk around as herself to blend in. Something something ‘lying about herself to her job, while being truthful towards her partner’ inserted here. 

- When Yu comes along, they haven’t adopted Nanako (our telepathic kid) at this point. Naoto’s able to string him with a story of fleeing the neighboring country to start her life over. Yu and Naoto can come to agreement of needing both their services (without necessarily telling the other their true identity), and so they decided on adopting a child under this fake family name. If someone questions them why they decided on adopting, Naoto comes up with a story of losing her child during pregnancy. 

- Codename is something like “The Prince” or “Mr. Killjoy.” 

P5 Edition

- Makoto is our assassin. She was trained by her dad, who eventually passed away when someone got the better of him (still ironing out those details). Her older sister, Sae, is very much alive, but doesn’t work in the assassin business, however she has encouraged Makoto at times to live a more normal life. They call each other frequently to check up how they’re doing, but Makoto hasn’t told Sae the whole truth of her life. 

- She takes up a job as a secretary at the local town hall. Not many others like having her around, but she is diligent and gets her work done on time. There’s several instances where she needs to make excuses to leave office for a bit, because of an assignment she was given. Of course, she can’t let anyone know she’s off to go kill someone. 

- Her codename would stay as “Queen”, or be something like “Iron-Clad Queen.” I haven’t figured out what weapons she uses, but she’s one to enjoy finishing off her targets using her bare hands. 

- Makoto meets Akira (our spy for this AU) at the town hall when he comes to ask about the local schools in the area. They bump into each several more times after this, and at one point does Makoto discover Akira has a daughter named Lavenza (our telepathic kid). Again, I haven’t figured out their situation on why they’d need to live with each other just yet. 

[shatouto]

another sequel to @obiwanobi's ex-sith anakin au (here and here), and at this rate… yea. yea we’re gonna have to archive this on ao3 (soon)

anyway here’s 2.8k words of tonal inconsistency

et si les étoiles sont cachées

Obi-Wan barely sleeps a wink through the night. His mind turns and whirls as he battles between second-guessing his decisions regarding the former Sith sleeping in his bed and planning on what to do going forward. Anakin knows how to cloak his own signature well enough, that much Obi-Wan can observe, but he will not stand a chance if Masters such as Yoda or Windu search his presence. And then there is the matter of the elusive Darth Sidious’ death, as well - Obi-Wan can only assume that it would be classified information on the Confederacy side, but even then, the Force only knows what kind of hell would break loose once his body is discovered. It doesn’t help that he could barely pull his hand out of Anakin’s without him frowning in his sleep and stirring. He simply has to stay put, with Anakin’s very likely feverish body pressed up against his side in a bed that is only snugly enough for two.

In meditating all of those scenarios, he forgets to account for the hell that breaks loose in his own quarters upon the return of his apprentice.

“Master, what were you thinking?” Ahsoka hisses, eyes darting from him to the closed door of his bedroom, from where the sound of Anakin’s pacing is obvious. Her hand is still clutching one of her lightsabers, alert.

“He was an injured man who crawled to my doorstep for aid, young one.” Obi-Wan sighs. “Surely you cannot expect me to simply turn my back to him, can you? That wouldn’t be the Jedi way.”

“Yes, but…” Ahsoka pinches her own forehead, shoulders dropping in a harsh exhale. “He’s a Sith lord, Master. We’ve all seen what he has done and can do!”

“He was a Sith, Ahsoka. Leading him back to the Light means one less darksider for the galaxy, and no more lives lost. I have always been trying to accomplish this.” Obi-Wan realizes, all of a sudden, that he is trying to convince himself rather than his apprentice. “He came in a moment of need, with nowhere else to go. He no longer wants to remain with the Dark.”

Ahsoka blinks. “And you just trust him? Just like that?”

Well, Obi-Wan wants to say, you didn’t see him on his knees in the hallway with blood covering half his body and bruises the other half; and you didn’t see him hang his head as you took his lightsaber and then his ruined arm off before setting him to bed. Then again, nobody would ever see that: the exact devastation and distress the once-Darth Vader was in last night, at his door. “That is the case, Ahsoka. I would like to trust him, for the time being.”

Ahsoka grumbles something about tried to kill me earlier, didn’t you see that? which of course inspires a twinge of guilt in Obi-Wan - because indeed, this borders on being a foolhardy venture, that his Padawan is dragged into solely by virtue of her sharing quarters with him. She shakes her head and speaks clearly again for him to hear. “...Fine, I get it. Where do you even plan to house him, Master?”

Obi-Wan pauses. He has had plenty of time in the night to consider this, and still he cannot find any better solution than the one he is about to suggest. “I suppose there is no place safer than here.”

“Here? You mean as in, your own quarters, in the Jedi Temple?” Ahsoka stresses on the last few words, incredulous.

Something crashes inside his room, followed by Anakin’s muffled curse. Obi-Wan looks his apprentice dead in the eye as he lets out a sigh, and says, “Yes.”

—

Anakin is strangely good at cooking.

Obi-Wan supposes he shouldn’t have presumed; after all, being a Sith apprentice should probably not interfere with the more mundane aspects of life. But not only is Anakin’s cooking distinctly above average (how did he learn enough skills to make a three-course meal out of the few basic ingredients in Obi-Wan’s pantry, and at what cost?), he also seems to undertake the task with zeal. It’s rather endearing to watch him shuffle around the kitchenette in warm beige pants that barely reach his ankles, and a left sleeve that doesn't need to be rolled up because it's already too short for his long arm.

It’s been less than a week since Anakin first comes to his door. He clearly doesn't like Ahsoka, but with one arm and no lightsaber and Obi-Wan firmly telling him to behave, he eventually, and clearly grudgingly, tolerates her presence, from time to time. The gleam in his eyes is still worrying, from time to time, but the most Anakin does nowadays when Ahsoka passes by is turn his back to her. He seems to be trying his best, which is why Obi-Wan feels immensely guilty for having to preface their meal with a rather somber question.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, as Anakin sets down before him a plate of steak that smells nearly the same as that one luxurious dish he once had while in disguise as a socialite at a prestigious fine dining party. It isn’t the materiality that is distracting, but the efforts that must have gone into it. “I would like to ask you a question.”

Anakin sits down opposite of him, balancing himself. Even with the Force, he’s unused to not having a weight elbow-down on his right hand. “What? Leftover is in the kitchen for your apprentice. If she wants it.” His voice still sharpens at your apprentice, defensive. “I didn’t mean to let her starve.”

Obi-Wan is torn between a smile and a grimace. “No, that isn’t my question, Anakin. I’ve been wondering if you knew of your allies’ plans.”

“What kind of plans?” Anakin’s eyes narrow, warily. “It depends. Dooku knew most. I just did battlefield strategy.”

“You don’t happen to know if there has been recent plans to assassinate the Supreme Chancellor, do you?” It has been on Obi-Wan’s mind ever since he was summoned to an urgent Council meeting days ago. Investigative teams reported that the Supreme Chancellor has gone missing; then midway through the meeting, another report came, and so they ended up discussing how to keep peace while the Senate would break the staggering news of the Supreme Chancellor’s death to the entire galaxy and organize an emergency election. The timing fit too well with Anakin’s arrival, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Oh, there’s never any.” Anakin shrugs, tension melting out of his shoulder. He begins to cut into his steak without a care.

Obi-Wan frowns. There has been plenty of attempted assassinations before, as well as kidnapping - he himself has been sent to protect the Chancellor on many occasions. He’s loath to contradict Anakin, though, so he asks, carefully: “And you are sure?”

“I’m sure,” Anakin says, swallowing a mouthful. “My mas—Darth Sidious, is Palpatine.”

It takes Obi-Wan a stunned moment, while Anakin just continues to eat.

Well, the Council had their suspicions, but it was never so direct. Some have speculated, very privately, that the Chancellor might be linked to a darksider in some way. Perhaps somebody who is in opposition to Count Dooku, another Master has raised. But for the Chancellor *himself* to be this elusive, mysterious Darth Sidious, seems downright unfathomable.

“You…” Obi-Wan pauses, rewording the sentence in his mind for the seventh time. “I would like you to be serious, Anakin. That was not a joke, was it?”

Anakin, unsmiling, turns his eyes up to him with a look of confusion as if saying What’s a joke? “Darth Sidious is Palpatine,” he repeats. “I’m not allowed—I was not allowed to call him that, though.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. The timing does line up far too well. “Anakin, that means you have... disposed of the Supreme Chancellor.”

Anakin scoffs, scrunches up his nose, and shrugs again. “If you put it that way,” he mutters, slouching down even lower as he pointedly eats his food.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then closes it again. He sighs at the ceiling, and picks up his fork and knife. Might as well enjoy a good meal before the migraine sets in.

—

To his own amazement, Obi-Wan is getting used to the way Anakin follows him around like a hatchling, whenever he is home.

During the first few days, it took Obi-Wan a considerable amount of patient explanation to convince Anakin not to sit on the floor at the foot of the door frame until he came back. His reasons ranged from “It’s rather undignified for you” (to which Anakin said, “I’ve done worse,” at which point Obi-Wan had to switch subjects immediately, putting a pin in it for future unpacking), to “You might catch a cold, sitting here for so long” (to which Anakin answered, “It’ll go away on its own,” which prompted Obi-Wan to check his temperature immediately, only to realize that Anakin had been cloaking his fever for at least a day, and - well, that was another pin on the board). In the end, it was only the allowance for him to use the kitchenette that kept the former Sith from waiting at the door like a hound, rather busying himself at the stove instead. It was a great decision through and through, considering how much Anakin improved the quality of their meals.

But otherwise, Anakin still makes no secret of his immediate attachment to him. Perhaps there should be no surprise in that, considering the sort of upbringing he must have suffered through; not that Obi-Wan knows much of it anyway, considering how quiet Anakin remains and how reluctant he himself is to ask personal questions. Nevertheless, from the way Anakin acted - finding his way into the Jedi Temple and declaring his trust to a sworn enemy rather than relying on his own Sith allies - it isn’t hard to infer that this man has had precious little reason to put his trust into anybody in his surroundings. It also aligns with the Sith ways, Obi-Wan speculates - and could only dare speculate, because truth be told he does not know all that much of the Sith outside of his research on ancient texts. Contemporary Sith are few. The Master might just make his own rules, and Darth Sidious - the Supreme Chancellor, Force have mercy - seemed like the type to play cruel games. So he has every reason to understand and empathize. And he truly does extend his most heartfelt compassion to this wayward Force-wielder.

That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with Anakin’s irritability whenever Obi-Wan comes back from a mission.

He’s clearly unhappy about Obi-Wan being away, especially if he discovers that the mission has been with Ahsoka. He only grows more upset and quick-tempered as time goes by; it begins with him upturning the decorative datapad shelves in the living room, escalating to a series of broken glasses and plates in the kitchenette; finally one day Obi-Wan comes back home to knives lodged in the wall, Anakin in the midst of pulling them out.

Anakin has the decency to look sheepish, even just slightly, as he silently puts away all the knives and hides himself in the kitchen completely. He cleans up, at least. In fact, he was almost always in the middle of cleaning up when Obi-Wan caught him in the act, which prompts the question: How many other times has he done this while left alone?

Obi-Wan only sighs. It does border on cruelty to keep somebody alone in these cramped quarters for weeks on end. He also knows that whatever measures he has set up to keep Anakin safe here - from the world, and from Anakin himself, - it would be a fatal oversight to underestimate the ability of a former Sith. He has no doubts that Anakin, even while one-handed and saber-less, could escape if he truly wanted to. The fact that Anakin willingly keeps himself stowed away in a Jedi’s quarters while desperately and entertaining himself through destructive means only to then be embarrassed about it… is a testament to some budding virtue, Obi-Wan supposes. And it only intensifies his guilt: it’s as if he’s taking advantage of Anakin’s trust to confine him to solitude, while he himself pushes back and back the kind of work a true mentor would need to engage in to help Anakin. The fact that he is fighting a war, or whatever is left of it, is no excuse.

It is with resolution that he stands up and heads into the kitchen. Their eyes meet as soon as he steps in; clearly enough, Anakin has been watching him. Anakin’s fingers grip the counter, knuckles blanched. Obi-Wan holds up his hands, moving as slowly and unpredictably as possible, and cuts to the chase.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go outside, Anakin.”

Anakin’s brows shoot up, but he still doesn’t unclench his jaws.

“I believe it’s rather unfair to keep you locked inside,” Obi-Wan explains. “After all, cooking can only do so much to spend all of one’s pent up energy.” He gives a small, gentle smile, inwardly anxious because of the way Anakin still looks at him with his guards up, shoulders squared, halfway between fight and flight. “I am not suggesting anything much, Anakin. Only a walk in the park, if it suits you. The decision is up to you.”

A moment or two passes in thick, awkward silence. Then Anakin, hesitantly: “Will you be there?”

It’s the first pleasant surprise Obi-Wan has had in what felt like an age. His smile grows, unbidden. “Yes, I insist.”

—

Autumn winds reel through his hair before rushing off to rustle in the foliage. The nightly air is crisp on his cheeks, and Obi-Wan doesn’t even think to tighten his robes around him; he enjoys a nice, chilly evening. Silence is alleviated by the song of insects in the grass, as they make their way down the serpentine path, round fountains and beds of flowers. Their robes flutter, and their hands are firmly linked.

It’s nothing that cannot be explained by strict necessity, or so Obi-Wan reasons: He must be able to make sure Anakin never strays from his sight, for safety reasons; and he dislikes the thought of putting any kind of binding or chains or even just a simple tied thread on Anakin. As usual, when all else fails, undertaking by hand is the solution - hence Anakin’s hand in his own, their palms warmly interfacing, their calluses fitting together.

The contact is also enjoyable, but that’s beside the point.

“I like the sky at night,” Anakin says, sudden but quiet. Obi-Wan glances at him to find Anakin not looking back at him for once. Anakin’s hood has long since slipped off because of the way he tips his head back to turn his eyes to the stars. Most of them are shrouded by gathering clouds, but some of them still shine through the dark.

“I see,” Obi-Wan muses. “May I ask why?”

For once, Anakin doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I like to look at the stars. They’re just suns, but far away. Can’t burn you, only blink at you.” Anakin’s hand tightens just a little. A patch of wildflowers gently glows when the two of them pass by. “When you blink back at them, you’re not alone.”

“And what if the stars are hidden?” Obi-Wan gestures, voice light, even as his heart sinks. He knows a lonely child, or one who used to be a lonely child, when he sees one. “What do you do then?”

The sigh that follows is lost in a gust of wind. There’s only the slightest of tremors in Anakin’s fingertips. They fall back into silence, deeper silence this time, as even the insects seem to quiet. The air feels earthy and damp with a coming rain. The sky blackens as clouds roil and thicken, and suddenly it’s dark as pitch and the comfortable coolness splinters into shivers under his skin. When the first drop falls, Obi-Wan reaches over to draw up Anakin’s hood for him. Anakin turns to him, eyes downcast.

“Then I’m alone,” he answers, belated and small.

—

“Maybe you’re right, Master.” Ahsoka picks up her steaming mug of tea, sinking comfortably into her amply cushioned seat on the couch. A strip of morning sunlight draws lazily across the room. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. He’s getting... nicer, lately. You should keep walking him.”

Obi-Wan chuckles at the turn of phrase. Walking him… “I don’t think it’s my doing,” he says, pouring a little more tea for himself. Anakin shuffles from one corner of the kitchenette to another, apron strings fluttering behind him. Obi-Wan shakes his head and takes a sip of tea, smiling. “I don’t think it’s my doing at all.”

[4ragon]

oh can we please hear the magatama essay??

Oh boy oh boy, let’s go

Ahem

How to Lie to the Magatama

An essay by JJsADragon

Unlocking Psyche-Locks with the Magatama is a really fun mechanic throughout the Ace Attorney series. It’s introduced in Justice for All when Pearl charges the Magatama Maya gifts to Phoenix with spiritual energy. She describes it thusly: “This is the power of the Magatama. Only you can see these "Psyche-Locks", Mr. Nick… The more someone wants to hide their secret, the more locks you will see. If it's only one, I think you can easily unlock it.” 

Basically: If someone has a secret they don’t want to share, you have to present in-game evidence and break the locks. Things get a little more complicated with the introduction of Black Psyche-Locks, but the general gist of it stays the same. Someone has a secret they don’t want to tell you, and you can unlock that secret with evidence.

This, I believe, is fundamentally wrong.

Why do I think that? Well, I always really like picking apart these mechanics, both as in-game mechanics and how they would work in the real world. In particular, I think the most interesting way to see how something works is to figure out its shortcomings. What does and doesn’t set off Apollo’s bracelet? Why doesn’t Athena notice The Phantom’s whole deal? And, more to the point, when does the Magatama straight up get things wrong?

There are several moments I want to focus on. We have seen the Magatama fail several times throughout the series. Or, to clarify, we have seen at least one time when locks should have appeared where they did not, and several times where the chains did appear and the answers uncovered were either incomplete or just straight-up incorrect.

So, let’s find out how and why the Magatama fails us. First up: 

The False Negative: Farewell, My Turnabout

Fortunately, I think this one is the easiest one to understand. The Magatama has one very clear false negative in Justice for All: Farewell, My Turnabout. Phoenix asks Matt Engarde if he murdered Juan Corrida, and he replies, “Just so we're clear, dude, I didn't kill anyone, and that includes Juan Corrida, OK?” And he’s correct. He didn’t kill anyone. He did not actively commit any murders. And on that technicality, the Magatama does not go off. He did not kill anyone, and he knows it. He believes it. He feels no residual guilt over it. His hands are clean. Hell, he seems kind of gleeful about the fact that he was ‘technically right’ when the truth comes out later.

So, why didn’t a Psyche-Lock appear? As I said, it was a technicality. He wasn’t trying to hide it from Phoenix, he just truly felt no responsibility for what happened. He felt no guilt about it. The Psyche-Locks don’t appear until Matt’s secrets come up. 

This, of course, lines up neatly with our understanding of the Magatama. This instance very clearly falls within what we know about Psyche-Locks. If you’re not trying to hide it, if you truly believe what you’re saying, it’s not a secret the Magatama will alert you to. So, what about these other instances? Do these line up as neatly in the rules of the Psyche-Locks?

The Half Truth: The Cosmic Turnabout

This one is a little strange so I’m just going to touch on this.

In day one of your investigations for The Cosmic Turnabout, you run into a conflicted Bobby Fulbright. When pressed, two Psyche-Locks appear, and unlocking them leads you to three conversations: 1) The bomb threat before the launch, 2) Why Simon Blackquill was given permission to prosecute, and 3) The mysterious Phantom.

So why do I call this a false positive? After all, he is technically hiding all these things. And yet, a lot of how this Psyche-Unlocking goes down doesn’t really make as much sense when you consider that Bobby Fulbright is The Phantom. It really doesn’t make much sense how much information he’s feeding them about the situation, unlocked Psyche-Locks or not. Especially the way he goes about the whole thing. 

We know in hindsight that The Phantom doesn’t actually care about Simon Blackquill or solving the crime that he committed. Every display of emotion is an act. So why does he make a big show of feeling conflicted? Why does the bomb threat that he made lead him to divulging all of these worries about Simon going after the Phantom? Was him revealing this information part of his game? Since we know he was trying to cover his tracks, was he feeding us half truths for a reason? Did he want to feed us this information?

If that’s the case, that leads us to a new problem. Since the question asked was “Why Are You Being Cooperative”, why wouldn’t the fact that he was the Phantom ping the Magatama? He was being cooperative so that he could feed you information, not because he cared about any of the things he was ‘troubled’ by. So why does the Magatama only pick up on half the truth? After all, the Phantom wasn’t knowingly tricking the Magatama.

