#patchwork must protect tiny patchwork

[patchingupyourheart]

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[goodlucktai]

Hi! I love your works! 71 + 72 for Luffy and Jinbei?

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71. “I’m going to protect you.”

smile again

x

As a watchdog journalist, Jinbei's work takes him everywhere. He isn't always in the best position to receive phone calls. Sometimes, depending on what story his group decides to chase after and what far-flung corner of the world it leads them to, Jinbei goes weeks without internet access.

By the time he gets news of the accident, Luffy has been out of the hospital for a month and Ace has been dead just as long.

Jinbei has to go home.

His colleagues-- a group of solid, hard-working people he's known for going on twenty years, has worked with on the field and off, in smoke and fire and claustrophobic office spaces-- are entirely understanding.

Tiger drives him to a small airport, the truck bouncing along a bumpy gravel road. There's a single, hastily-packed duffel in the bed of the pickup. Jinbei isn't even sure what he shoved in there, having only made one mindless pass through his room. He would have left without his passport if Hatchan hadn't shoved it into his hands on his way out the door.

"It may be time for me to retire," Jinbei says aloud. His mind is ebbing and rising like a tide, a vast ocean of grief. Thoughts go bobbing away like loose buoys before he can get a grasp on them.

All he can think of is the last video-call he made home, over a month ago now. Ace and Luffy, pressed cheek-to-cheek so they'd both fit in-frame, competitive in all things and unwilling to take turns, even as Jinbei laughingly promised he had plenty of time to talk.

They made him promise to call again soon. He meant to.

"Don't worry about us over here," Tiger says. His eyes are on the road, hands tight around the steering wheel. He carries Jinbei's grief like it's his own. "Just worry about your boy."

His boy, Jinbei thinks. Not by blood or by law, certainly, but by something less quantifiable than that. Those scrappy kids that spilled into his yard one muggy summer evening, hiding in the hedges from their well-antagonized CPS caseworker and somehow claiming a piece of Jinbei's heart from the moment he first laid eyes on them.

Ace was so angry back then, and Luffy was so easily frightened, and they clung to each other in a practiced way, as if they were so used to the world trying to claw them apart that they didn't expect anything else, even from a perfect stranger. They didn't seem to know what to do with kindness. Ace watched Jinbei like a hawk for weeks, long after Luffy warmed up to him. His trust, when he finally gave it, felt like a prize.

Jinbei was working long, unpredictable hours, and knew it wouldn't be fair to drag two children into his household if he couldn't afford them the time and care they deserved-- but after school? Weekends? Holidays? Those he gave up freely.

His days gained some semblance of routine again, for the fist time since he finished college. His kitchenware came down from the cupboard, the pockmarked kitchen table was often set for three. He made dinner at home, more than he ate in the office with his colleagues.

Hell, his colleagues ate dinner with him at home more often, too. Within an hour of meeting the boys, each of Jinbei's friends, to a man, would have taken a bullet for either of them, no questions asked.

The sense of structure did wonders for the brothers. With a safe place to return to when they needed it, and someone to fall back on, Ace stopped looking at every potential foster home as if it was a threat. Luffy came out of his shell, bolder with each new day. He made a friend in the village, a boy with vivid green eyes, and they hardly spent a moment apart.

They were finally placed with a couple who lived nearby. Shanks was wry and good-natured, and Benn had the patience of a saint. After a few weeks, when Jinbei asked how they were settling in, his worries were soothed: Luffy clearly adored them, and even Ace grudgingly admitted they weren't so bad.

And when the time came, and Ace applied for emancipation as well as custody of his brother, he had a small army in his corner. A patchwork family collected in little bits and pieces, ready to support him through anything.

"I will always be here for you both," Jinbei had promised him, countless times. "You'll never be alone as long as I'm alive."

"Thank you," Ace said, a little bashful. But he was so pleased, and so full of hope for the future, and he said, "I'll feel better, knowing someone's around to look after Luffy if I can't."

He immediately got shouted down by his entire strange extended pseudo-family for daring to suggest they'd ever let anything happen to him, and it made him laugh so brightly, and now the memory sticks like needles in Jinbei's throat.