(Also if you haven’t read this comic I thought it was a super interesting theory. Not sure I ascribe to it 100% but it was a really interesting take.)

I think it’s important to note in this example that, no matter how you interpret The Phantom’s actions, all signs point to him wanting to divulge this information for one reason or another. There was an intent about it. He may not have known a thing about the Psyche-Locks, but he very clearly was baiting the protagonists with an intent. And technically, without knowing it, he was also baiting the Magatama. 

This means that, in the end, the information he actually revealed to the protagonists was not a closely guarded secret of the heart. Yes, you still needed to present evidence and draw it out of him, but I think The Phantom wanted the characters to draw it out of him. It’s not a secret that a bumbling detective was having trouble hiding, it was information that a spy wanted planted. There was intent here, no matter how you look at it. And that leads us to our third example.

The False Positive: The Stolen Turnabout

Unlike the previous two cases, this is the first time that someone has straight up lied to the Magatama. Trials and Tribulations: The Stolen Turnabout. I always get so mixed up by this case. It took me three playthroughs to finally get the hang of who was doing what where and when. And do you know why that was? It was because of one lie that Luke Atmey told us early in the investigation.

Phoenix: Detective Atmey... You were knocked unconscious by the thief, weren't you!?

Atmey: Ha ha ha! Surely you must be joking... You think that I, Luke Atmey, could be knocked unconscious so easily!?

Phoenix: This sword proves it!

Atmey: ...! Th-That's...

Phoenix: Before the theft, this sword was in the hand of the statue of Ami Fey. Furthermore... at that time, it was not bent.

Atmey: Aaah... Err...

Phoenix: ...There's only one explanation. You were struck on the head and knocked unconscious by this sword! Well, Detective!? What about it!?

Atmey: ...I'm impressed. You truly are an "Ace Attorney"...

Unlock Successful

Unlike every other instance, this is just a straight-up lie. This is not a technicality, like with Matt Engarde. This is not pieces of the truth, like The Phantom. This is just factually incorrect. Luke Atmey was not knocked unconscious by Mask☆Demasque. In fact, this not only is a lie, it’s a calculated lie. Without knowing about the Magatama or its capabilities, Luke Atmey used it to convince us that he was knocked unconscious by Mask☆Demasque at the scene of the crime to disguise the fact that he was Mask☆Demasque, which is even wilder when you realize later that even that was a lie! He was covering up a lie with another lie with another lie. It was not just a ploy to fool you into thinking he was attacked my Mask☆Demasque, it was also a part of him convincing you that he was Mask☆Demasque when he wasn’t.

So why the FUCK does the Magatama go off?!

There’s of course a meta answer. The writers weren’t thinking that hard about it. They just wanted to use the Psyche-Locks to make the story more interesting. But that’s boring. I want to go deeper.

Luke Atmey, like The Phantom later on, wanted information planted. But he couldn’t simply tell everyone he was attacked by Mask☆Demasque. After all, he knew admitting to it would put his credentials under scrutiny. So he needed someone to organically draw it out of him. Again, he wanted this information out there. Otherwise, him agreeing to Phoenix’s conclusions, hell, him setting up this scenario with the Shichishito wouldn’t make any sense. Plus, it was only behind one Psyche-Lock and led to him revealing a photo of the crime, one that he was very meticulous about taking to create an alibi.

So. What does this all mean? How are people confusing the Magatama? How are people lying? I think that the element that Pearl got wrong in her initial explanation is that the Magatama reacts to secrets that, deep down, a person wants to divulge. After all, with enough evidence, you can eventually draw all sorts of information out of a person. Some are certainly more closely guarded secrets than others, but in the end, I think the Magatama reacts to secrets that a character wants to share but is not willing to do so without that prompting. It doesn’t have to be real, it just has to be something the person is keeping secret with the intent of finding a way to plant the information.

This can even apply to Black Psyche-Locks. Unconscious secrets that are hidden even from the person hiding them? Those are deep hurts that I think drive a lot about these characters’ personalities and motivations, and I think things like that are the kinds of stuff that a character wants to confront but is unable to do so out of fear, so they push it from their minds.

Let’s look at a few more examples. In Bridge to the Turnabout, Miles demands info from Larry, and he’s able to completely circumvent the Psyche-Locks by divulging something completely irrelevant about his crush on Iris. When Miles realizes his mistake, he discovers a completely new set of Psyche-Locks. Or when Phoenix confronts “Iris” about the presence of another Iris at the crime, “Iris” (cough Dahlia cough) uses that to start planting these ideas about Iris as the original betrayer, as the one who had wronged Dahlia in the first place. I feel these are both things that the characters did want to share, despite not wanting to do it unprompted.

Anyway, uh, that’s most of what I got. Perhaps there’s a stronger answer out there for why the Magatama may react in places it shouldn’t. Maybe there’s some other hidden rule they haven’t mentioned. Or maybe it is just as simple as “The writers didn’t think that hard about it.” But hey, I think I like this interpretation better.

[jacarandabanyan]

📚for the fanfic plot ask thing!📚

Okay so- plot of one (of many) fanfic I haven't written (because to be honest, I don't have the skill to pull this off yet) but often daydream about:

I would love to write a This-Is-How-You-Loose-The-Time-War-inspired spy-vs-spy KisaIta fic. It would feature baby ANBU Itachi trying desperately to find a solution to the tensions brewing between his family and the village (massacre was still a few years off when he first joined ANBU, I believe). This eventually leads to him hunting down all reports/intelligence related to the night of the Kyuubi Attack and finding a few small scraps of information that hint at the existence of the Masked Man.

(He is a pre-teen, so he doesn't really *get* that finding a different scapegoat/"revealing the truth of what happened that night" probably isn't going to fix issues that are rooted in three generations of Village Policy and History, because he may be a genius at killing people but his education has not emphasized critical thinking)

He eventually tracks what little (extremely scant) evidence he has to Kiri, where he comes to believe the Masked Man is operating.

He gets himself sent on endless missions to the Land of Water in pursuit of his pet project, gaining himself a reputation in the process. There are no shortage of missions- the Land of Water is rapidly devolving into three different simultaneous civil wars, and resentment over the last Great Shinobi War lingers enough that Kiri and Konoha will likely never be friends in Itachi's lifetime.

(This is gonna get really long, so here's a read more)

At the same time, recently-made-ANBU Kisame has been mostly assigned to intelligence-related missions, as in canon. However, over the course of his first few months worth of missions, he comes to suspect that there's a leak in ANBU, and he sets about trying to find it and silence it. He slowly develops a reputation for ruthlessness even among ANBU, a cut above the normal Kiri ruthlessness, as he secretly works to get his fingers into every hidden nook, cranny, and conspiracy until he finds the disloyal one.

(And maybe he's projecting his issues/self-hatred related to killing other Kiri ninha just. a little bit. on this mysterious leaker. How dare this person sell out the Village? How dare they give out the information that gets other Kiri shinobi killed? It's easier to hate the faceless traitor than it is to hate himself. And at least he still *has* values. He killed the Few to protect the Whole.)

Over time, as the two develop their reputations, their respective villages start pitting them against each other in the field. Konoha has an unofficial policy of trying to off Seven Swordsmen hopefuls before they can get powerful enough to actually get a blade, and Kirigakure knows that the unstoppable Konoha operative is a Sharingan-user, and Obito-controlling-the-Mizukage is always down to take down his estranged family members.

Danzo is less eager to have Itachi take care of the Uchiha for good, not out of any particular maneuvering on Itachi's part, but because he also remembers the last Great Shinobi War, and how brutal Kirigakure was during it. He sees their ongoing civil strife and fears that one faction will eventually WIN and turn their attention on their neighbors. Itachi has made himself the best operative at getting into and out of Kirigakure- if he wants to interfere from the shadows and keep the civil strife going, he needs to keep Itachi in the field. (Don't worry, he finds other ways to be awful/keep the pressure on).

Itachi and Kisame are a good match-up. Itachi might be a natural genius with a fancy kekkei-genkai, but Kisame has way more experience than him. Also, unlike laser-focused Itachi, Kisame is actually keyed into the intelligence world, so he always has more information than Itachi.

They clash over and over again over several years, and slowly learn more and more about each other. They mature into seasoned ANBU operatives, have epiphanies about themselves and their villages. And slowly come to like each other.

Itachi has his sexual awakening when he sees Kisame rise up out of an ocean of blood, shirtless, effortlessly hoisting a struggling Jonin one-handed over his shoulder, big tooth-filled grin on his face.

They infiltrate each others' villages and insert themselves into each others' missions in disguise. Itachi genjutsus a Kiri team to think he's one of their teammates, whom Kisame secretly has orders to eliminate. He feels a surge of relief when the teammate he'd known since his Academy days dissolves into a murder of crows moments before his sword pierces their chest- his teammate is still dead, but at least this time they were killed by an enemy, not Kisame himself.

Kisame knows his mysterious counterpart is a Sharingan-user, so he infiltrates the Uchiha compound to tease out what the situation is with the clan in Konoha right now (and maybe see if he can figure out who his counterpart is).

While he's in the village, tracking kekkei-genkai users, he discovers Root and exposes it. This is both a huge win for Kiri Intelligence and put Danzo in a tricky situation, since he supposedly disbanded it.

Eventually Kisame figures out that some of the leaked information is making its way to Danzo, so he goes to kill Danzo and try and figure out who he's getting his information from. This is right around when Danzo's started making threatening noises towards the Uchiha again, since Root was just rediscovered (by foreign intelligence, no less!) and he needs to redirect attention off himself and onto the Uchiha. He's even considering the total elimination plan again- Itachi's work in the Land of Water is valuable, but not more valuable than consolidating control over the Village.

(Or perhaps he doesn't need Itachi for this- Shisui is also a talented ANBU operative, after all. Sasuke was originally supposed to be the spare Uchiha left alive in the village, so they wouldn't loose the precious Sharingan, but it's becoming increasingly clear that while he's good, he's not as good as Itachi. Why keep the subpar tool and throw away the masterwork?)

Itachi develops a humorous problem where he's leading three different fake lives, and is covering up with by genjutsu-wammying anyone who might notice anything suspicious in the timing of his long absences. He's infiltrated Mei's rebellion as a spy who needs to disappear a lot to go do spy stuff, while at the same time pretending to be an official in the Water Daimyo's court, while also posing as a regular Kiri Jounin.

His Regular Kiri Jounin act is so solid, they give him a genin team. One of the genin is related to the civilian official he's impersonating in the Daimyo's court, and she constantly comes to see him and tell him all about her sensei. On of the other genin on the team is related to a the Mizukage, and Mei orders him to kidnap that genin away from their sensei, which is also him, so that he can be used as leverage. The third genin turns out to be a secret kekkei-genkai user, and actually wants to be kidnapped away to the rebellion so that they won't have to live in fear of being discovered, and also because they hate the current government. This genin who wants to be kidnapped is constantly fighting with the genin he's actually supposed to kidnap, and whines that "Sensei, you're not supposed to play favorites! Why do they get to get kidnapped but I don't? They don't even want to get kidnapped!"

(Itachi the Regular Kiri Jounin, who is Unquestionably Loyal and Totally Not a Radical Who Would Join the Rebellion, ends up dating Kisame, whose identity as an ANBU is technically a secret. This relationship runs on willful ignorance.)

Kisame and Itachi would end up taking each others' places at some point to take down each others' mentors- Kisame walks right into Danzo's office looking like Itachi, and no one blinks when they sense the genjutsu because Itachi is always casting genjutsus. No one even realizes anything's wrong until Danzo's dead and "Itachi" is making his getaway.

Itachi would be approached by Fuguki at some point with an offer to sell information, and immediately realizes that this is Kisame's leak. He argues to Danzo's replacement that the value of Kiri's ANBU turning on each other is greater than the value of having someone willing to sell the occasional nugget of info. He has to work not to laugh behind his ANBU mask, because Konoha nin just don't get how down Kiri nin are to turn on each other at the drop of a hat. "Turning Kiri ANBU against each other" please, as if the Seven Swordsmen don't regularly train their own murderers. As if one of the fastest ways to gain cache isn't by offing your superiors. It's like Konoha Intelligence knows nothing.

He wins his case, and reveals what he knows to Kisame, who goes and kills Fuguki like he did in canon. Obito reveals himself, same as in canon, and Kisame immediately knows how he's going to pay Itachi back. He's still disillusioned with the Shinobi world like in canon, but he had his initial Pit of Despair moment years ago, when he figured out there was a leak in ANBU and that truly there were lies everywhere. He's learned how to compartmentalize since then.

He pretends to join Obito so that he can feed Itachi information. Together they take down Obito, revealing his crimes to both Kiri and Konoha.

It should be over then- Kisame found the leak, Itachi cleared his family's name- but it's been around a decade at this point. Both of them have played so many roles as spies that they don't know how to go back to who they were before.

Itachi's almost spent more of his life in the Land of Water than in the Land of Fire at this point, and he certainly knows more people there than in the Land of Fire. He's passed his twentieth birthday by now, and he's no longer a pre-teen with no concept of the world and his place in it outside of Konoha Propaganda/Brainwashing. He doesn't know how to relate to Sasuke's fierce, uncomplicated desire to grow up to be the best Shinobi, because how can he think that's a good thing at this point?

Meanwhile, Kisame still kind of hoped that killing the liars/traitors who had sent so many Kiri-nin to their deaths would make him feel better about all the comrade-killing, but it doesn't. He can't seem to reconcile his absolute loyalty to the Village and its ideals with his disgust at everything they do.

For a brief while, he and Itachi join Mei's rebellion for realsies (Itachi still as one of his undercover roles) and help her topple the Bloody Mist government and install a new one, but it's not enough. What she's proposing is still a Ninja Village. It's better than what there was before, but that's not really a ringing endorsement.

Itachi's the first one to decide to walk away. He lets Kisame "kill" him on a random mission in a way that doesn't lend itself to a body being returned or retrieved, then settles down and builds himself a life as a secret kekkei-genkai child who grew up hidden like Mei, but never learned to be a proper shinobi. He spends his days at a quiet house outside Kiri proper gardening and making jam by the side of a lake Kisame made during one of his fights with Itachi. There's a ghost town near the lake, emptied during the Civil War years. He develops a reputation as a ghost.

Kisame walks away not long after. He can't really leave, of course- unlike Itachi, he has no desire to settle down in a foreign country, and too many people know him here- but he does step away from active duty. He "kills" Itachi The Regular Kiri Jounin-Sensei and takes his genin team for himself. The kids know something's up because their Sensei still visits them sometimes, though he half-heartedly tries to convince them he's a ghost. They help spread the story about the ghost living by the lake anyway, just in case anyone starts investigating.

Kisame quietly moves out of his shitty Kiri apartment to join Itachi by the lake. Some of the seven swordsmen do come investigating then, but when they discover that Kisame's just moving in with his squeeze who he really sexily fake-murdered, they decide not to do anything about it. Besides, they like Itachi and don't want to have to write up a report about how dangerous it is to Kiri security that he lounges around a lake all day, drawing birds and cooking elaborate meals in an attempt to blend the comfort food of his youth with the produce and spices native to Kiri that are honestly more familiar to him at this point than the ones that grow in the Land of Fire.

Itachi sometimes goes and visits Sasuke and Shisui back in Konoha, but mostly he hangs out in his new home and lives out his soft, domestic, non-violent dreams with Kisame and his cute little genin. It's a sappy ending.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hi! Could I request the V3 boys reactions to their s/o becoming the blackened because they were trying to save them.

Yesssss more angst! These were fun to write!

TWs: Blood, Death, Suicide Mentions, and Major DRV3 Spoilers

..............

Ryoma

No..it couldn’t be true..could it?

Ryoma couldn’t believe you’d actually kill someone, though your reason came as a shock: It was to save his life.

Kirumi was plotting to murder him after the second motive came out. And she obviously panicked when you showed up instead of him, so she tried attacking you.

But you retaliated, leaving her body in the bathroom and altering the crime scene to make it look like she slipped while cleaning it.

You didn’t want to kill anyone, but you were terrified she might target him some other time if you didn’t stop her.

Yet Ryoma vehemently denied you did anything, arguing with Shuichi up until he pointed out incriminating evidence.

He was crushed, knowing he’s going to lose another loved one.

He can’t understand why a criminal like him was worth saving.

But the deed was done. And as your final wish before being executed, you plead for him to survive and see that life’s worth it.

While he’s never been good with promises, he’ll try to keep this last one...for your sake.

Shuichi

He learned the truth earlier than anyone else.

Someone knew he was too smart, always leading the trials and making the swift deductions.

So they believed eliminating him would guarantee them escape from the academy, as everyone would arrive to wrong conclusions without him.

However you put a stop to their plot, accidentally killing them with their own weapon they prepared.

Shuichi didn’t want it to be you--not you, of all people--so he’s far more reluctant to accuse you of murder. 

He’s pretty much mute throughout the trial, but you take notice fast and see him slipping back into that cowardly detective persona.

“Shuichi, don’t you dare go back into hiding. Don’t you dare look away from the truth again.”

“..but...”

He just absolutely refuses to. He can’t....not this time.

So instead, you reveal the truth about your crime. Every last detail--from when the motive came out to how you disposed of the evidence.

By the end of your explanation, he’s in tears--realizing you saved his life..in exchange for your own.

Every night since then, he cries as he hugs the Helping Yacchi plush you gave him the day before the body was discovered.

It hurt so much to condemn you, someone he truly loved.

Kokichi

You learned very quickly that Miu was plotting to kill Kokichi, after noticing her put a bottle of poison in his seat before returning to hers and logging in.

That made you livid. But more scared than anything else.

So you formulated a plan after learning everything (or almost everything) about the virtual world.

You overheard Miu and Kokichi planning to meet on the mansion rooftop, and you didn’t like that idea one bit.

Little did you know, he and Gonta were conspiring to murder her, too, but you beat them to the punch.

Obviously he was pissed someone foiled his plans....but imagine his shock when it turned out to be you.

The two were suspects for a long time as they explained the “Killing Game Busters” scheme.

But since Miu died by your hands--their names were cleared.

Kokichi was in frustrated tears, yelling at you for not telling him sooner.

But he ultimately breaks down when your punishment was announced.

He clings to you, crying and begging you not to leave him--he even pleads with Monokuma to let him die with you.

This time it’s not an act.

He feels genuine sorrow and heartache for a long time after the trial.

Gonta

It’d be impossible to think anyone would try to kill him.

But someone tried taking advantage of his gullibility. And you happened to be there at the exact same time, attacking the assailant while your entomologist boyfriend ran off in fear.

You cleaned as much evidence as you could before finding and consoling him, lying that you just talked to them.

He believes you and is relieved---until the body discovery announcement plays later on.

Even though you lied, he doesn’t blame you. Not even during the trial where you made up an alibi.

But when Gonta himself is questioned...he clams up, knowing exactly what happened and being too scared to say the truth.

He doesn’t want to condemn you! Gentlemen don’t-

You reassure him it’s okay. Shuichi has you in a corner and there’s no point in letting the trial drag on.

So he eventually admits what he saw, and he can only cry as he votes you as the Blackened.

You two share one last hug, and he says he’ll never ever call you a killer, thanking you for protecting him even if he failed to protect you.

Korekiyo

It doesn’t come as a surprise that someone would try murdering him. He could see the hatred in their eyes whenever he looked at them.

His menacing appearance seems to be more than enough of a reason to target him.

However, after finding their body and signs of a struggle surrounding the crime scene, he arrives to the conclusion that the culprit knew he was in danger and killed to protect him.

Ah...how beautiful that realization was.

Or so he thought.

When it’s revealed you carried out that deed, using his golden sword to swiftly kill the victim, his heart is completely shattered.

‘No..no, no, no, no, no!!’

He feels anger, sorrow, confusion, and..so many other unpleasant things at once as you confess to the crime.

Not even Sister calms him down. He becomes belligerent, trying to steer everyone away from the truth and claim he killed the victim in self-defense.

You have to step off your podium to console him, as he was screaming his head off and scaring everyone.

When the trial is over, he just holds you close, begging Monokuma not to take you--his one true love--away from him.

But alas, it’s all for nothing as you’re sentenced to your execution.

Though you remind Korekiyo of what he’s taught you about death, as you didn’t fear it, and you promise you’ll watch over him in the afterlife.

Kaito

He’s incredibly outraged when everyone suspects you as the culprit in spite of the evidence that piles up.

“Shuichi, you're not actually gonna believe their crap, right?! Stop screwing around--!”

“He’s not, Kaito. It's the truth."

Stunned, he looks at you. Since your podium was conveniently next to his, he didn’t have to look far to see the guilt in your eyes.

Learning your motivation, however, is what ultimately crushed him.

You killed...to protect him?

No..

That couldn’t be right! He was suppose to protect you! Didn’t he always tell you how killing was wrong and-?!

But the truth was you did try talking some sense into the victim...but they attacked you instead, and you retaliated in self-defense. So it was purely accidental.

Kaito is pissed when Monokuma jests that “murder is murder” no matter what and he actually tries fighting the Exisals.

You insist he doesn’t interfere, and plead for him to use that strength to help protect everyone else instead.

His spirit is broken for a while, but...he’ll recover and keep fighting on. For your sake.

K1B0

Something in you snapped when you overheard Kokichi taunt your robot boyfriend for the last time, actually hurting him physically as well as emotionally.

K1B0 went to you in tears, not understanding why he hated him so much.

After comforting him, you’ve finally had enough. You were sick of him being harassed nonstop.

So you sent him to see Miu while you met with Kokichi to “talk”. 

While the Ultimate Supreme Leader seemed suspicious, he let his guard down...sealing his fate as you strangled him with his own scarf.

Then you inflicted numerous wounds on his corpse to disguise the true cause of death.

But when the truth was revealed, K1B0 was in total shock at your motive.

He couldn’t believe you’d do something so barbaric.

Even if Kokichi bullied him relentlessly, there’s no reason you had to go as far as murder him!

However he understands anger can be a powerful emotion--one that throws any and all sense of logic out the window.

Still..it hurt to watch you get executed. He went into shutdown for the rest of the day/night.

And here he was, thinking you two had finally torn down the wall of “forbidden love” between human and robot for good.

Rantaro

You managed to kill Tsumugi before she had a chance to murder Rantaro and Kaede’s final part of her plan went into motion.

The shot put ball’s sudden appearance startled him into forgetting about the hidden room and running out of the library..

And up the stairs as the obnoxious music stops and one of the girls yelled for everyone to come into the bathroom--where Tsumugi’s body was.

At that point, the game should’ve ended since you actually killed the mastermind.

But of course, Team Danganronpa had backup plans and thus the game kept going.

You had rearranged the crime scene to make it look like a suicide, leading everyone to assume the time limit’s pressures are what killed the cosplayer.

But eventually your crime was unraveled and Rantaro was utterly devastated.

You’re the first Blackened in yet another killing game he was forced to participate in.

You only killed Tsumugi because you found it suspicious she suddenly ran off on her own near the time limit’s end.

In doing so you unknowingly saved Rantaro’s life in exchange for your own.

He was upset you did something so rash when he clearly told everyone not to, but...at the same time he’s grateful to be alive because of you.

He swears your death won’t be in vain. He’s gonna escape this game with everyone else.

[weavingthetapestry]

19th March 1286: “A Strong Wind Will Be Heard in Scotland”

(Image source: Wikimedia Commons)

On 19th March 1286, a body was discovered on a Fife beach, not far from the royal burgh of Kinghorn. The corpse was that of a 44-year-old man, and the cause of death was later diversely reported as either a broken neck or some other severe injury consistent with a fall from a horse at some point during the previous night. It is not known exactly when this body was found, nor do we know who discovered it. But we do know that the dead man was soon identified, with much dismay, as the King of Scots himself, Alexander III.

The late king had no surviving children, only a young widow who was not yet known to be pregnant, and an infant granddaughter in the kingdom of Norway. Despite this, Alexander III’s untimely death did not cause any immediate civil strife, although it did set in motion a chain of events which eventually led to the Scottish Wars of Independence. This conflict would forever alter the relationship between the kingdoms of Scotland and England, as well as the wider course of European history.

Although Alexander III was a moderately successful monarch, he had been unfortunate over the last ten years. His first wife, Margaret of England, had died in 1275 and Alexander initially showed no immediate interest in remarriage. At first the succession seemed secure: Margaret had left behind two sons and a daughter. However the death of the couple’s younger son David c.1281, may have prompted the king’s decision to arrange the marriages of his two surviving children over the next few years. In the summer of 1281, the twenty-year-old Princess Margaret set sail for Bergen, where she was to marry King Eirik II of Norway. Her brother Alexander, the eighteen-year-old heir to the throne, married the Count of Flanders’ daughter in November 1282. Neither marriage lasted long. The queen of Norway died in spring 1283, possibly during childbirth, while her younger brother succumbed to illness in January 1284. Within a few years, a series of unforeseen tragedies had destroyed Alexander III’s family and hopes, and the outlook for the kingdom seemed equally bleak...

All was not lost however. The king was in good health and believed he could count on the support of the realm’s leading men. Steps were swiftly taken to ensure their compliance with his plans for the succession. On 5th February 1284, a few weeks after Prince Alexander’s death, an impressive number of Scottish nobles* set their seals to an agreement at Scone. In the event of the king of Scotland’s death without any surviving legitimate children, they obliged themselves and their heirs to accept as monarch the heir at law. This was currently a baby named Margaret, the only surviving child of Alexander III’s daughter the queen of Norway.

(Drawing based on a seal belonging to Yolande of Dreux, Alexander III’s second queen. She later became Countess of Montfort and, by marriage, Duchess of Brittany. Source: Wikimedia Commons)

Although the bishops of Scotland were to censure anyone who broke this oath, the prospect of the crown being inherited by an infant girl on the other side of the North Sea was obviously not ideal. Her grandfather struck an optimistic note in a letter to his brother-in-law Edward I of England, writing that in spite of his recent “intolerable” trials, “the child of his dearest daughter” still lived and hoping that “much good may yet be in store”. But the king would not leave everything up to chance and in October 1285, at the age of 43, he married the French noblewoman Yolande of Dreux. As the year drew to a close, Alexander might have hoped that his misfortunes were behind him. He still had his kingdom and his health, and now, with a new queen, there was every chance that he could father another son.

In fact, the king had less than six months to live. The exact circumstances of Alexander’s death are shrouded in mystery, although most sources agree on the fundamental details. Only the Chronicle of Lanercost gives a detailed account, although much cannot be corroborated, and its author had a habit of providing moral explanations for historical events. He was convinced that the calamities which befell the Scottish royal house in the 1280s were punishment for Alexander III’s personal sins. The chronicler never explicitly names these sins, but he does hint at a conflict between the king and the monks of Durham (allowing Alexander’s death to be attributed to a vengeful St Cuthbert). The chronicler also included salacious stories of Alexander’s private life, claiming:

“he used never to forbear on account of season or storm, nor for perils of flood or rocky cliffs, but would visit, not too creditably, matrons and nuns, virgins and widows, by day or by night as the fancy seized him, sometimes in disguise, often accompanied by a single follower.”

Although this does seem to back up the king’s habit of making reckless journeys, alone and in bad weather, the chronicle’s biases are nonetheless fairly obvious. On the other hand, the man who probably compiled the chronicle up to the year 1297 does appear to have had many contacts in Scotland. These included the confessors of the late Queen Margaret and her son Prince Alexander, as well as the latter’s tutor, the clergy of Haddington and Berwick, and the earl of Dunbar. It is unclear how he acquired information about Alexander III’s death, but the chronicle’s narrative is at least plausible and correct in its essentials. Although some of the anecdotes are a little too detailed and didactic to be entirely truthful, the narrative provides some interesting insights into contemporary behaviour, such as the way medieval Scots felt entitled to address their kings. In the absence of alternative narratives, and without necessarily subscribing to the chronicler’s moral views, it is therefore perhaps worth following Lanercost to begin with, supplementing this with additional information where possible.

(The northern half of a map of Britain, drawn by the thirteenth century English chronicler Matthew Paris. Matthew Paris was based in the south of England and was not overly familiar with Scottish geography, but his depiction of Scotland as split over two islands and joined only at the bridge of Stirling, is nonetheless enlightening. The map is now in the public domain and has been made available by the British Libary (x))

On the evening of 18th March 1286, Alexander III is reported to have been in good spirits. This was in spite of the weather, which the author of the Chronicle of Lanercost described as being so foul, “that to me and most men, it seemed disagreeable to expose one’s face to the north wind, rain and snow”. The king of Scots was then dining at Edinburgh, attended by many of his nobles, who were preparing a response to the king of England’s ambassadors regarding the aged prisoner Thomas of Galloway. However when the court had finished dinner King Alexander was not at all anxious to retire early. Instead, not in the least deterred by the wind and rain lashing the windows, he announced his intention of spending the night with his new wife. Since Queen Yolande was then staying at Kinghorn in Fife, travelling there from Edinburgh would not only involve riding over twenty miles in the dark, but would also mean crossing the choppy waters of the Firth of Forth. Unsurprisingly, the king’s councillors tried to dissuade him. However Alexander was determined, and eventually he set off with only a few attendants, leaving his courtiers wringing their hands behind him.

The first part of the journey passed without incident and soon the king and his companions arrived at the Queen’s Ferry, by the shores of the Forth. This popular crossing point was named after Alexander’s famous ancestress St Margaret, who had established accommodation and transport for pilgrims there two hundred years earlier. But when the king himself sought passage, the ferryman pointed out that it would be very dangerous to attempt the crossing in such conditions. Alexander, undeterred, asked him if he was scared, to which the ferryman is said to have stoutly replied, “By no means, it would be a great honour to share the fate of your father’s son.” So the king and his attendants boarded the ferry and, notwithstanding the storm, the boat soon reached the shores of Fife in safety. As the king and his squires rode away from the ferry port, intending to complete the last eleven or so miles of their journey that night, they passed through the royal burgh of Inverkeithing. There, despite the evening gloom, the king’s voice was recognised by the manager of his saltpans, who was also one of the baillies of the town.** The burgess called out to the king and reprimanded him for his habit of riding abroad at night, inviting Alexander to stay with him until morning. But, laughing, Alexander dismissed his concerns and, asking only for some local serfs to act as guides, he rode off into the night.

(South Queensferry, as drawn by the eighteenth century artist John Clerk and made available for public use by the National Galleries of Scotland. Obviously the Queen’s Ferry changed a lot between the 1280s and the 1700s, but at least during this period the ferry was still the main mode of transportation across the Forth.)

By now darkness had set in and, despite the local knowledge of their guides, it was not long before every member of the king’s party became completely lost. Although they had become separated, the king’s squires eventually found the road again. However at some point they must have realised that they had a new problem: the king was nowhere to be found.

In the early fifteenth century, local tradition held that Alexander was at least heading in the right direction when he became separated from his companions. Although he too had lost sight of the main road, the king followed the shoreline, his horse carrying him swiftly over the sands towards Kinghorn. It was there, only a couple of miles from his destination, that the king’s luck finally ran out. Since there were no known witnesses to Alexander III’s death, it is unlikely that we will ever know for certain what happened that night. However most sources agree that the king’s horse probably stumbled and threw its rider. Alexander tumbled to the ground and snapped his neck and, at a stroke, the dynasty which had ruled Scotland for over two hundred years came to an end.

It is not known precisely how long the king’s body lay on the beach, alone under the moon while the waves crashed on the shore and confusion reigned among his squires and guides. However his corpse was discovered the next day and was swiftly conveyed to nearby Dunfermline. Ten days later, on 29th March 1286, the kingdom’s ruling elite gathered to see the last King Alexander buried near the high altar of the abbey kirk, in the company of his ancestors. Near the spot where the king’s body was allegedly found, a stone cross was later erected beside the road, which could still be seen by travellers over a hundred years later. The modern belief that Alexander III died when either he or his horse fell from a cliff*** (a tradition which is not supported by any mediaeval sources so far as I am aware) may stem from the position of this old cross, which possibly occupied the same spot as that of the Victorian Alexander III monument. This monument can now be seen at the side of the modern A921 road between Burntisland and Kinghorn, a permanent reminder of the role this seemingly nondescript location once played in the history of Scotland.

(The Alexander III monument near Kinghorn. Source: Wikimedia Commons- the photo was taken by Kim Traynor who has kindly made the image available for reuse under the  Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license).

The impact of Alexander’s death on a small mediaeval kingdom like Scotland, conditioned to look to its monarch for leadership, must have been great. Even the Lanercost chronicler admitted that the general populace was observed “bewailing his sudden death as deeply as the desolation of the realm.” However it is important not to exaggerate the scale of the crisis. Popular views of Alexander III’s death are inescapably informed by the accounts of fourteenth and fifteenth century writers, who depicted it as the root of all of Scotland’s later ills.

Writing in the aftermath of a century dominated by war, plague, famine, and climate change, it is perhaps unsurprising that many late mediaeval chroniclers looked back on Alexander III’s reign as comparatively peaceful. As the author of the fourteenth century “Gesta Annalia II” explained, “How worthy of tears and how hurtful his death was to the kingdom of Scotland is plainly shown forth by the evils of after times.” Meanwhile, in his “Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland” completed c.1420, Andrew Wyntoun portrayed Alexander’s reign as a Golden Age of peace and justice (when, just as importantly, oats only cost fourpence a boll). He incorporated an old song into his chronicle, perhaps written in the years following the king’s accident, which neatly encapsulates later views of the event and its impact:

“Quhen Alysandyr oure Kyng wes dede 

That Scotland led in luẅe and lé, 

Away wes sons off ale and brede, 

Off wyne and wax, off gamyn and glé: 

Oure gold wes changyd in to lede. 

Cryste borne in to Vyrgynyté, 

Succoure Scotland and remede, 

That stad [is in] perplexyté.”

Wyntoun’s younger contemporary Walter Bower, author of the “Scotichronicon”, also lamented Alexander’s premature death and even rolled out a legend about Scotland’s famous seer, Thomas the Rhymer, to reinforce his point. On 18th March 1286, he claimed, the earl of Dunbar “half-jesting” asked the Rhymer for the next day’s weather forecast. True Thomas answered gloomily:

“Alas for tomorrow, a day of calamity and misery! Because before the stroke of twelve a strong wind will be heard in Scotland, the like of which has not been known since long ago. Indeed its blast will dumbfound the nations and render senseless those who hear it, it will humble what is lofty and raze what is unbending to the ground.”

The next morning came and went without any gales, so the earl decided that Thomas had gone mad- until a messenger arrived at precisely midday with news of the king’s death. Although Bower may have been attempting to bolster Thomas of Erceldoune’s reputation as a prophet (in response to English propagandic use of Merlin’s prophecies), the anecdote reveals the significance he attached to Alexander III’s death. Similarly for John Barbour, author of the fourteenth century romance “The Bruce”, there was no doubt that the story of his hero’s story began, “Quhen Alexander the king was deid / That Scotland haid to steyr and leid.” Following this, Barbour skips ahead to the selection of John Balliol as king, dismissing the six years in between as a time when the country lay “desolate”. In this way later chroniclers created the impression of an Alexandrian ‘Golden Age’ and that Scotland almost immediately descended into chaos after his death. Though understandable, these late mediaeval interpretations have traditionally hampered analysis of Alexander’s reign and the events of the decade following his death, despite the best efforts of modern historians.

(The coronation of the young Alexander III at Scone, as depicted in a manuscript version of the fifteenth century “Scotichronicon”, compiled by the Abbot of Incholm, Walter Bower.  Source: Wikimedia Commons)

In reality, while the king’s death was undoubtedly a deep blow, the Scottish political community rallied in the immediate aftermath. In April 1286, parliament assembled at Scone and promised to keep the peace on behalf of the rightful heir to the kingdom. Six ‘Guardians’ were to govern in the meantime- two bishops (William Fraser of St Andrews and Robert Wishart of Glasgow), two earls (Alexander Comyn, earl of Buchan and Duncan, earl of Fife), and two barons (John Comyn of Badenoch and James the Steward). Despite the oaths sworn to Margaret of Norway two years earlier, there may have been some doubt as to who the “rightful heir” actually was. Certain sources claim that Alexander III’s widow Yolande of Dreux was pregnant and the political community waited anxiously for several months before the queen gave birth in November 1286. However no male heir materialised**** and by the end of the year it seems to have been generally acknowledged that the three-year-old Maid of Norway was the rightful “Lady of Scotland”. She was destined never to set foot in Scotland, but, despite her age, gender, and absence from the realm, the country did not descend into complete anarchy in the four years when she was the accepted heir to the throne. Undoubtedly there were people who had reservations about her reign: the Bruces, for example, seem to have attempted a short-lived rebellion, though the situation was soon defused by the Guardians. By 1289 the cracks were perhaps beginning to show, with the death of the earl of Buchan and the murder of the earl of Fife removing two Guardians, who were not replaced. Nonetheless, the authority of the Guardians was recognised in the absence of an adult ruler and they generally attempted to govern competently in the four years between Alexander III’s accident and the Maid of Norway’s own death in 1290.

Having received news of this second tragedy, the Guardians again acted cautiously, deciding that rival claims for the kingship should be judged in an official court chaired by a respected and powerful arbitrator. Thus they appealed to Scotland’s formidable neighbour, Edward I of England. Despite later allegations of foul play, the English king’s eventual judgement in favour of John Balliol does appear to have been consistent with the law of primogeniture and due process. It would take years of steady deterioration before war finally broke out in 1296. By then Alexander III had been dead for a decade, and though the crisis may have indirectly grown out of his demise, it was not necessarily the immediate cause of Scotland’s late mediaeval woes. Nonetheless the events of that dark night in March 1286 would leave their mark on the popular imagination for centuries, shaping Scottish history down to the present day.

(An imprint of the Great Seal used by the Guardians of Scotland following Alexander III’s death. Reproduced in the “History of Scottish seals from the eleventh to the seventeenth century”, by Walter de Gray Birch, now out of copyright and available on internet archive)

Additional Notes:

*The assembled magnates included the earls of Buchan, Dunbar, Strathearn, Atholl, Lennox, Carrick, Mar, Angus, Menteith, Ross, Sutherland, and two other earls whose titles are illegible but who may have been Caithness and Fife.  The barons included Robert de Brus the elder (father of the earl of Carrick and grandfather of the future Robert I), James Stewart, John Balliol (the future king), John Comyn of Badenoch, William de Soules, Enguerrand de Coucy (Alexander III’s maternal cousin), William Murray, Reginald le Cheyne, William de St Clair, Richard Siward, William of Brechin, Nicholas de Hay, Henry de Graham, Ingelram de Balliol, Alan the son of the earl, Reginald Cheyne the younger, (John?) de Lindsay, Simon Fraser, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, Angus MacDonald, and Alan MacRuairi, among others. 

** The historian G.W.S. Barrow identified this figure as Alexander the saucier the master of the royal sauce kitchen and one of the baillies of Inverkeithing. 

*** There are some variations on this local tradition too- in 1794, the minister who wrote the entry for Kinghorn parish in the Old Statistical Account claimed that the ‘King’s Wood-end’ near the site of the current Alexander III monument was where the king liked to hunt and that he fell from his horse while on a hunting trip. 

****The Guardians and other nobles may have assembled at Clackmannan for the birth. Several modern historians have accepted Walter Bower’s statement that the queen’s baby was stillborn, despite the Chronicle of Lanercost’s somewhat fantastic tale of a fake pregnancy, with Yolande being caught conspiring to smuggle an actor’s son into Stirling Castle.