Tiger hugs him hard before Jinbei boards the plane. In the back of his mind, where there is a tiny corner free from drowning, Jinbei can't help but wonder when he'll see his friend again.

He keeps thinking of that last video call. He can't remember everything they talked about. He doesn't think he said enough. He almost certainly didn't tell Ace everything he deserved to hear. Foolishly, he assumed there would be another time.

He's learned from this. He won't take it for granted any more.

"Call me when you land," Tiger says. "Give the monkey our love."

"I will," Jinbei replies. His heart is so heavy he doesn't know how he manages the steps onto the plane. He doesn't know how the pilot manages to lift them up from the tarmac. It's a wonder they aren't sinking, straight through the earth.

Nami and Usopp are waiting for him at the airport, wide-awake even though it's well past two o'clock in the morning. They're familiar to Jinbei from the stories Luffy has told him, from the numerous video calls they've bullied their way into over the years, and the handful of birthdays and holidays Jinbei was able to make it home for.

"Luffy wanted to come with us to pick you up, but he fell asleep," Usopp says, apropos of nothing, as they're waiting for their Uber. "Sanji said it was a small miracle, and Zoro looked like he was going to hunt us for sport if we even thought about waking him up, so--"

"He hasn't been sleeping, then?" Jinbei asks quietly.

"After he came home, he was on some pretty heavy meds, and he slept a lot," Nami says. Her arms are folded tight against her chest in the nighttime chill, her eyes trained somewhere far away. "But he had bad dreams and he would wake up disoriented. Now he fights sleep tooth and nail."

"We've all sort of become the insomnia squad," Usopp pipes up. "Thank god I'm not taking any classes this summer."

"Sanji's gotten really good at making lattes," Nami adds with a small smile. "Wait till you see his shiny new espresso machine."

"I'm like eight-five percent sure he stole it from the Baratie."

Jinbei listens to their chatter, feeling at once anchored by them and adrift at sea. It makes sense that they would be ahead of him. They've been here all this time, practically from the moment of the accident, facing it with all the bravery and endurance of sailors in a typhoon. Jinbei, meanwhile, had been living in an unchanged world.

For the last month, Ace has been dead. How many times had Jinbei thought about him? Mentioned him to a friend? How many times had Jinbei wrongly said his name in the present-tense?

The house is warmly-lit when they arrive, but quiet. An old blue Irish wolfhound greets them at the door, wagging his tail. Robin looks up from the papers she has spread out on the coffee table and smiles. Chopper is fast asleep beside her, his head on her shoulder. Behind them, Jinbei can see Sanji at work in the kitchen, shaping dough. Something is baking that smells of cinnamon and apples.

They weren't kidding about their sleep schedules being a mess.

"Hello, Jinbei. It's good to see you," Robin says. Her voice is soft, in deference to the sleeping teenager. "Luffy is asleep, but you can see him if you like."

"Please," Jinbei replies hoarsely.

"I'll take him," Nami says. "Usopp, would you bring his bag to the guest bedroom?"

"'Course," Usopp replies, but he makes a detour into the kitchen first.

Nami takes Jinbei's hand and leads him toward the stairs. "I feel really stupid about this, but I was so angry at you," she admits as they make their way up. "It's hardly the first time we haven't been able to contact you, and I know why that is. But-- I don't know, I think I was going crazy. I wanted Luffy to have everything he wanted. I wanted everyone who loved him to be here every time he woke up. So I-- so there might be some angry emails waiting for you, but please don't hate me for it."

"I won't even read them," Jinbei promises gravely, his heart cleaved clean in two. "I can't imagine how-- how hard it must have been. I-- if I had gotten the messages sooner-- "

"I know," Nami assures him, pausing outside a closed bedroom door. "Franky spoke to you like six hours ago, and you're already here. You dropped everything to be here. We know the kind of person you are."

She stands up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and Jinbei bends to accommodate her, the same way he does for Koala. Then Nami reaches out and pushes open the door.

Zoro is awake, sitting against the headboard with his phone in hand and earphones in, and his eyes are as bright and sharp now as they were when he was a child. He looks up when the door opens, and seems to relax when he sees Jinbei stepping in behind Nami.

"Go to sleep," Nami whispers, pointing at the second bed across the spacious room.