Selected Bibliography: 

- “The Chronicle of Lanercost”, as translated by Sir Herbert Maxwell 

- “Calendar of Documents Relating to Scotland, Preserved Among the Public Records of England”, Volume 2, ed. Joseph Bain 

- Rymer’s “Foedera…”, Volume 1 part 1 

- “Documents Illustrative of the History of Scotland”, vol 1., ed. Joseph Stevenson 

- “Scottish Annals From English Chroniclers”, ed. A.O. Anderson (especially Annals of Worcester; Thomas Wykes; Chronicles in Annales Monastici) 

- “Early Sources of Scottish History”, ed. A.O. Anderson (esp. Chronicle of Holyrood, various continuations of the Chronicle of the Kings of Scotland; John of Evenden; Nicholas Trivet) 

- “The Flowers of History… as Collected by Mathew of Westminster”, ed. C.D. Yonge - Gesta Annalia II (formerly attributed to John of Fordun) in “John of Fordun’s Chronicle of the Scottish Nation”, ed. W. F. Skene 

- John Barbour’s “The Brus”, ed. A.A.M. Duncan 

- “The Orygynale Cronikil of the Scotland”, vol.2., by Andrew Wyntoun, ed. David Laing 

- “A History Book for Scots: Selections from the Scotichronicon”, ed. D.E.R. Watt 

- “The Authorship of the Lanercost Chronicle”, by A.G. Little in the English Historical Review, vol. 31 no. 122, p. 269-279 

- “The Kingship of the Scots”, A.A.M. Duncan 

- “Robert Bruce and the Community of the Realm of Scotland”, G.W.S. Barrow 

- “The Wars of Scotland, 1230-1371”, Michael Brown

I have extensive notes so if anyone needs a reference for a specific detail please let me know.

[lunartearrose]

hello. bestie. info about this fantasy au WHEN 👀👀👀👀👀

Aaa I can give you some right now!!!! For some reason this au comes to me whenever im working so thats why its art is all on stickynotes audjskjsj

BUT ANYWAYS uh. No better way to say this but it all started out with a modded skyrim character creator that i made skull in! I thought it was cool and going thru both main q and whatever stupid civil war to skip the broken seasons unending quest is annoyin but fun was had for maybe some hours

But! I had to make skull twice due to the first skull files getting corrupted. So that has a piece to it

But anyways context over and now this au has been in my brain with only vague skrim assets because i fucking hate that that civil war has anything to do with anything of the main questline it can FUCK. Right off

Basic storyline premise my brain had! We start out with a currently human vintage caught between a mysteriously similar civil war :) he's chosen neither side but since his home was destroyed by the stupid shit idiot war he's basically gotten really good at pissing off both sides. Sometimes he gets caught! And the good-ish soldiers will see that he is you know a still kinda baby-side teen full of anger and try to lrt him go with a talking to. But his worst encounter would be when the angy soldiers catch him and beat him up, which just deepens his hatred. And one time someone really messed him up bad!

He ends up limping away into an enchanted forest and drawn by a really good smell, he passes out just in front of this really beautiful lilac tree that was in a clearing like "ok this is a nice tree to die by. Peaceful" but ofc he didnt die. He just woke up to a nymph of the tree he chose taking him up to the center of the tree. And that's how he befriends Skull, he's recovering with him and keeps mumbling about how nice the smell is while skull both cares for him and looks around for his potion savvy friend. Once vin is healed up by aviators he realizes pretty quick that this forest is very much between the war path and figures it's highly appropriate to set traps all over!!! But ofc giving avi and skull very specific instructions on how to avoid the things he sets. He also makes good pals with omega in the town nearby bc she helps at an institude and she's been sneaking him into their library to read up on nymphs and share his own notes in return. Shes like you're my little brother and hes like fuck u (but also thank you sorry) and he gets to discover he has a high affinity for magic despite being human. Weird! Anyways now that he has a place of study he can figure out how to teach skull weapons.

But all is not peaceful for long, bc some old shitty wizard trails this knowledgeable little jerkwad, because variant nymphs are rare! And as the guy comes out of the bushes and pisses vintage off by treating skull like a specimen and taking out a pair of scissors like, "i wonder if its really true that you can take memories of one by severing branches from its tree:)" Vintage basically attacks the guy! Because no taking Skull's memories! And skull helps of course bc friend, but unfortunately this guy is very strong and seasoned. So when vintage almost gets a good life ending hit, the wizard wounds him heavily (resulting in an x-shaped scar deep on his face that got him bad in one eye) and opens a portal to basically hell! Vin is gonna fall in but skull makes the effort to try and use the roots of his tree to pull him out. But knowing he can get sucked in too, vintage just makes a promise to get out somehow and come back, sealing it by giving the gift of a small ring he was saving. Unknown to him once he falls and portal closes, skull definitely makes the wizard into plant food! But on the floor of this hellscape, vintage finds himself with some flowers and seeds that had fallen from the tree, a tail, and a new nubby pair of horms and wings. But despite this, he gets up, gathers the seeds, and thinking back on his affinity for magic, he decides he will grow the lilacs while he figures out an escape, all the while being reminded of skull every time he looks at the stuff. It takes some years, and some demons also looking for an escape love his tree and his story (mainly double who helped persuade spirits into protecting the tree and gave vin tips on horn and wing upkeep) but eventually vin has his break when he hears omega call and together they pry open a portal out of there. He's pulled along by a red sole (very excited feral magician) and now he and double are finally out. Double introduces himself while vintage, with magical hell-lilacs tied around tail, disguises his demon features and runs off to find skull.

Only to find the entire forest burned down. He's in shock for some time, wanting to know how and why. One of the last things he saw was a killing blow from skull, it couldn't have been that wizard- but then he spots a soldier's settlement nearby. Hidden amongst charred trees. They chatted merrily, loading up gathered game, and when he asked, they told him the forest was another victim of their pointless war. It wasn't even a turning point, and one of them even laughed and said they'd get "the bad guys" next time.

When the sick of this, much older teen, gets angry enough that his horn-hiding illusion falls, they all quite suddenly realize they've majorly screwed up. And vintage figures out that he has a taste for souls. Red finds him again after though with a gift, a calm pet and a gentle informing that he should be able to visit his hell lilac tree anytime he wants at least. A nice gift, but vintage is too angry at the moment to appreciate it and decides that hes ending the war himself by killing every single person directly involved with it! At times the armies had tried to work together to stop him, but with the power to morph melificent style into a dragon is a pretty solid way to make sure you're just wasting lives, and people figure out pretty quick it's the commanders he wants. Those are sacrificed, but now you just have a very powerful demon with nowhere to place his still burning grief that's very very hard to approach! But word gets around as it does and a blue group of adventurers take up the task of calming the demon and dealing with his haywire magic and deliver a hard truth - that he might have to move on with the friends he made along the way. Post fight, the vampire cruising with blue team scoops vin with some tlc plans and asks that blue team to locate the friends vintage had, and maybe even look into his older friends. And once vintage is awake in a rather cleanly and impressive vampire mansion, he's given news that emperor had heard of a wood elf taking care of a rather flowerless and purple nymph, working with a lot more potions than usual. One can't even begin to describe how relieved Vintage is by this info that his first friend, at the very least, is still alive. It may just take time to get to him with post-magic owchies and all, so emperor decides to send out a nice and classy letter to those friends he had found, inviting them over.

Oh and the only reason skull miraculously survived the warring and forest fire is definitely becausee of the lilac tree currently sitting pretty in hell

SO UH YEAH THATS MY PLOT SO FAR FOR THIS FANTASY AU YEAH VERY WILD I HATE CIVIL WAR QUESTS FUCK CIVIL WAR QUESTS

[the-girl-in-the-box]

Ghost Queen I

A/N: So, this was originally going to be just one part, but it got a bit long and I decided it was enough as it was, and to release a second part after! The next part will be up once I finish it, since this was just a little idea I’d gotten stuck in my head XD Please enjoy, and let me know if you’d like to be tagged in part 2!

Pairings: Ivar x Freydis, Ivar x Katia

Word Count: 2,943

Summary:  Ivar believed he killed Freydis in Kattegat, but fate seemed to have other plans for the Viking King and his wife. She survived, and sought refuge far in the North, where she is captured by the Kievian Rus, and offered sanctuary and a new identity- in exchange for information, and the marriage of a Norse Queen to Prince Oleg. (AU where Freydis really is Katia)

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, implications of sex

Masterlist

---

Ivar the Boneless was the most dangerous man in the world. One woman in particular knew the danger he presented at any given time, especially considering the betrayal she had suffered at his hand. He had hit her, choked her, and eventually attempted to strangle her, intending to end her life- all because she had asked him what he had done with their baby, little Baldur.

Or, at least, that was how Freydis told the story. Ivar had never once hurt her, not until she demanded the truth of the child’s disappearance from him, begged him to tell her where he was. She had believed, would Ivar simply tell her the truth, she could go and find the boy. But Ivar had held his tongue, and refused to give her any hope of seeing her son again. When Baldur was found by hunters the next day, in a fox’s den, she could only pray that he’d been gone already, and not had to endure the pain of the fox tearing through-

The thought broke her heart, and she rarely finished it.

With that discovery, and that confirmation that their son was dead, Freydis had again confronted Ivar. This time, he had choked her, and the warning was clear. She was not to bring this up again, or the consequences would be far more severe. So, she didn’t.

Queen Freydis left Kattegat in the dark of night, and journeyed to the camp of Bjorn Ironisde, where he had been joined by his brother, Hvitserk. She told the two what had passed between herself and her husband, and she betrayed him that night, offering safe passage into Kattegat the next morning for the brothers and their armies.

Their conquest was successful, but Freydis wouldn’t get to see the new Kattegat under King Bjorn. Ivar confronted her in their Hall, demanding the truth of what she’d done, if she had let his brothers into the city. Unlike Ivar, she had decided she was through with the lies. She confessed everything about how she’d gone to Bjorn and Hvitserk, and opened the secret passage into Kattegat for them, even in the face of the greatest danger she’d ever been in. The Viking Queen was brave until what she thought would be the end of her life.

But then, something went… for once, not according to Ivar’s plans. Freydis did lose consciousness as he strangled her, but his brothers were coming, so he stopped and dragged her to the bed they’d shared, laying what he believed to be the woman’s corpse upon it, and fleeing before he could be found. In the stress of the moment, he had failed to notice the breath still in her lungs.

Freydis had regained consciousness before being discovered by Bjorn and Hvitserk, but when she heard the sound of footsteps, signaling the end of her time alone, her eyes slipped shut once more, and she focused on breathing as slowly as she could, remaining as still as she could, so as to keep them from realizing she lived. No, they were not Ivar- they weren’t even on his side- but she didn’t want to risk word getting back to him.

They left her for a time to handle some business of their own, and she slipped out as soon as she could. They’d know, likely, as soon as they came to bury her that either she wasn’t dead, and had escaped, or had been taken, but she had to take that risk, or risk being buried alive. (There was, of course, the option of confessing the truth to them, but being alive and wandering around Kattegat was a quick way to get word to Ivar of her survival.)

Freydis traveled north, beyond the borders of Norway, and up the Spice Road, unaware entirely that this was the same path Ivar himself had taken only a few hours prior. She moved more slowly than he did, though, even stopping at one point to allow her hair to be darkened by some strange solution offered to her at one of the stands along the way. She’d kept some, to keep her hair from lightening once more.

When she reached the borders of Kiev, she was stunned to find that they arrested her, and took her straight to the Prince Regent himself. She introduced herself, told him who she was and that she was seeking refuge, and the man had laughed.

How ironic it was, Freydis soon came to realize, that her husband, Ivar the Boneless had arrived and been received as first a prisoner, then a guest, just days prior. She figured it must have been a wise decision indeed to have her hair darkened.

Immediately, she’d been prepared to offer to leave in the dead of night, but then Prince Oleg had offered her something she hadn’t expected. They would disguise her as a Rus Princess, under the name Katia, and being that she was already royalty… she would marry him, and be protected from the wrath of Ivar the Boneless. In exchange, she would give Oleg all the information she could that would work toward his Scandinavian conquest, and that would help him keep the Boneless Viking on a leash.

The idea of helping Oleg take Scandinavia hadn’t sat well with Freydis- even if he did claim to be Viking himself- but a chance for revenge on Ivar…

She took the deal.

And so, Freydis truly disappeared that night, reinvented and reborn as Princess Katia. It didn’t escape her how Ivar looked at her the first time they ‘met’, but she didn’t let him know anything from how she responded to him. She greeted him politely and gently, like a raised royal would, and even when he cornered her and began to speak to her of how she had to be Freydis, she gave nothing away.

It became a game to her. Spending time with the Viking who didn’t know her identity, and so played at kindness and charisma with her, was her new favorite thing. For once, she had the upper hand over him- especially once she married Prince Oleg.

But the more ‘Katia’ interacted with Ivar, the less she believed he would kill her, even if he knew.

He spent more and more time with the boy, Prince Igor, who she as well had been tasked with taking as her nephew, thanks to her marriage. But the more she saw of him with Igor, the more she found herself mourning little Baldur. It created a strange sort of conflict within her. Not only did she mourn their child, but she also mourned- watching the pair- the family they could have had.

Perhaps that was why she began to spend more and more time with Ivar and Igor, enjoying the time as if it were still… peaceful times, and what had happened between herself and Ivar hadn’t happened. This, she thought, was what it might have felt like to have a son with him, to be his wife, and the mother of his child, had nothing ever gone so wrong.

It was good.

But then, Hvitserk arrived. Ivar had found him when they’d gone scouting in Norway, and they brought him back to Kiev. Before they had a chance to be introduced, Katia sought him out, pulling him to the side as quickly as she could.

He gasped, his eyes widening drastically at the sight of her. “Freydis?” he questioned, blinking.

The Princess shook her head, looking at him with a serious expression. “I am not Freydis here,” she said seriously. “I cannot be Freydis anymore. I am Katia, and Ivar believes I am Katia. He tried to kill me in Kattegat, if he learns who I am now, he will try again. You cannot tell him, Hvitserk. I know you to be a good man. Don’t turn me over to him.”

Hvitserk had been stunned by her soft plea, but he nodded anyway, taking in the information that his brother had attempted to kill the woman that had been at his side through everything, even if she ended up betraying him in the end.

“Why would Ivar kill you?” Hvitserk had questioned. “He was in love with you, more than I’d ever thought he could be with anyone. I would have thought you’d have been safe.”

“Not once he learned that I betrayed him, and let you and Bjorn into Kattegat,” she said, a bitter tone in her voice. “Apparently, that is not a crime he could forgive anyone for.”

Hvitserk nodded a little, and sighed. “I won’t tell him who you are, and if I can somehow help keep your identity safer than it is now, I will.”

This led to Hvitserk outright denying the resemblance between Katia and Freydis to Ivar’s face. And thus, the idea that she was Freydis became even more far fetched to even Ivar himself.

She began to really play with Ivar then. In the night, she no longer only dreamed of going to him as herself. But, she found and acquired a wig with the same shade of hair she’d once had, when it wasn’t being kept darkened the way it was, and she would put it on, and go to him, claiming to be Freydis. If not for Hvitserk’s insistence that he had seen Freydis dead, that Katia didn’t even look like her, she thought Ivar would have figured her out. They began their affair then, without Oleg realizing a thing, with her often going to find him in the night. The times when they would lay together, tired and relaxed, became one of her other favorite things. She had missed those times.

But something happened, when Katia spent so much time with Ivar. She learned more about him than she had even when they had been in Kattegat. He seemed gentler, for the time they spent together, less prone to cruelty. Sometimes, at night when she laid beside him in his arms, she dreamed of telling him who she really was. She had begun to wonder if he would take it better than she’d expected. And after all… Oleg was no one to her.

But Ivar, he had been her husband first. She had loved him first. She loved him still. Now, she loved the boy, Igor, with him. What could they have, if she would only tell him the truth of the situation? Could they be a family, just the three of them? Ivar could not have children, she knew that much, so what if this boy was a blessing to them, a way for them to have a child together, when he could not give her one himself?

Well, if not as Freydis, she supposed she could at least have this as Katia. Katia could have Ivar, and Igor, and a family with them.

But there was still the problem of Oleg. He wanted the throne of Kiev, of the Rus, and he was going to get it however he could, even by using Igor. When Ivar told her of their plan to overthrow Oleg, to free Igor from his grasp and power, she agreed to help immediately. Thus, they began the planning of something rather complicated. But as she expected from Ivar, it was also something truly brilliant. They managed to escape the city with Igor, right out from under Oleg’s nose, and once he was safe, they took the city from Oleg as well.

With Ivar’s guidance, Igor killed Oleg, and took his kingdom and his throne back for himself. She couldn’t have been prouder of how far they had come- how far they had come together.

After long enough of being with Ivar, being with him regularly, Katia had noticed something in her body. Most days, she fell ill at least once, if not more, and she began to feel her moods shift more frequently and more drastically than they had before. With not even a visit to any physician, she knew the truth- she was with child.

When she thought over the rumors regarding Ivar and his inability to have children- for she was certain this was not the child of Oleg- it occurred to her that she had only believed this due to his supposed… impotence. But that was a rumor they had happily dispelled together. Had they, without realizing, also dispelled this rumor with it?

She could think of no other explanation, but that this were true, and the revelation it brought on her made her smile slightly. She was carrying Ivar’s child.

Her smile faltered as she remembered Ivar’s plans. He was going to return to Kattegat. It wasn’t that she felt he would not welcome her at his side, nor that she did not want to be there, but she had watched Igor once Ivar had broken the news to him- the news that he would return to Kattegat. The boy was heartbroken. To lose her as well, at that time? She couldn’t do such a thing to him, however much she ached at the thought of never seeing Ivar again.

But Katia consoled herself with the thought that she couldn’t know for sure that she’d never see Ivar again, once he left Kiev. She and Igor could travel, could visit him in Kattegat, and what was to say Ivar would never travel to visit them in Kiev? This didn’t have to be the end, just because they were going their separate ways for the time being.

At the feast in Novgorod, Katia explained to Ivar that she had to remain in Kiev, that her family was there, and that someone had to stay and look after Igor. When she had asked his forgiveness for that decision, he had seemed confused as to why she would need it. The confusion only lasted until she confessed to him how she carried their child.

Before she had said she had to remain in Kiev, he had said that his plans would depend on her. And now, standing in front of him as he prepared to leave, she regretted encouraging him to go. Once again, she loved Ivar the Boneless. He had undergone so much change in Kiev, so much change that it pained her to lose him. This man before her was the sort of man she would want around to be a father to their child, to help her still with Igor, but no change could be made now to his plans. It was too late.

“You tell me you love me, Ivar, but you don’t,” she said, hoping to somehow ease this parting, to convince him of this lie- and perhaps herself of it, as well. “You loved your wife, Freydis, and in your mind you confuse me with her.” Ivar’s eyes lifted to look at her face, the same face he would have known since they first met in York. “But I am not her,” she lied with a smile. Katia wondered vaguely if he would find some way to see a difference in her face now, to find a way to believe her words had proof behind them. She had to be sure he didn’t try to insist on anything else, and so she drove the final nail into the coffin- regardless of how he had assured her otherwise countless times.

"I will only disappoint you when you realize it.” Her smile turned sad then, and she swallowed. “That is why you have to go.”

By now, she considered herself adept at reading the expressions in Ivar’s face, even as he tried to hide the heartbreak in his eyes by kissing her hand. His eyes lingered as he looked back into hers again, after she’d taken that one last chance to compose herself, and for a moment she believed he might kiss her once more.

But then, he would never leave. They both knew that well. So it was no surprise to her when he stepped past her, going to join his brother, Hvitserk, who shared a sad glance with her. He knew what the two were going through- he had gone through it himself when he left Thora in Kattegat. They’d never seen each other again, and really…

Katia somehow felt that this would be the last time she saw Ivar. Her eyes grew wet at the thought, and when she blinked, she found herself quickly wiping away a tear that had escaped and rolled down her cheek. Her heart was breaking.

It was the second time in her life Ivar had broken her heart. He’d been a violent man in his past. The fact he’d hit her once, and choked her another time, had actually come as no surprise to her. But then he had tried to kill her, and she had not expected that. She hadn’t expected he would try to kill her for what she had done. Hit her, perhaps choke her again, yes, but… He had told her countless times how much he loved her, and she could see it was true. She had expected punishment, but she hadn’t expected to pay with her life. Not at his hands.

And now, she had to watch as he was put on the back of a horse, and carried away toward Kattegat. As the horse walked out of the gates, and the gates closed behind him, he broke her heart again. Yes, she’d encouraged him to leave, said she had to stay, but… Ivar had always made his decisions himself. He had chosen this, just as much as she had pushed it this way. They were both at fault, and yet, he had surprised her again.

[novantinuum]

that fantasy au concept is so interesting! it has such a cool emotional core with neat worldbuilding while still staying true to the spirit of the show, and just seems to... idk how to put it but it Works?

a aaa thank you ;w;

i have a metric butt load of ideas for it, some of them being:

-Lots of typical fantasy creatures like elves, dwarves, dragonborn, gnomes, orcs, etc etc etc alongside humans

-The visual aesthetic of the larger cities is strongly victorian steampunk. This is a world right on the edge of technological revolution, and as a result, oftentimes magic and those who perform it are kinda left behind and ignored in lieu of new inventions and ideas.

-Magic is something all denizens of this fantasy world can learn if they put their minds to it enough- but there are definitely some people who have an innate closer connection to the magical aspect of this world and have an easier time with it. This often runs through family lines- i.e. if a parent is a powerful witch, for example, their child will also have an innate inclination towards performing powerful magic.

-All the magic in this world is really personalized. Each individual will have an inclination towards a few types of magic that speak towards their personality and heart. It’s kinda... soul magic? So when I said the eldritch beings Rose was once a part of consume people’s souls, they’re basically feeding on pure magic. 

-Rose is, of course, secretly an eldritch horror disguised as an elf. She’s like... super long-lived? She’s been around for hundreds upon hundreds of years in this world, far beyond the normal lifespan of elven folk. However, she flies under the radar and is never really questioned because everyone just assumes the immense power of her magic is what’s keeping her alive. She deals very deeply in eldritch magic, and also boasts considerable healing/restorative powers. She’s still alive when Steven is born, and is loving as a mother, but... she tends to be very reclusive, and starts to keep him at arm’s length the older he becomes. (see: she’s super stressed and distracted about trying to find a way to save this realm when her ward fails in a few years.) This may be an AU, but Steven still gotta have mommy issues. 

-Pearl is her first love, the elven woman she fell for when she first came to protect this world. Rose has granted her long life, afraid to see the people she loves die. Pearl is a skilled fighter and mage, able to show others impeccably accurate visions of her memory in a cloud of smoke, conjure an illusionary version of any item she’s seen, and even summon light soldiers to cover her.

-Garnet is another early friend she made, during that initial fight against the eldritch beings trying to consume this plane of existence. Garnet has also been granted the power of long life. She is a clairvoyant seer who can see potential paths of the future, but while she uses this power she temporarily goes blind as she accesses her “third eye,” so to speak. As a result, this is a magic she must use wisely, outside immediate dangers. Haven’t decided what fantasy people she’s of.

-Amethyst is a young human girl these three came into care of much later, someone without a home to call her own. She’s scrappy, and is adept with forming illusions and shapeshifting. Her magic is very handy in conflict with distracting and disorienting others, and is also fun for cheap tricks to get a laugh. These days, it’s a rare day she’s NOT in some shapeshifted form.

-Greg is a human, and he’s absolutely a bard :D Most of his magic he actually learned from Rose, as his parents didn’t allow him to seek out magic training when he was a kid under their thumb. 

-Connie is a human who lives in one of the larger cities of this world with her parents, and she quite literally ran into Steven in the streets one day... which eventually lead to them striking up a close friendship and their stories intertwining. She’s always wanted to study magic, but as of late, with all the technological revolutions, texts on it are becoming harder and harder to find. Magic is becoming something that is more often only passed down within families... something unfairly insular. Neither her mother or father are innate magic users, so she has no one to teach her. No one, that is... until she met Steven and his family. Steven... who is the son of the literal most AMAZING sorceress who ever walked this world.

She is a quick learner, and over time picks up some mid-level telepathic abilities- which allow her to poke into people’s inner thoughts at will. She also becomes adept at scouring information- magically soaking up words in a book like a sponge, and at sensing hidden sources of magic many others cannot. She trains with Pearl as a swordfighter, as well. 

-Steven... genuinely believes he is a half-elf for most of his childhood. His mother is an elf, of course, and his father a human. He’s got pointed ears like his mom, and shares her natural magical aptitude. However, since he is actually half-eldritch instead, there’s a lot of very, very subtle, unusual physical quirks about him he doesn’t know to mask, some of which are:

His eyes shimmer with little pinpricks of light occasionally, almost as if an entire galaxy were encapsulated within them. This only happens when he’s feeling very strong emotions. It’s not something anyone would notice unless they were looking for it.

Sometimes... rarely... when you look at him close, it’s as if for a brief glimmer of a moment his form feels off. Like something’s missing, or your sight is somehow glitching. Like there’s something about him you can’t quite see.

He doesn’t feel warm to the touch, nor does he feel cold. The closest description of sensation I could make for what someone feels when making contact with him is like... TV static.

If you know him long enough, eventually you’ll grow to recognize a slight dissonant harmony within his voice. It’s very subtle, but always there.

These quirks are things Rose shares, but knowingly masks. Every single day she doesn’t tell him the truth about her origins is a day she fears these quirks will grow so strong it’ll put him in danger, but what’s even more dangerous is the thought of having to burden him with her secret, and... likely have to deal with the fallout of everyone discovering that she’s lied about what she is for all this time.

Steven’s magic is heavy on abjuration. He’s very adept at summoning barriers and shields and at casting all sorts of defensive spells. He can also bring plants to life, but this is incredibly draining for him earlier on in his magic training. He’s got a bit of healing ability, although nowhere near his mother’s, and he’s also a strong empath. As his power grows, so too does the strength and longevity of his shields and creations. However, along with that, his empathic abilities become so powerful that he often finds himself overwhelmed by the emotions of people around him. He’s largely unable to just “turn it off,” and thus prefers to stick to peaceful, secluded areas rather than trundle through highly populated areas all the time. Music is a really good diversion for him when he feels too overwhelmed by everyone’s emotions.

-At some point, Steven and Connie come to question Rose’s secrecy, and pry into what she’s doing a bit... Connie attempts to use her telepathy to peek into her surface thoughts, and... hoo boy, that’s not a super wise move on Connie’s part, because Rose can feel this girl picking around in her mind. The two of them get into big trouble, as Rose is terrified at people discovering her true identity at this point, at people learning about the truth and then pressing into her dangerous world. While she doesn’t intend to be, Rose gets kinda... scary when she’s upset. Don’t upset her.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Deep and Rapid River, Ch. 7 [18+]

<- Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 ->

Summary: The horniest chapter yet. And the beginning of the end. 

Over the next few weeks, your arrangement works out smoothly—or it seems to, anyway. The creature remains hidden in the hayloft, undiscovered. As often as you are able, you are down in the barn with him, lying in his arms, sharing books and stories, or listening to the low, raspy panting of his breath in your ear and feeling the roughness of his hands on your bare skin. 

Sometimes you cry together, frustrated and isolated, wishing the world you lived in was kinder, gentler.

And sometimes you dare to ramble in the woods, breathing the spring air and the changing harmony of scents of each new crop of flowers brings, listening to bird songs, and trusting in the solitude of the forest to protect you from prying eyes.

Every day his wound heals a little more. The bone-shattering gun blast which would have taken a regular human months to recover from—if they recovered—improves at an astonishing rate. Each morning you open the barn door to discover more of your chores have already been done, the dark-haired creature grinning proudly at his work, until one day, he had finished everything. You try to convince him he doesn’t have to do all that work for you, but, rubbing his neck sheepishly, he explains that it’s not so much a favor as a way to get you to spend more time with him. 

You have to admit, it is much nicer this way. 

Some mornings, you lie with your head in his lap in a quiet meadow you discovered along a solitary bend in the river. You gaze lazily up at your protector, his eyes bright as he weaves together the delicate stems of flowers. You had shown him how to do that—at first his large hands and herculean strength made him clumsy, and you giggled in commiseration, but soon he was gliding through the task as if he were one with nature, while you still managed to snap the stems more often than not. So you lie back and watch him work, smiling as he adorns you with spring. A crown of daisies circles his black hair. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of such a gentle creature?

He still cries at every word of kindness you have for him. He still can't fathom how someone could show love toward an unlovable wretch—how you contradict his reality by telling him he is not unlovable at all, but loved. He still feels a sick squirming in his intestines at these incompatibilities of truth. Liar! Contemptible. Disgusting. Unworthy. LIES! his mind repeats at every compliment you bestow, but he swallows down the bile. Somehow, you find him pleasing, he reminds himself. He doesn’t flinch away as you touch his face, as you press mollifying kisses to his lips. He swore never to hurt you again, and he intends to keep his oath. 

With no more manual labor to toil through, you are free to proceed with your pet project, as promised: making your dear daemon look human enough to be accepted by polite society. 

Your theory is, the creature’s grim, unnatural complexion and titanic stature played only a small part in the terrified reception he received from everyone he had met (save you). His tattered, incomplete clothing, wild hair, and general state of dishevelment added to the bewilderment. People saw a crudely-dressed outsider emerging from the forest, of course they were afraid—they probably thought he was a cave troll! 

But if you could make him look cultured and dignified… 

After all, Lazarus Colloredo, whose half-formed brother protruded forth from his chest, exhibited himself at royal courts. It was common in any city to see humans with unusual physical characteristics begging on the streets, finding themselves unwanted in more sophisticated circles, but at least tolerated, and not feared or driven away. That would be enough.

People would tolerate your companion if they believed his condition were a natural one he was born with… if you could dress him to look like someone who had been born. 

This proves easier said than done. 

You find a few old clothes that fit him with a bit of tailoring, but you're not the best seamstress, so the finished result is only a small step above the rags he'd been wearing. And since you're not a cobbler, he still has no shoes. He looks disarrayed, and he needs to be perfect for this plan to have any chance of success.

Taming his wild mane is at least a pleasant task. After an initial battle with the worst of the tangles—filled with frustrated tugging and snagging of the brush, accompanied by his jolting and pitiful whimpering—you reach a comfortable, methodical pace. His whole body shivers as you run the brush through his hair, letting out soft noises of appreciation. The greatest impediment to progress is that he enjoys it too much. You’re no help, either. His noises encourage your hands to massage his scalp and purr words of praise to him, trying to draw more little breaths and groans from him. Soon he has flipped around and has you pinned under him, whispering sweet, sinful desires into your ear, grinding his tented pants against your thighs until you beg for him to take you right there. 

It takes a few tries, interrupted by his superhuman stamina and overly-human desire for touch, but soon his hair is smooth as black satin, and looks just like a courtly gentleman’s when pulled back. Though he doesn’t like it pulled back. It exposes too much of his face, which, he points out, still looks like a corpse’s, and no amount of grooming will disguise that. 

Reforming his appearance is not the only difficulty plaguing your idyllic life. 

   ***********************

Bess stops by the barn to see you one afternoon in late spring. With the creature’s reflexes nearly back at full strength, there is little risk of being caught—he hears her coming and disappears into the loft without a sound. 

“Come out to the dance tonight!” she implores. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know…” You fidget with your fingernails, trying to think of a normal-sounding reason you can’t make it. 

“Pleeease? I haven’t seen you in ages! Now that you finally dumped the loser,” she adds with a mischievous wink, “I've got a friend I think might be perfect for you.”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. She usually doesn’t push so hard to get you to socialize when you’re not in the mood, more of a you-do-you attitude. But she’s playing matchmaker now. “Oh, no,” you laugh nervously. “I'm not getting back on that horse yet, it’s way too soon.”

“It’s been months. You’ve waited an appropriate amount of time,” she crosses her arms, tilting her head to the side. “Nobody will think you indecent for moving on too quickly, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Is it getting hot in this barn? You pull at your collar. It feels like it’s getting hot in this barn. “It’s not that. It’s just, that whole situation was a disaster; I don’t want to go through it again.” There. That technically was not a lie. You’re not lying to your best friend. 

“Come on, don't give up!” she slaps your shoulders encouragingly. “Love can strike when you least expect it!”

“Now that I agree with,” you meant to state without emotion, but you can’t curb the secret smile blooming across your cheeks.

Bess picks up on it instantly, her mahogany curls bouncing in shock. “DID YOU FIND SOMEONE?”

“W-what? Nooo!” you backpedal unconvincingly. 

“Who is it? Someone I know? Where did you meet them?!”

“Shhh,” you hiss, looking past her exuberant eyes over her shoulder to try and see if your parents had magically appeared in earshot, like a pair of demons summoned by the sound of secrets. “There's nobody, just... shhh!"

“So that’s how it is, huh?” she raises an eyebrow. “Well, you better not be getting into anything scandalous, young lady,” she warns, putting on her best impression of your mother, before breaking character with a grin and a laugh, bouncing on her toes. “Oh please just tell me it's good. It must be juicy if you won’t even tell me. An errant noble? A gypsy lover? A married man? A woman? A married woman? Tell me tell me tell me!”

Eventually she lets it rest, and agrees not to pry (or say anything). But your secret isn’t safe. 

“Come to the dance,” she pleads with you, back to the point of her visit. “People are starting to talk.” You’ve been acting stranger than usual. Keeping to yourself. Talking to yourself. 

So that was why she was so adamant about you going. The romantic interest wasn’t the reason, it was just the carrot. 

There are rumors that since your near-death experience, you’ve been haunted by something that followed you back from the other side. Your soul cursed by evil or some such nonsense. Ferdinand has been furious, and only making matters worse, adding fuel to the flames. Why else would someone of your station break things off with him? It could only be madness. 

“Of course all but the most gullible of us knew Ferdinand’s ravings were just jealousy, but… A few people are claiming they’ve seen the beast he described lurking after dark. I don’t know, maybe he’s putting them up to it...”  

A dagger of ice strikes you in the heart. They weren’t just rumors. The creature would wander at night—the only time it was safe for him to be out in the open. Or not so safe. You realize with a creeping dread down your spine that you have not been as clandestine as you thought.

You force yourself to laugh dismissively. “I’m sure if there was a monster, it would have found me and gobbled me up by now, don’t you think? So silly!” Ha ha ha. 

“You’re so rational! To be honest, I would be terrified just by the thought some creepy demon thing might be after me,” she shudders. “You have to explain to everyone else what you just told me. Make an appearance, show everyone you’re fine.” 

At length you relent, and go to the dance. 

Everyone stares. 

Nobody talks to you. 

Ferdinand is there, and you spend the night avoiding him. 

You miss the creature. 

You wish you hadn’t gone. 

  ***********************

 When you finally get to see him again after the disaster of a dance, sneaking down to the barn in the pitch-black of night, he’s currying down the mule by lamplight. A bright smile splits his face when he sees you come in—wide, and showing rows of white teeth, which, you wonder, might seem terrifying to someone who didn’t know him very well, combined with hollow cheeks, dark-ringed eyes, and sallow skin pulled taut over the bone.

To you, he looks like a field of sunflowers on a summer day.

The animals seem to agree with your assessment. Even the mule, who used to rear up and bray at the sheer size of him, seems to have finally been swayed by his courtly manners. Now it snorts its disappointment as he puts away the brush to greet you. The chickens come running up to him, clucking for extra corn meal, one landing and perching on his head in a flurry of feathers. Barn cats swirl at his feet, and the cows are already lining up patiently to be milked, appreciative of his efficient hands and all-hours schedule.

You remember when you first taught him to milk. Now he’s more at home here than you ever were. 

Unsettled by the rumors Bess had told you about, you pray nobody finds him. You pray that this can last. That he can stay here, smiling, until you’re ready to make his presence known to the town. 

You long for a day you wouldn’t have to hide—that you could live together like a regular couple. You wish the world could see him the way you do, that this fantasy could become something real. 

How could anyone ever be afraid of him?

    ***********************

He bolts into the barn, cloak whipping behind him, and skids to a halt over the hay-strewn floor, shutting the door quickly behind him. His wild eyes dart around the structure, adjusting to the dim light. When they focus on you, his body finally acknowledges it has found safety, and leans, trembling against the wooden walls for support. A frayed bouquet of wildflowers wilts in his left hand, stems destroyed in his crushing grip.

“Someone saw me.”

The pitchfork you were holding clatters to the floor.

“Who?! Where? When?? Are they coming? Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” You rush to his side, searching for fresh injuries, brain reeling with all the ways you were completely fucked.

It was broad daylight!

He hides his face behind a gangling hand, and tips his head down to get lost behind a forest of loose hair. “I… I do not know. A hunter?”

“What did they look like?” You reach up to grab his shoulders, trying to get him to look at you. His eyes are panicked and unfocused. You groan. “Not that it matters. Nobody in this town will understand. We have to control the circumstances carefully to introduce you without causing a panic. This is bad… If they followed you—”

“Fear in their eyes…” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Everyone who ever looks upon me has fear in their eyes.”

He’s still shaking, his face twisted up and on the verge of tears.

Oh. 

He’s falling apart and all you can say is “This is bad”? This is no time for you to start panicking, too. You take a deep breath, and put a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s going to be OK,” you force a smile. “There have been rumors about you since I fell in the river—lots of people claim they saw you—this doesn’t change anything. We’re OK.”

“So much fear. That look of terror… Is that how I am meant to be looked at?” he collapses to his knees, letting his nails scrape down the wall as he sinks, the forgotten flowers dropping in a heap by his side as tears begin freely flowing down his cheeks. “How could I forget I am nothing more than a blot upon the earth? A sight to be abhorred.”

You wish you could swallow him up in your arms—cradle him like he does you. You give it your best try, spreading your arms wide and draping your whole body like a second cloak over his enormous, curled form. He rocks, continuing to mutter that he is a wretched thing made to be hated, while you whisper and hum soothing noises, rubbing his back.

“Look at me…” you whisper over his shoulder, gently tipping his chin toward you. He obeys, eyes dull and glassy as they meet yours. You smile, trying to pour every bit of love you feel for him into it, so even from whatever dismal well his heart has sunk to the bottom of, it will radiate affection to him like the sun.

For an instant, his tears stop actively flowing as he observes you. “Except for you. The way you look at me is so different.”

“This is how you're meant to be looked at.”

He chokes and turns away, rubbing his eyes. You circle around to his front, and lean your forehead against his. He looks at you again, a little calmer now. The adoration in your eyes is almost too much for him to bear, but he tries to smile back. The attempt shatters your heart. 

“Oh, you kind, benevolent angel, blessing this foul villain with such a favorable gaze.”

“My wonderful, powerful protector,” you coo softly. You move to sit, and he instinctively makes room for you on his lap—muscle memory of the way you fit together—holding you comfortably in his strong arms. “So sweet and gentle.” Your voice dips flirtatiously, and you touch a hand to his cheek, serenely caressing his jawline.

“How can you look at me like that, in spite of all my flaws?”

The answer spills from your mouth with an infatuated grin before you have a chance to think. “You don’t have flaws. You’re perfect!”

He frowns.

The frown deepens until it nearly becomes a scowl, and he closes his narrowed eyes against the feeling threatening to boil out.

“Please stop that,” he removes your hand from his cheek. “Do not pretend I am not what I am. It is… mockery.”

Shit. You got carried away. Of course he would take that the wrong way. You had to be careful about paying compliments to his body, they hurt him. The cruelest words of insult wouldn’t sting half as much as calling him handsome. But you don’t want to apologize this time. After all, you meant it.

“My beloved,” you stroke his face with the hand he didn’t have restrained, determined to beat down his walls of insecurity with relentless affection. His neck and the tips of his ears redden with heat. “I—”

“Do not flatter me with sugared lies, and ignore the truth,” he interrupts, the tremor returned to his voice. “I know what I am. Being pitied is enough for a wretch like me; it is enough that you endure this unsightly visage without hating its owner. Do not pretend you cannot see me. It is worse to pretend.”

Your throat tightens, and a prickling of tears threatens your eyes, but you don’t cry. It’s heartbreaking that he still thinks of his body as something you have to endure. That you only put up with it, rather than adore it as you do. But he is stubborn in his hatred for his creator’s work. To explain your feelings to him, you will have to choose your words carefully.

“It’s not that I don’t see you, or your scars. I have eyes. I know most people are frightened by your appearance, and I know you’ve suffered horribly because of it. I should have realized you would think I was teasing you to say you’re perfect, but… I mean it.

“You are my heart’s gleam, my gentle dove. My beloved daemon. To me, you are the most wonderful being in all of creation. I am so happy to have met you, and to have had you in my life these past months. There is no one who lights up my heart as you do, none whose face it pleases me to see more. I am never more comfortable than when I’m in your arms, and I never feel so beautiful as when you look at me, nor so important as when you speak to me as if my thoughts matter. Your intelligent mind and poetic soul fill my days with wonder, and you make me feel accepted in a way I have never been before.”

You are stroking his face and the sides of his neck with both hands now, and he is melting into your touch, breaths drawing in slowly and puffing out in shaky bursts. You twirl a finger around a lock of dusky hair.

“I have never wanted you to be any different from the way you are. So I must conclude that the world’s measure of beauty is wrong—for you are perfect. Entirely, completely perfect.”

His head collapses into yours, leaning his forehead against you. He grips you tightly with both arms, squeezing you into his chest like he’s trying to absorb you. Warm, agitated breaths fan your face, and you feel his shoulders convulsing; you think he’s weeping, but then you realize it’s laughter.  

“I sound wonderful,” he says, a hint of pride licking the edges of his voice.

“You are.”

He kisses your neck, awing that you let him press his lips to you, then buries his face against your skin. “In books there is always passion, but... this is far greater than that. You are so patient with me. What did young Werther and Charlotte truly share? What did Juliet know of Romeo? Only the impulses of desire. You offer friendship, and I should like to spend my life repaying the kindness you have bestowed on me.” 

You hum with excitement. “Oh my daemon, my dove, my flitter-mouse,” endearments fall from your lips like apple blossom petals. Goaded by your words, he hefts you up with a now-familiar (yet still shocking) ease, an impish smile sparkling in his eyes as he bridal carries you across the room, ignoring the petulant clucking of chickens scattering from his path. 

“You are perfect,” he kisses your forehead. He sets you down on top of a storage chest, your back supported the wall. “And wonderful,” he kisses your nose. From your new perch, your hips are close to the height of his, and the outline of something growing at the front of his pants tells you exactly where his mind is heading. “And you are mine, yes?” He asks, voice heavy. Instead of kissing you again, he waits for you to close the distance.   

“Always,” you answer, stretching up to grasp his lower lip between your teeth, nibbling and running your tongue over it. He gasps at the novelty, and a surge of heat flares to life inside him. He moans as you tug his lip away from his teeth, and he chases your mouth down, a hand at the back of your head preventing your escape as he envelops you with a smothering kiss, his thick tongue demanding an invitation which you happily give, caressing your own tiny tongue on the probing muscle filling your entire mouth, wrapping your arms around his back as he consumes you. 

Finally he pulls back, a string of saliva still connecting you, a wolfish hunger in his eyes. “You’re mine, and I love you so much…” 

Love. 

You pant, hands curling through his hair. Had you said that before? Had he? Well, yes, you had used the word to describe your feelings, but never so directly. Never in a way that couldn’t have been intended as general, familial, platonic love. You never obfuscated your camaraderie and affection… but this felt different. Pointed. 

I love you so much.

You shiver with pleasure as his corpse lips trace your jaw and down your neck. He leaves a trail of tender kisses all the way down your arm, lingering to suck at the soft skin on the underside of your elbow. A sudden tightness builds in your core, accompanied by a sinful wetness that urges you to wrap your legs around his hips, hiking your skirt up above your knees, and pull him close. The pressure of his clothed cock—now fully erect—pressing into your inner thighs makes the urge worse. You shift to position the bulge against your aching clit, and rock your hips mindlessly seeking relief as his soft kisses up and down your neck and arms drive you into oblivion.

“I love you,” you murmur.

He stands straight, which makes you whine with disappointment as his warm lips leave your body, but he’s looking down at you with the softest eyes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “Those three words fill me with joy enough for a lifetime; and beyond even the veil of death, the happiness of that one utterance shall warm me for eternity. Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

A tingle of goosebumps spread up your arm at his sudden demandingness—the way he leans over you, a hand against the wall, voice thick, and low. 

“I love you.” 

“Again,” he commands, leaning in close to your ear, voice barely a whisper. He nips the flesh of your earlobe and your back arches involuntarily. 

“I love you,” the words brush against his cheek. 

“Again,” he sighs, before his lips fall on yours, swallowing your reply. 

You had been in the middle of refreshing the straw bedding for the cows when he burst in, and there is still a nagging at the back of your mind of what if he was followed? But no angry mob has appeared at your doorstep yet, and everything else can wait its turn. This is definitely… the most important thing on your mind. 

It is a soft kiss, as his usually are—gentle and careful with one so much smaller than he is—but grows in intensity, his tongue parting your lips, running across your teeth and plundering your mouth as you moan and twitch your hips. All his insecurity disappears with the noises and writhing he can draw from you, how eager and helpless you are under his touch. Every fear eclipsed by his burning need to bury himself inside you, and hear you scream out for him as he satisfies himself. 

His large fingers unfasten the lacing of your bodice with the same practiced ease as weaving flower stems, pulling down your blouse as his hot, sloppy kisses move from your mouth, over your jaw, and down your neck—this time leaving red hickies in their wake. You feel the direction of his mouth toward your exposed chest, and whimper in anticipation of the warm slickness in just the right spot. He kneads the fat of your breasts in his palms, his sucking kisses down your collarbone growing ever more needy, filling the barn with wet smacking.

With an electric jolt, his tongue finally reaches the sensitive flesh of your nipple, and you feel a flood of warmth surging through your body, curling your toes, and settling in the base of your spine. Your fingers curl into his hair, against his scalp, pulling him against the hardening bud, his lips closing over it, tongue making languid circles that make your head loll back, and your hips buck up to grind against him—but only meet the air. To bend his towering body enough to reach your chest, he had to adjust his hips away from you, and without the pressure of his erection to grind against your cunt felt desperately empty, aching for contact. 

“Ah,” you gasp, grabbing his hand and placing it between your legs, under your skirt, “P-please!” 

His lips pull into a smile against your breast, exposing his tongue as it flicks across your nipple, now bright red and sopping wet. A large digit runs down the length of your slit. You gasp and jerk into it, but his hand is already gone. He rubs the moisture between his fingers. “Hmm, already so excited,” he taunts in a velvety voice, switching to your other breast, rolling the first between his thumb and fingers. 

When did he get so confident? He used to follow your lead, waiting on you to instruct him. He was still terrified of the world, but with you… 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he purrs, sucking your nipple sharply to draw another gasp from your lips. 

In your private world, when things got like this… 

You let out a strangled whine, moving his hand back between your legs. He lets it rest there idly, ignoring your frustrated, pleading groans and clawing at his hand to do something. He pinches a nipple, delicately tugging at it, slowly drawing his tongue across the other. 

“Hmm? You must speak up. I want to hear your voice.”

...He could be such an arrogant little shit! It’s so hot. 

“F-fingers! Please!” 

“As you wish.”

With a possessive growl, his long finger plunges inside you, moving in and out, getting coated with your slippery wetness as he treats your breasts as his playthings. You can hear his breathing increase, too, each exhale a loud snarl. His hips begin jerking in time with the pulsing of his finger into you, feeling the twitch of your velvet walls squeezing him as he drives you toward your climax—he imagines it’s his cock inside you, and suddenly, this isn’t enough. 

“S-so good. You’re so good,” you whine, eyes closing as you lift your hips into his finger, deepening every thrust. The heat in your core is building, coiling, tightening… You stroke his hair, savoring the motion of his head and the wet sucking noises at your chest as he sends wave after wave of pleasure through you with his tongue. You run your hand over the striations of muscle in his shoulder, over his healed gunshot wound, the feel of his skin and the sound of his ragged breathing sending you over the edge—

His finger pulls out. His tongue moves away. 

The release so close on your horizon fizzles. 

“Wah!” Your eyes shoot open, complaints pursed on your lips. Then you see the hungry look in his eyes, and a shudder runs down your spine. Maybe he’ll fuck you right there. By the look of it, his erection is ready to rip through his pants.

“Patience,” he purrs, swallowing the tightness in his throat—the only sign of his slipping composure. 

He spreads open your legs, kneeling between them, strong hands on your thighs helping you balance on the edge of the crate. His chest rises and falls slowly as he inhales your scent. “S-stop it!” you blush, squirming but unable to budge from his firm grip. Why does he like to smell you so much? You close your eyes and look away from the lewd act. He’s really changed so much, no longer so eager to please you that he wouldn’t risk drawing things out, or embarrassing you. He trusts you, that you’re never going to push away from him in sudden disgust; he knows you enjoy every minute of his attention. 

He extends his long, thick tongue, and traces it along your thighs, teasing you with nips and kisses. Your body shudders at the welcome heat. He’s become an expert on your body, listening to your breathing and waiting for exactly the right moment to finally taste your dripping cunt. Your fingers clench in his hair, urging him on, but he takes his time with a long, measured, broad-tongued lap down your inner thigh, his eyes watching yours, studying your reaction and giving a self-satisfied smirk at your struggle to contain yourself. 

“Please… more.” 

Slowly, patiently, he finally dips his tongue into your quivering, saturated heat. He lets out a muffled moan into you, savoring you, hands clenching on your thighs as he revels in it. You can feel that tension start to coil again, but he’s still taking his time with such an indulgent, unhurried pace, you’ll never reach the orgasm you were denied.

Your fingers dig into the back of his head and your hips twist in his vice grip, helpless to create their own pace. “Faster.” You try to jerk your hips against his tongue again, to no avail. “You feel so good, my love,” you coo in a honeyed voice, hoping flattery will achieve results. “What must I do for you to let me come? I’ll do anything. Please—faster!” 

In a blur of motion, your legs are over his shoulders and he’s standing at full height, large hands holding up your hips to his mouth, your back resting on the box where your ass just was. It feels like the wind was knocked out of you—you can barely breathe as he points his tongue into a stiff rod and attacks your clit with incredible speed and vigor. You didn’t know tongues could move to fast! His mouth is working magic, and the angle he’s holding you at somehow makes it feel even better. Maybe it’s the blood rushing to your head, or the way you have to look up at him, holding you as you dangle helplessly at his mercy, but you can feel your climax returning in greater force. 

“I’m… going to finish already,” you writhe and moan, cheeks hot. 

He doesn’t stop this time. “Come in my mouth,” he instructs, licking and lapping you deeper, faster, his own moans of pleasure lost in yours, crying out louder, thighs clamping around his neck, pulling him in harder, deeper, until your muscles convulse and you bite your lip to silence your shaking scream. He thrusts his tongue deep inside you, feeling your walls twitch around him, tasting your hot release coat his tongue. 

“Fuck, you’re so good. So perfect,” you praise as you start to come down. 

He’s not through with you yet, however. Not by a long shot. 

He keeps writhing his tongue inside of your still-twitching heat, then brings his mouth back to your over-worked clit, ghosting his lips over it, flicking softly and quickly with the pointed end of his tongue. 

You cry out in surprise, an unpleasantly strong contraction ripping through your body in protest. “N-no!” you try to wriggle away, pushing your arms out against him, but from your upside-down suspended position, the only part of him you can reach is—your heart skips a beat as your hand grazes his throbbing steel shaft. A renewed surge of heat flushes between your legs, overwhelming the over-stimulation with pleasure. You swallow. 

“Do you want more?” he murmurs, drunk on you. You nod breathlessly. You need him to keep going. To put that in you. “Good.” 

You grope blindly for the inhumanly thick bugle in his pants, and lay your palm against it, feeling its incredible length. The heat it gives off is amazing. There is a sharp inhale, and a hiccup in the steady working of his tongue. Not so easy to stay cool, is it? You smile, finally turning the tables a little. You rub his clothed shaft until he makes muffled whines into your cunt, and his hips start rocking against your hand as you stroke him up and down. 

This is heaven. He could live between your thighs, drowning in the taste of you. He loves making you happy—seeing you shudder with pleasure from his touch—and the power he has over you in these moments makes an intoxicating combination. You belong to him. 

“Do I make you feel good?” he rasps. You stare back up at him—his tongue stopped. You pull at the back of his head with your legs, trying to get him to start again, to give you what your body desperately needs, but he only looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes and tips his head to the side. Fuck, he’s cute when he does that. 

“Y-yeah.”

Lick. 

Your hips buck into his mouth in appreciation, an electric pulse vibrating down your back. 

“Only I can make you feel this way?” 

Oh god, this is the game he’s playing? You’ll say anything to get him to keep going, but the only answer you can make right now is a pleading, affirmative whine and a nod. 

Lick. 

That was good enough. Your eyes squeeze shut. You were so close again! 

“Only me?”

“Please don’t stop!” 

Not good enough. “Say you’re mine,” he purrs, “That only I can make you feel this way.”

“Only you!” you cry, squeezing your thighs around him, trying to pull him back in, “I’m yours! Please!” 

He smiles, and gives you a delicate swirl of the tongue, tracing your clit, then plunges his tongue deep inside you, fucking you with the large muscle, pulsating and tasting you, filling your longing core up with its heat. Oh god, it wasn’t as big as his cock, but the way it could move inside you was so strange and delicious, and the wet, hungry noises his mouth made sent you over the edge a second time, your hands grasping for something to cling to—one clenching the edge of the crate, the other gripping the outline of his shaft. 

He slips his tongue out of you, dripping with a mingling of your juices and his saliva, and puts it back to work on your throbbing clit without pausing. In its place, he soaks two bony fingers in your empty core. The fingers are cooler and less slithery than his tongue, but make up for it with length and firmness, reaching deeper, and hitting nerves that his tongue missed. 

“R-right there!” you squeal, voice shaking as he finds your g-spot. He feels your muscles twitching and pulling beneath his hands. Sucking hard on your clit, he pumps his finger harder in and out of your drenched pussy, focusing on that sensitive spot that makes you cry out for him, until you come again, your walls clenching and unclenching around his hand.

You expect a break after that. Your body is exhausted and trembling, especially in this uncomfortable—if arousing—position. But, whether he’s working off his earlier panic, or he just has that much more stamina now that he’s healed, he doesn’t stop. Instead, he adds another finger, stretching you farther and making you moan with the feeling of fullness. You don’t bother to protest or try to wriggle away, only whimpering praises and encouragement, eager for more. He builds you up and sends you over the precipice again, and again, and again relentlessly until you can’t stand any more.

Only when you’re shaking and soaking, so dizzy with sensation you can no longer speak, does he release his iron-clad grip on your hips and lowers them back down to the top of the storage chest, sitting you up with your back resting on the wall. Breathing erratically, he presses a tender but sloppy kiss to your lips, the flavor of you on his tongue. 

“This is what… perfection tastes like,” he pants. 

Settling between your legs, he finally frees his unbearably hard erection from its prison, the unearthly member glistening with precum and throbbing with pent-up desire. 

The storage crate is tall enough that he barely needs to bend his knees to achieve the right height, and with little need for adjustment, he’s rubbing his giant cockhead along your entrance. It feels so good, but your tired muscles are too limp to buck your hips up to help push him in, so you merely bite your lower lip in anticipation of being filled with him. 

After being forced to wait for so long, his cock aches to bury itself up to the hilt in you with one thrust, but if he just pushed it in, he might split you in half. He is your gentle creature, needy as he may be, and he can wait just a little longer if it means not hurting you. He rubs his shaft along you, coating it in your slickness with his hand, making sure you’re ready to take him. He pushes the head inside. A gurgled moan escapes your lips at the satisfying pressure. He studies your face. 

“Do you want me?” His hands trace over the bone of your hips, kneading the fat of your thighs. You nod weakly, and he pushes in farther. He’s spreading you wide, filling you so magnificently. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Yet he still waits, pausing for your body to adjust to his size. “Are you all right?” 

You put your hand over his, marveling at how much bigger it is than yours, and squeeze. “I love you so much. Now fuck me.” 

He lets out a strangled whimper of affection at your declaration, and jerks his hips forward into your eager pussy. A cry of pleasure and brief pain tears from your throat. Those words were all the encouragement he needed to become ravenous, nipping at your neck, pinching until a trail of red bruises blooms over your skin. Suddenly, you’re in the air, still fully impaled on his prodigious length, and being slammed against the wall. He begins pounding into you hard and fast, hands squeezing your hips and shoulder, keeping you effortlessly off the ground, while your legs instinctively wrap themselves around his waist, holding on for dear life as he fucks you into the wall, the sloppy sounds of flesh striking flesh filling the serene bucolic air. 

You hold him close, running your hands up his back and around his ass, feeling the powerful jerking of his muscles beneath the skin as he thrusts into you. So big. Everything about him is oversize, his arms, his cock, all of the scars covering his body… the textured discoloration of his skin. He did look devilish—but he was so sweet, and kind, and so, so passionate for you, he was more like a prince. Or, at the very least, he was your devil. 

Even in his lust-fueled frenzy, he notices you noticing him. 

Your eyes are undisguisedly observing parts of him he would rather not think about, and suddenly he remembers what he looks like—self-awareness lost in the passion of the moment returning like a revelation. What you see whenever he mounts you is a monster… and you still let him. You still beg him to. You moan, and whimper, and plead for more of him, your body at his command.

His grunts grow louder and less controlled, and each thrust of his hips sends tremors through the entire barn, little trails of dust and hay falling from the rafters. 

“How does it feel to be fucked by a monster? To belong to me?” 

It feels warm. You can barely articulate an answer through the fog. It feels rough, hard, fast, tender, passionate… 

His breath hitches, a low rumble in his throat, and you realize you’ve been muttering out loud. 

“You’re so perfect. So big. You know exactly what I want,” you run your hands up the misshapen grooves of his chest, struggling to keep your voice smooth and seductive as he knocks the wind out of you with each thrust. Compliments can often backfire with the self-hating creature, but in moments like this, you can praise him like a puppy dog and it gets him more red-faced than… than the fact that you’re fucking!

“You feel so good inside me,” you keep singing praises as he pounds into you, his grip getting harder and harder until you’re sure you’ll be left with bruises. “You're so big, you're filling me up. Nobody can do the things you do to me.” 

Finally he buries his head in your neck and lets out a full-throated sob, as his hips meet yours in a powerful thrust, burying himself deeper inside you than you believed possible. You feel the warmth of his hot seed filling you, so much of it that it overflows out of you and drips down your ass.

He doesn’t move. He pants against your neck, practically growling, arms holding you in place possessively, pinning you to the wall. You’re not getting down just yet. He wants to savor his cock buried deep inside your warmth for a little longer. You sigh contentedly, closing your eyes and leaning your head against his sweat-dampened chest. 

Exhausted and sated, his senses begin to return. He stares at the huge mummy-like hands practically swallowing your small body, your skin so elastic, vibrant, and alive in contrast. Softly, he asks again, absent any passion-fueled bravado, “You love me?”

“I love you.”

“Foolish girl.”

“You love a foolish girl,” you tease, grinning. You grab both sides of his face, rubbing your nose against his. 

“I do.” 

You could get lost in the little world the two of you share.

Unfortunately you were so engrossed in your own little world that you didn't hear the hens clucking as they rushed to the edge of the fence, or the cows mooing a friendly greeting to a familiar face.

You didn't notice Bess standing in the doorway of the barn until she let out a blood-curdling scream.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: Pocketful of Starlight

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Kagami Tsurugi, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Juleka Couffaine/Rose Lavillant, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe, Sabine Cheng/Tom Dupain, Master Fu/Marianne Lenoir

Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Tikki, Wayzz, Pollen, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug's Parents, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Master Fu, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Chloé Bourgeois, Max Kanté, Lê Chiến Kim, Luka Couffaine, Anarka Couffaine, Juleka Couffaine, Rose Lavillant, Marianne Lenoir, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Lila Rossi, Caline Bustier, Kagami Tsurugi, André Glacier

Tags: Mental Health Issues, Anxiety, Therapy, Trauma, Regret, Lila Rossi salt, what the fuck am i doing?, Moving On, Angst, Feels, Marinette Dupain-Cheng Needs a Hug, Guilt, Grief, Loss, Implied Relationships, Heroes & Heroines, Introspection

Summary: In the wake of the defeat of Miracle Queen, Marinette has to take time for everyone else. But eventually she has to take time for herself. Written before the release of Felix and Chat Blanc.

Note: The therapy technique is real, and is one I’ve been introduced to as a way of dealing with trauma, triggers, and anxiety. It just seemed like something Fu would teach Marinette, as it relies on the idea of the body’s meridian points, which are used in Chinese medicine.

AO3 link

This is part 2 of the Catch a Falling Star series | Part 1

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Marinette didn’t have the luxury of dealing with her feelings right away after Chloé stormed off following the defeat of Miracle Queen. As the new Guardian of the Miraculous, there was a long list of things she must accomplish before then.

On the top of that list was the former Master Fu, who now knew himself as M. Chen. The only person Miraculous Cure didn’t send away was Chat, and so she had him recharge to keep an eye on their former master, while she stowed the Miracle Box in her room and went to the locker with a distraught Wayzz.

Unsurprisingly, the note had all the information she needed: contact information for his beloved Marianne and the address where she could find his belongings. The locker also had items meant to pass to her, including a flash drive of information on the book and other things she would need to know as Guardian. He had been thorough.

Marianne seemed both sad and glad to hear the news—Fu had apparently told her long before that this would be his fate in the end. She agreed to be on the next train to fetch him.

She was relieved Chat knew Marinette had been Multimouse, so when she showed up with a fake ‘note from Ladybug,’ he’d passed responsibility to her civilian self with a smile, telling her he knew Fu would be in good hands.

Marinette ignored the buzzing of her phone as texts came in, and focused on getting M. Chen to his belongings and packed, then over to the train station. Even there, watching the train slowly shrink into the distance as Master Fu was taken to safety, she still didn’t have time.

No, she had text messages from Alya, who was distraught over the memories of what she had been forced to do under the control of Miracle Queen, and was rightly convinced that, with her identity blown, she’d no longer be able to take up the mantle of Rena Rouge. She was able to feign surprise and complimented her on being such a good hero. Her sympathy hasn’t been feigned.

In truth, it felt good to have Alya come to her instead of Lila, who she’d seemed to lose trust in after the expulsion. Things weren’t completely mended between them, and might never be. But she could be a shoulder for Alya to cry on, a sympathetic ear.

Then she had her responsibilities to the kwamis to keep her engaged, something she had put above school. To accomplish this, she had finally confessed her recent near-Akumazations to her parents and told them everything about Lila’s lies and manipulations, and that as there was no proof there was little she could do about them. She told them of going and learning meditative techniques and coping mechanisms on her own. Finally, telling them that the Miracle Queen Akuma, which had hit her friend circle quite hard, had caused her a lot of stress. Marinette had requested, quietly, that she be permitted to take a few mental health days. None of it was a lie.

She wished she had confided in them about it before; they had immediately swept her into a family hug and thanked her for her honesty and trust in them.

“So many people your age bottle it all up,” Maman had said. “But you recognized it and looked for solutions. I’m proud of you, my dear. You’ve become such a mature young woman.”

There had been tears in Papa’s eyes. “We’ll let M. Damocles know we’re keeping you home a few days. Perhaps they will be more willing to investigate this girl if it’s having such an impact on you.”

They’d even asked if she wanted to see a therapist, if she needed more help. She’d thanked them and declined, and their love strengthened her for the tasks she had to complete. Marinette could hardly believe she had been nervous to tell them what was going on. Her parents, who had always supported her.

Her first task involved building a puzzle box large enough to hold the Miracle Box, disguised as a small table for beside her bedroom chaise. That had taken the better part of a day, once she had it sketched and bought the materials. She had treated it as art therapy, even making a home-made wood stain with all natural ingredients to turn the table a deep rose color.

Marinette had time during this project to get to know each of the kwamis individually, taking notes on food preferences in the cases she didn’t know so she could be sure to have some on hand—when enlisting temporary heroes in the future, she planned to include some of the kwami’s preferred recharging food with the miraculous. There had been times recharges were needed but difficult in the heat of battle, and that would make it smoother. Thankfully, dried foods were acceptable to them in a pinch.

While building the puzzle box table she’d sewn the Miracle Box into a throw pillow temporarily, which wound up being a good thing when Chat stopped by midway through the project to ask about Master Fu’s journey. She’d received a call from Marianne when they arrived at their destination, but that was as Ladybug. So she instead let him know what Marinette knew—that he’d been safely escorted to the train, and she’d watched him leave.

When he asked how she had avoided being stung and controlled, she told him she’d seen the wasps and locked herself in the bakery freezer, and Ladybug had let her out when she’d come to enlist her help.

“I was lucky,” she told him.

“I’m glad you stayed safe, Princess. I heard you’ve been absent from school, so I worried.”

“I’m taking a few mental health days, that’s all. Thank you for checking in on me, kitty.”

They chatted a bit more before she went downstairs for leftover pastries for him to enjoy on the rest of patrol, sending him off with the bag of goodies.

Chat had been stopping by regularly since the night she’d cried in his arms, and she had to admit it was nice to have a friendship with him as herself. He’d recently insisted they take a selfie together for her wall, and it had joined a few including Kagami and Luka, as well as some of Alya and Nino that she had put back up.

And then, of course, there was Wayzz. The poor kwami had just lost a holder of over a century, and his loneliness was palpable. Marinette had worked to comfort him as best she could. She knew she could only do so much, but she had put together a comfortable little nest for him and wore the Turtle miraculous along with the Ladybug so he could be out for the transition.

After everything was done, all of her responsibilities, she was finally able to let herself fully deal with everything that had happened, in such quick succession, and all that had changed and been lost.

She finished restuffing and sewing shut the pillow that had once housed the Miracle Box, then laid it out in the middle of her bedroom, seating herself in the relaxed pseudo-lotus position Master Fu had taught her, paying attention to her breathing, heartbeat, the feel of the pillow beneath her, the air around her.

Part of the training she had done with him had included dealing with emotions via meditation, a safer way that would help her avoid Akumazation. Lila’s actions had made it clear she needed help, so after the night Chat had comforted her on the roof, she had confided in the now-former Guardian about the stressors in her life. He had immediately insisted she learn this technique. While it wasn’t always helpful in the moment, if surprises shook her, she had found it was great for helping her process her feelings later so they wouldn’t build up and bury her.

It also helped that both Tikki and Wayzz were there to let her know if she was in danger—and she had shut her room up to impede Akuma for an added sense of security.

The memory of her first meditative session was bittersweet now, as she remembered Master Fu helping her find her happy place, a moment in time wherein she was content and safe on her own. For her, it was the memory of diving off the Eiffel Tower as Ladybug, plummeting by choice with the wind in her face, then snapping the yoyo to swing just above the ground, the experience one of exhilaration and pure happiness.

She went there first, letting herself be in that moment, with the self-confidence it gave her, before going back to one of the things she needed to process.

One of… Really, Fu represented multiple things she had to process. His confidence that she was ready wasn’t one Marinette shared. The number of mistakes she had made, particularly the ones that had led to the loss of Master Fu, haunted her.

She focused again on her breathing, her senses, before tackling the mistakes. Upon discovering Mayura following her, she had failed to consider whether Hawkmoth was also in play, assuming that losing the stolen Peacock holder had been enough. She had approached Master Fu as Ladybug, continuing even after he hinted that she’d made a mistake; perhaps she could have played it off and returned as Marinette.

Marinette let herself feel the shame and guilt associated with that, the feeling of inadequacy and impostor syndrome that plagued her so often.

The next ritual had been ingrained in her over the past few months.

“Even though I made a mistake, I deeply and completely accept myself. Even though I fear I will continue to make mistakes, I deeply and completely accept myself.”

She softly repeated the mantra, going through the emotional freedom tapping sequence she had learned as she allowed herself to feel the emotions swirling through her, seeking the root.

Fear. The root was fear.

“Even though I’m afraid my mistakes will hurt people…”

She continued the process, gently tapping the points Master Fu had led her through until the emotions started to ease, appropriately processed as the result of the trauma that had occurred.

“Even though I know I will make more mistakes…”

She worked toward acceptance of the inevitable. Tikki and Fu had told her mistakes were inevitable; she was only human, and humans weren’t perfect. The important thing, Fu told her, was learning from mistakes through processing them.

“You and Chat Noir fixed my biggest mistake, Marinette. The one that haunted me for well over a century. I learned much from my mistake, as you will with yours.”

Marinette assessed the emotion; it wasn’t totally gone, but it was at a manageable level, something that she could keep from overwhelming her.

The reality was, Master Fu had talked with her about retiring. He had known this would happen to him, that his memories of the Miraculous and his time as Guardian would disappear. He had trusted Marinette as Ladybug to be the next Guardian, to take over the job he had started at such a young age nearly two centuries ago, the job he had been forced into by his own mistake that had only recently been rectified.

Additionally, Hawkmoth could have seen through an attempt to play it off, and with him following her without her knowledge, Marinette’s detransformation could have left her identity known to the enemy, putting her and everyone she loved in grave danger. Perhaps it had been the luck Ladybug was known for, saving her in a situation wherein only one of them could be saved, in effect ensuring the Miracle Box would continue to be protected beyond Fu.

On an intellectual level, Marinette was struck by a collège memory of Mme. Bustier teaching them the hero’s journey style of story building and literary analysis. As much as she loathed the idea of following some sort of fated narrative arc, in class they had discussed how this occasionally translated to the real world. The mentor figure, often a wise elder, would disappear when it was time for the hero to continue alone, when nothing more could be taught.

“Even though I fear I don’t control my own destiny…”

This fear was distinctly of the future. Instead of tapping the meridian points, she shifted to applying a gentle, sustained pressure against each to ease the anxiety that wrapped around her like a cold fog, repeating her mantra until it dissipated in the warmth of hope.

She let herself return to the exhilaration of purposeful freefall from the Tower for a bit, letting that strengthen her as she turned to the related issue…

Fu had not told her she would lose her memories of the Miraculous when it became her turn to retire, that these wonderful memories, even the one that served as her anchor, would be swept away like a sandcastle at high tide. She would forget Chat Noir, forget all the conversations she’d had and would continue up to that point to have with Tikki, forget the very thing that had given her the self-confidence to stand up to Chloé and ultimately put herself out into the world that had once terrified her more fully, to take risks…

Oh, she would miss Tikki when it came time… or maybe she wouldn’t. And that was almost more terrifying.

“Even though I’m afraid of eventually losing my memories…”

The way she had become Multimouse upon losing Tikki to Kwamibuster—the way she had overcome that. Yes, it was another Miraculous that had allowed her to overcome, but she had figured it out.

“Even though I’m afraid I’ll be lost without these memories…”

After a while, three or four rounds of processing and evaluating, the fear had eased enough for her to move on.

She could feel the tears on her cheeks; that had been scary the first few times with Fu, when she’d been afraid the tears would bring Hawkmoth to her, but he had assured her it was part of the process, that it was natural when she allowed herself to experience the emotions fully. She could do this in safety if she used her anchor.

Marinette returned to her anchor memory, allowing herself to swim toward the surface of the meditative state enough to ask Tikki if there was any danger.

“I haven’t sensed an Akuma, Marinette. You can keep going, unless you need a break?”

That brought a smile to her face, and a surge of affection for her empathetic kwami. She knew the memories would be taken, but the emotions wouldn’t leave. She had seen that first-hand when M. Chen had seen Marianne and the memory of loving her had emerged so strongly that he’d stumbled.

“Wayzz?” Marinette couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“Yes, Master?”

“Just Marinette, please.” She knew the kwami chafed a bit at the informality, but she would treat them as her equals, not anything less.

“Ah… of course, Marinette. Did you have a question?”

“You hid behind me when Fu came to, after he named me Guardian. Would he have remembered if he had seen you?”

Wayzz is silent for a bit, and she can almost hear him thinking. “It’s possible. Regardless, he asked me to let him forget, to let him retire fully. At the Temple, the retired would reside among the uninitiated, as tradition.”

Marinette nodded. That made sense, and she would keep it in mind as a possible way to overcome if she wanted to at that point in her life. She had a lifetime to decide.

“Thank you, Wayzz.”

She let herself ease back into full meditation, to her anchor memory, the unbridled joy.

Three other points of emotional turmoil needed resolving. Two of them were highly related, which drew her to them. The fallout from Chloé’s voluntary stint as Miracle Queen was twofold: first, it had robbed Ladybug of all her temporary heroes, as all were now known to Hawkmoth and Mayura. She refused to put them and their families and friends in danger by continuing to approach them; nor would she put the kwami in a position to potentially be captured by a psychopath.

Even with her decision, she wasn’t sure that Hawkmoth wouldn’t monitor them anyway, or do worse. There was the potential of hostage situations. Marinette just hoped this was just her castastrophizing and not something that would happen. She did, however, need to be prepared if it did, and that would mean sharing that concern with Chat Noir. Hopefully he would be able to watch over some of them outside the mask, just as she would.

“Even though I fear the temporary holders could be in danger…”

Alya and Nino, two people she loved dearly despite their flaws, just as they did her; she had meditated extensively on their friendships with Fu after her near-Akumazation during Lila’s stunt at school that had left her temporarily expelled.

Kim, who she knew only casually, but whose exuberance was a mirror of Xuppu’s, a kwami he was suited for but would never hold again.

Max, a boy who had built his own best friend and formed new relationships alongside Markov, and who had fought so nobly to save his mother and friends.

Luka, who could hear the music of her heart and had told her it was beautiful, who had wielded the Snake like a pro. His family—Anarka, Juleka, and Rose, who was basically his sister in law—would be in danger.

And her newest friend, Kagami, for whom she had ultimately given up Adrien—who would also be in danger—and who seemed destined to hold the Dragon, though that was beyond reach now.

The only remedy was impossible in the war Hawkmoth had started: to never again give out Miraculous and cultivate allies. Ultimately, recalcitrance in that direction could hand the man holding Paris hostage victory.

Her allies would have to change. Marinette would need to visit each of them personally as Ladybug to thank them for their service and officially retire them. She couldn’t predict what Hawkmoth might do with the knowledge of their identities, but she could be proactive. They would get the contact information for her yoyo… or perhaps she could commission Max to create panic buttons with GPS, something for the six of them to carry at all times for security, which could alert herself and Chat if they were triggered.

Master Fu had been delighted upon learning that processing her emotions in this way led to reasoned planning.

“Your creativity is ingrained in you, Marinette. You truly are the perfect Ladybug. And you will be the ideal Guardian, as well.”

She returned to her anchor, lingering there a bit longer than before. The last two would be more difficult.

Chloé. Queen Bee. Miracle Queen.

Marinette had held onto the hope that she could help Chloé, both as herself and Ladybug. She could see there was good in the blonde, just buried under behaviors she’d learned and adopted to survive the trauma of abandonment.

She hadn’t seen it—not for the longest time, and certainly not when Chloé had been bullying her.

No, it had come later, in moments. Seeing Chloé grieve giving up Pollen each time she had to return the Bee Miraculous; seeing the flash of pure hurt that had quickly been covered with rage at Audrey choosing Marinette, a stranger, to be with her rather than her own daughter. Moments of joy or simple contentment.

Chloé was a scarred soul who had armored her vulnerability with cruel words and a pretense of superiority. Anything that threatened that superiority, however false it was, became a target, her fear and trauma allowing no less.

But she’d had potential to be better, Marinette had thought. Unlike Lila, whose very countenance showed no indication of anything but cruelty, Chloé could be rehabilitated.

For a while it seemed it could work—Chloé working for the greater good. But it wasn’t enough for her; she’d wanted more, on her timetable.

Or perhaps Marinette had mistaken a lust for power and prestige for a desire for connection to something greater. Maybe it had been her own hubris, feeling she could reach someone so damaged.

Oh, she had hoped. She could just imagine the force for good Chloé could become, if only she could be reached, could be healed.

Marinette wished it were otherwise, but Pollen had tearfully told her of the order of silence, how the holder Pollen had shared her hopes for had turned abusive, had turned a partnership into a slavery.

“Even though I failed to help Chloé…”

This set took longer, more repetition, more tapping, and it felt as though her breath was being sucked away as she processed the grief she felt at a possible future destroyed.

She could only carry so much; those she helped had to want it, had to try, had to trust. She knew how hard that was for Chloé, but she also knew her own limits, the things she could not do. Perhaps, with professional help, the girl could be reached. Marinette didn’t have those tools.

It wasn’t entirely Chloé’s fault, either. Her fears and insecurities and traumas had made her susceptible to the machinations of Hawkmoth’s evil. A man who would Akumatized a toddler would have no qualms tearing open a teenager’s scars and manipulating them for his own personal gain. He’d long ago proved his depravity.

Even now, she didn’t hate Chloé.

Marinette hadn’t paid attention to the news since sending off M. Chen, so she didn’t know what the Paris authorities intended to do regarding the Miracle Queen debacle. But perhaps she could help Chloé Bourgeois in one last way, as Ladybug. She could request not leniency but access to mental health care, could testify that she knew Chloé has potential, if only given the tools to heal.

The pain had faded to an acceptable level, and she jumped off the Eiffel Tower again, sweeping toward the ground with the wind and gravity in her face, the sun kissing her cheeks.

Her last task: Adrien.

She had loved him so intensely and so long, the boy Alya had nicknamed Sunshine. He had been her sun, and she’d been the moth drawn to him. Marinette had spent the last several weeks reflecting on her obsession with him, recognizing it finally for what it was. She had acted only marginally different with him than Chat Noir did with Ladybug.

She had resolved to let him go, after Chat’s visit, for good. She’d been headed there anyway, taking the pictures down and drawing away. Chat’s visit had helped her find the strength.

And then something had shifted. When she was able to return to school, Adrien had apologized for failing to see Lila had targeted her, was hurting her, until it was too late.

“I know doesn’t excuse abandoning you, Marinette, but I hope I can make it up to you.”

What had once been the fire of obsession, doused to coals, smoldered still, a slow warmth that didn’t threaten to consume her anymore.

A few days later, Adrien loudly told Lila to stop touching him, that it made him uncomfortable, in front of Mme. Bustier.

Lila turned on the waterworks, trying to claim it was a way of showing affection in Italy, and Adrien hadn’t given an inch.

“Here in France, it’s sexual harassment,” he’d said. “And I’m tired of asking you to stop.”

“Are you okay, Adrien?” Marinette had asked after Lila stomped back to her seat. “I know it’s not always easy to stand up for yourself.”

“I’m okay.” His smile had warmed her heart, and he’d stepped forward to embrace her. “Thanks for asking, Marinette.”

Then Lila had snarkily asked Mme. Bustier why Marinette wasn’t getting in trouble for sexual harassment. The continued tantrum had earned her detention, during which she was to complete a sexual harassment seminar, “since you clearly don’t know what it is.”

It had been glorious.

The memory brought a smile to her face. She had thought then that perhaps it wasn’t over after all.

But when it came to choosing which flavor combination she, Kagami, and Adrien should get from André, the two of them looking at her so trustingly after having included her in their antics at the hotel and subsequent escape…

Marinette had let go of her love for Adrien.

She had chosen friendship.

She had chosen Kagami’s happiness, and let go the embers in her heart.

They still glowed there, but she made the decision to let them fade.

“Even though I’ve lost my first love…”

She was surprised to discover that the pain she expected to find was only a dull ache, not the intense loss she had expected. As though letting go and crying it out with Chat had allowed her to process the worst of it with the help of a friend.

Music moved through her, a tune she knew she’d heard just recently, but couldn’t place.

Marinette halfway done with the first round of meditative tapping when she felt the touch on the back of her neck. The warning signal she and Tikki had decided upon.

She pulled on her anchor, diving into the sunlight and wind and letting the joy and confidence overtake her, then opened her eyes.

The Akuma had come through the vent, and was gently fluttering, hovering as though waiting for her negativity to return. Hawkmoth had been strangely inactive in the days following Miracle Queen’s defeat.

Marinette let the joy of being Ladybug flow through her, and smiled at the butterfly. Even though she’d only been sitting for perhaps an hour or two, she felt as though she had aged a decade. But she was Ladybug, and Ladybug would prevail.

“I will not be your marionette, Hawkmoth. You will not prey on my traumas to soothe your own.” She stood, moving toward the trapdoor that led to the roof, calm and poised. “Perhaps you should try therapy instead of sadism.”

After opening it, she turned back. She had no idea if Hawkmoth could hear or see her through the Akuma. It hovered, as though staring at her.

“You are not welcome here, little butterfly. Come back when you’re not evil.”

After a pause, the Akuma fluttered up and out of the sunroof, into the blue sky.

“I hope you don’t victimize someone else,” she called after it, and then shut the trapdoor decisively.

Tikki and Wayzz zoomed around her, taking their places on her shoulders as she unmuted her phone, waiting for an Akuma alert.

[alchemist-shizun]

1984 AU

Alright here is just the plot, not the fic yet, I’m gving you a heads up and say that I haven’t read the book, just studied it at school and watched the movie so I might get some stuff wrong pardon me. Also I’m reading some sites online to be a bit more aligned with the book as well. Here ya go for now:

So I thought up Virgil as Julia and Roman as Winston.

Roman does the same job as Winston at the Ministry of Truth, in the Records Department, correcting the old newspapers as the Newspeak language changes and as people are deleted from history. (the nonpeople) He also has his same secret diary he uses to record his real thoughts for a future generation.

Virgil, on the other hand, will be a tad bit different from Julia, this is where my creativity comes in: Virgil is part of the Ministry of Peace, the one that instead elicits perpetual war. I was thinking of making him a soldier of sorts, part of the army, but so that he has to do surveillance in other Ministries. I'm not sure if this is an actual thing in the book, but it serves me as a plot device to make Roman and Virgil meet.

In fact, what's better than an army member who's a rebel in disguise?

So, as in 1984 Julia and Winston exchange glances, same happens here with our two boys. Virgil is walking around the Recdep for extra monitoring apart from the telescreens in every single working spot.

He stops to look at Roman and just stares at him as he works. Of course, when Roman notices, he takes it personally and begins nurturing hatred towards him.

After all, as someone who secretly hates everything related to the Government, I think it almost comes off as automatic.

As I said, I only watched the movie so far since, sadly, I'm in exams period and I have no time for reading, so I found the relationship between Julia and Winston to be far too rushed, so let's say that in this AU it takes a bit longer for them to properly interact.

What I'm saying is that basically at first Roman seems to find Virgil very often but they only exchange glances, especially challenging ones coming from Roman since he thinks that he's for some reason especially after him.

Then one night Roman is walking around and, by chance, meets Virgil again still in full gear. It's their first actual conversation

Of course it doesn't go well, it's all passive aggressive, but Roman has to take a step back as he believes Virgil could call the thought police on him at any second.

It was, regardless, the most emotion-provoking conversation he had ever had, which made him actually look forward to a possible second encounter. Basically, the old tale of feelings of attraction disguised as feelings of hatred.

On the other hand, Virgil is actually keeping up an act, he's looking for someone in different departments that would have the tough character to stand the Party up and join the Brotherhood with him. He is in fact actually working for Janus Goldstein, the leader of the rebellion.

Though he hasn't directly worked with Janus in a while, there's an intermediary called Alastair O'Brien, who Virgil is sure is pretending to work for the Party when he's secretly in the Brotherhood. Like the actual O'Brien, Alastair works in the Ministry of Truth and is actually an agent of the Thought Police.

In the meantime Roman gets to know Emile, who's got the role of Mr Charrington, the owner of the bizarre shop and that one upstairs room, the one that becomes relevant after a while in the plot.

Once, during the Two Minutes Hate moment of the day, Roman thinks he's seen Alastair glance at him, and at some point he was sure he had seen Virgil as well. He also gets convinced by a colleague to join him for the public execution. There he intercepts Virgil's eyes, who was on patrol around the plaza.

Roman eventually reaches him and finally confronts him, asking if he was following him on purpose. Virgil only stares at him and tells him to meet him at O'Brien's office the day after.

In short, that's where Roman finds out they're both members of the Brotherhood, here Alastair gives him a book written by Janus about the truth around the whole Ingsoc. Here Roman changes his view of Virgil, seeing a potential ally in him.

The two start meeting up in secret in Charrington's room, thinking up a plan and also developing feelings for each other but you know they're gay so they're oblivious

I'm gonna skip through all the romantic stuff so you can savour it fully when the fic is written with no spoilers

So yeah the rest of the plot is pretty much the same as 1984, the Thought police discovers both of them cause of Emile and Alastair and they're taken to the Ministry of Love to get tortured and brainwashed, eventually giving up (especially after Room 101 which is going to be f u n to think of their greatest fear for that huh)

When they meet up again, the feelings they had for each other are no longer there, they confess everything that's happened to them but they don't seem to care they've both been hurt.

And ... yeah. Bitter ending, just like that. Unless I change my mind, we'll see

Taglist: @storytellerontheside @hhh-angels @sleepy-sphinx @uhhh-ruh-roh-raggy @insert-chaotic-enby-name @thefivecalls @catolicabuena @thehourglassoffalling @offendedprinceynoises @multi-fandom-remy @franthehorsegir @alexa-lettuce @adultkiddo @bookwormscififan @pansexual-mess

[satonthelotuspier]

Xichengclipse Day 4 has arrived, and as promised this is the second part of day 1′s offering.

Lotuses Are Tenacious Plants - Part 2

Having captured the young Jiang heir, Lan Xichen returns with him to the Cloud Recesses, where he has many questions for the young man, but first he will have to earn his trust and convince him he’s in no danger.

Lan Xichen had always known it was possible to project even the strongest emotion without words. His own brother was never the most talkative person; when he did speak it was measured and well thought out, but he could say so much with just a look.

This felt very much like that, as Lan Xichen went about his business as sect leader, except, he hoped, Lan Wangji rarely wanted to kill him, whereas he was entirely sure the figure on the bed, currently bound hand and foot, was likely thinking up many interesting ways to end his life.

He felt those rage-filled, burning eyes follow his every move. If they were to have a “staring at someone hard enough to set them on fire” competition, this feral young man would win hands down.

He judged he had left the other long enough, and rose to his feet.

“Jiang Cheng, you have only to promise me you’ll behave and I’ll untie and stop using the silencing spell on you.” He sank to his haunches next to the bed, so he was more on an eye level with the young necromancer.

“I genuinely don’t mean you any harm, I just want to talk to you, I want you to listen to me.” He could talk now, there was nothing Jiang Cheng could do about it if he did, but he doubted Jiang Cheng would listen to a word he said, he would be too focussed on his rage, his inherent will to survive, to escape, to fight or flight, to listen. That was why he had to have the other’s agreement first.

Time moved by as they stared at each other, it was obvious the other assessed Lan Xichen’s offer, turning over his words, and Lan Xichen pondered the question of how stunted the young man’s understanding of what was happening was; he had been all but disconnected from the world at ten years old, that was half of his lifetime.

Whatever he lacked in greater understanding, however, he more than made up for in animal cunning, as Lan Xichen had discovered first hand.

He waited a little longer, and had almost given up, about to rise to his full height again, when the other gave a single, firm jerk of his head in the positive.

Lan Xichen was relieved; he really didn’t like keeping the other bound and silenced, it was a cliché, but he only did it to protect him. He was wily and sly but he was still a normal human, without cultivation, versus a sect compound full of disciples trained in martial combat.

He reached out to begin unfastening the cords around the other’s ankles first, before moving onto his wrists, releasing the silencing spell at the same time. As he worked it only brought into stark relief how undernourished the other had been growing up. He had already noted how small and slight the other was, barely reaching his shoulder in height and with fine, bird-like bones. Again, he marvelled at the endurance the three youngsters from Yunmeng had shown to survive, alone, in that most unforgiving and dangerous area. Jiang Yanli would have barely been fourteen when they had fled Lotus Pier, the oldest of the three, and they had survived, adjusted, and, if not thrived, at least fared well enough to reach adulthood.

That they had relied on non-traditional cultivational methods was understandable. He would like to know how they had discovered necromancy, or demonic cultivation, if that was what it was, and how it worked.

Jiang Cheng had been able to control spirits with whistles and gestures, Jiang Yanli with claps of her hand. Were the whole family proficient?

He had so many questions, but they would have to wait until Jiang Cheng trusted him more.

Lan Xichen moved away from Jiang Cheng, and retreated to a reasonable distance, hoping to ensure the younger man didn’t feel too threatened.

He sat up on Lan Xichen’s bed, rubbing irritably at his just-freed wrists.

Lan Xichen turned his attention, as a disciple paused at the threshold of the Hanshi, a tray in his hands, “You promised,” Lan Xichen reminded Jiang Cheng of his recent pledge to behave, and rose to take the tray from the disciple’s hands.

He would rather remove all temptation to cause trouble from the other’s vicinity until they were more sure of each other, however.

Lan Xichen moved to the table, and placed the tray down. He gestured to the other to come over, as it contained a nourishing broth prepared for him. He had asked the cooks to discuss with the Lan sect physicians how to avoid hurting the boy’s digestive system, as he suspected they had been surviving on virtually nothing. On his search of the plateau where the cave had been he had found a very small vegetable garden, and not much else.

He sat down himself, and poured tea. He knew Jiang Cheng would probably approach the food slowly, if it all. He wouldn’t trust Lan Xichen. He didn’t know him, except as the man who had invaded his territory, assaulted him, and stolen him away from his family.

“If you hurt them, there won’t be a single place in this world where you can hide from me.” At the sudden sound of Jiang Cheng’s voice, Lan Xichen glanced up, and met those burning eyes.

“They both ran away, I didn’t lay a finger on either of them.” He assured. He should have known that would be the other’s first concern and set his mind at rest immediately. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner,” he apologised.

The other looked at him, confusion shaping that sharp, still-scratched face.

“I have left them a communication talisman, telling them that I intended to bring you to the Cloud Recesses, however, so hopefully they should make their way here soon.” Although the journey would take them a while, considering they weren’t able to fly on swords, like Lan Xichen had.

There was a growl from the figure on the bed and he suddenly leapt forward, “You won’t use me as bait to trap them,” Jiang Cheng snarled as he attacked.

Lan Xichen met him half way, catching his wrists, trying to hold on tightly enough to keep control of him but not enough to hurt.

“I want to help. Listen to me, you promised, Jiang Cheng. I mean neither you nor your siblings any harm.”

At the reminder that he had agreed to not attack, Jiang Cheng stopped struggling.

“How do I know I can believe you?”

It was a fair question. Lan Xichen’s sect had been built on a foundation of righteousness, of honesty, of reliability, but Jiang Cheng probably hadn’t learned much of other sects by the age the fall of Lotus Pier had occurred.

“You probably weren’t taught about us, Jiang Cheng, but members of the Gusu Lan sect are rigidly truthful.” Jiang Cheng looked at him then, a touch of confusion on his face. The other had a truly open and telling face, but then the siblings would never have had to learn to disguise their emotions.

“You keep speaking my name, like you know me.”

“I know of you, and I put the pieces together when I saw you use Zidian, your mother’s heirloom spiritual weapon, at the Burial Mounds. The whole cultivational world knows of the razing of Lotus Pier. They searched the dead, but found no trace of you, or your sister, or your father’s ward, so some hoped against hope that you were alive and had escaped. No one ever dreamed you were in Yiling, though.”

Jiang Cheng’s sharp gaze burned up into his from between his captured wrists.

He began struggling again then, but it wasn’t the same as before, and Jiang Cheng’s lashes swept down, but not quickly enough to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes. He tugged on his wrists, and Lan Xichen let him go. The other moved across to sit at the table, his back to Lan Xichen, but it wasn’t rudeness, merely a young man who didn’t know how to disguise his emotions desperately trying to hide his grief from a potential enemy.

Lan Xichen did him him the honour of giving him the space he needed.

Eventually, the other turned to the table, and reached for the covered bowl that contained the broth intended for him.

He sniffed at it cautiously, “The Lans are rigidly against poisoning prisoners, too?” there was still that cockiness in his tone, but Lan Xichen could tell he pulled it on like a comforting blanket, something familiar and safe.

“At least three of the three thousand rules.” Lan Xichen agreed with a grin in his voice.

Jiang Cheng shot him a quick glance, but resolutely looked back at the broth.

“Prove it, Lan,” Jiang Cheng dipped the spoon in the broth, and held it out for the other to taste.

Amusement pulled at Lan Xichen’s lips, “My name is Lan Xichen. I should probably have introduced myself sooner, I beg your pardon.”

“Keep begging,” the other said, but without real venom this time. He nodded at the spoon. “If it was poisoned, I could eat that and extract the poison with my golden core, I am a cultivator, Jiang Cheng. But if it makes you feel safer…” he took the spoon from the other and sipped at the broth. “I would have no need to poison you, of course,” he said as he handed the spoon back, “I could have very easily stabbed you at any point since we met.”

“You aren’t a killer.” Jiang Cheng said with confidence, returning the spoon to the bowl and lifting a mouthful to taste. “You opened yourself up so many times at the Burial Mound because you pulled your blows, or turned aside your sword.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“You still hit hard when you do strike, though,” the tone was accusing, and Jiang Cheng’s hand went up to rest on his tunic over the centre of his chest, where Lan Xichen had struck him a blow in Yiling.

“I tried to temper it. I’m sorry if I hurt you, but in fairness you were attacking me at the time.”

Jiang Cheng shrugged, and took another mouthful of the soup. After three he put the lid back on, and threw a look around the room. He was looking for places he could hoard.

Considering how much more well looked after Jiang Yanli had been than the boys, he suspected the two gave the lions share of the food to her.

“When your jie and shixiong arrive there will be plenty of food for them, please finish what you can, there will be more.”

Jiang Cheng again watched him carefully, as if trying to divine the truth in his words.

He smiled reassuringly, and the other blinked, as if put on the back foot by the reaction. But he did remove the lid and pick up the spoon to eat a little more.

“You wanted me to listen,” Jiang Cheng prompted him as he sipped at his tea.

Lan Xichen nodded.

“Ten years ago, two events sparked an uprising against the Wens. Lotus Pier was razed and Cloud Recesses was burned to the ground, both on the orders of Sect Leader Wen Ruohan. The Jiangs were completely wiped out, although there was some doubt that their children were present when it happened. Although the Lans didn’t fare as badly, the Lan sect leader was badly wounded too, and died weeks later without ever recovering.” Lan Xichen spoke dispassionately, but was surprised at the sudden welling up of grief at the memories. Neither he, nor his brother Wangji, had ever been particularly close to their father, but they had been evacuated from the Cloud Recesses when the Wen’s approach had been discovered. His Shufu had thrust scrolls into his arms, a small black tortoise talisman into his hand, and sent thirteen year old Lan Xichen and eleven year old Lan Wangji out of the barriers and told them to run and hide.

He had come to find them several weeks later; the small Xuanwu talisman had been to enable him to locate them, but by that time it had been too late, their father had already passed, leaving Lan Xichen the de-facto sect leader of a sect without a home.

“The Sunshot Campaign, as the war was eventually named, began in earnest shortly after, and the Wens were overthrown. Justice was meted out.”

“They’re dead?”

Lan Xichen nodded, and, despite the fact he wasn’t a killer, as Jiang Cheng had already pointed out, he felt no guilt over it.

“We’re safe? They aren’t looking for us anymore?” Jiang Cheng sounded so childlike again Lan Xichen had to fight the urge to reach over and pat his head soothingly.

He would likely lose his hand if he did.

“They aren’t looking for you anymore, Jiang Cheng, the last of the Wens died many years ago. You, and your siblings, are safe from them.”

The spoon clattered into the bowl, and he surged to his feet. He looked around like a wild thing, then ran for the door.

Lan Xichen let him go. He didn’t actually think Jiang Cheng would try to run, it was merely that he was overcome, overloaded with information in a world that was new and confusing, that had left him behind as a child. It was no wonder he was overwhelmed.

***

A good while later Lan Xichen left the Hanshi, and went in search of the other.

He found him, eventually, in the top branches of a magnolia tree away in a corner of the private family area. It would be quiet and less populated here, away from the main areas of Cloud Recesses, which was no doubt why Jiang Cheng had found his way there.

He stood at the trunk, looking up, and saw there were tear tracks on the other’s face, and he played with a small, black figurine. It was the Xuanwu statue his Shufu kept on his desk in the classroom.

“I stole it from that room there,” Jiang Cheng saw he looked at the tortoise as he tossed it from hand to hand. He tucked it into the collar of his tunic, then wiped surreptitiously at his face.

“It’s cold on the mountain at this time of year, Jiang Cheng. I brought you a cloak.”

Jiang Cheng scoffed from his exalted height. “I lived in the Burial Mounds, do you think I’m scared of your mountain, Lan Xichen?”

“No, I think probably the only thing that scares you is losing your siblings.”

“You don’t know me, just because you know my name, and my people, man of Gusu,” Jiang Cheng was back to his sharp self, and, oddly, it soothed Lan Xichen’s worry.

“You are correct, I don’t know you, Jiang Cheng. But I do know you’re terrible.”

“Completely horrid,” he agreed unrepentantly, and dropped from the tree, agilely swinging from branch to branch, until he reached the ground.

He snatched the cloak out of Lan Xichen’s hands, and shook it out, holding it up to examine the pattern.

“Pretty,” he crooned, before folding it up carefully, and tucking it under his arm, “A-Jie should have it, it’s so pretty.”

“A-Jie can have a hundred like it when they get here, A-Cheng, this one is for you, to keep you warm.” There was a trace of exasperation in his voice, but Jiang Cheng merely strode off ahead of him, back in the direction of the Hanshi.

It was going to be so difficult to get the other to take care of himself, especially if, every time Lan Xichen gave him something, he tried to hoard it for Jiang Yanli.

He sighed, and followed the other at a distance.

He was entirely sure he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, tracking them step for step, on the walk back.