"Don't tell me what to do," Zoro replies, just as quiet, but he pulls his earphones out and extracts himself from the bed with all the exacting precision of a bomb disposal technician. Nami takes him by the arm, helping him get up so carefully that the mattress hardly moves. It's such a well-practiced maneuver that Jinbei thinks he honestly might cry.

"If one of you would stay for a bit, I'll grab a shower," Zoro says.

"Sure, stinky," Nami says, nudging him toward the door. "Jinbei?"

He nods, unsure of what he's agreeing to. Now that he's finally next to Luffy, nothing else seems to exist. He sinks into the chair beside the bed, only half-aware of Nami and Zoro leaving. Their murmured conversation is cut off by the closing door. The room is silent, save for the gentle, unobtrusive sound of Luffy's steady breathing.

He's lost weight since Jinbei saw him last. There are shadows on his face that don't belong there. He looks both older and younger than he has any right to, even now, when his face is untroubled and slack with sleep.

"Hello, little monkey," Jinbei says. His voice is quiet, but it still breaks. He's crying, he realizes, thick tears rolling down his face with abandon. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

He thinks of two little boys, spilling into his life on accident, taking up room in his home and his heart as if they always belonged there. They weren't his, not really, but he loved them anyway. Loves them still.

"I'm here now," he whispers. His hands are shaking. "I'm going to protect you, like I promised. I'm here, Ace. Please believe me, wherever you are. I won't fail you again."

[munsonboy]

Marvel G/t Oneshot: A Place to Call Home

Loki x borrower!Peter Parker x female!borrower Y/n

I wrote this in 5 days😅😂...enjoy!

———————————————-

It was an incredibly stormy night at the Avengers Tower. Everyone was cooped up in their bedrooms, keeping themselves busy to take their minds off of the storm that was brewing outside. Loki sat in his room with his back against the head board of his bed. He had his legs bent so that his knees were sticking up from underneath the blanket. That’s where his little friend Peter was currently sitting. Peter was perched up on the giant Asgardian’s knee, throwing questions at Loki left and right about the storm. “Are you sure that the Tower isn’t going to get knocked over? It’s raining pretty hard out there and I really don’t think the building could withstand-..”, Peter stopped talking when Loki held his hand up as a gesture to not continue anymore with the conversation. “Peter, if you ask me one more question about the rain, I think I might just throw you out in it.” Peter’s eyes went as wide as buttons and his face paled. This caused Loki to feel guilt rush quickly into his chest. “I’m just joking, little one. You must know by now that I would never do that to you. I’m not even sure that someone your size would have a mere chance of survival out there”, said Loki as he turned his head to look out the window. Peter laughed nervously. “Yeah, I hope there aren’t any borrowers out in this.”

The raindrops falling from the sky were hitting the windows as if they were bullets, trees in Central Park looked as if they were going to be torn out of the ground, and a 3-inch tall girl named Y/n was currently having the worst night of her life. Y/n had been out and about in the big city and hadn’t even thought to look up towards the grey clouds that were hovering above the tall buildings. She was on a mission to find a new place to call home since she was caught in the recent one she’s been borrowering from for a while now, but instead she found herself running around huge puddles, dogding the massive raindrops that were almost as big as her head, and most importantly, she was trying to find something that would shelter her from the tsunami of rain coming down.

It was almost like someone heard her prayers, because Y/n soon stumbled upon the biggest building she had ever seen. “There has to be at least one good hiding spot in this building”, said Y/n. Her eyes scanned where the building met the sidewalk, seeing if there was anyway possible for her to get inside. “Please let there be a hole, please-....bingo!” Y/n had spotted a small hole on the outside of the building’s wall that she would be able to shimmy her way through. “I’ll be out of this rain in no time and I’ll finally be able to dry off somehow”, said Y/n as she looked down at her soaked clothes. If only she knew what, or who, was waiting for her on the inside.

Once she was inside and out of the rain, Y/n had found the vent system and started her journey from there. Every now and then she would peak out from the safety of the vents to see if there were any humans around and luckily for her, not one was insight. Y/n couldn’t wrap her mind around it, but who was she to complain? No humans meant all the more she could borrower and not have to worry about being spotted. However, Y/n’s curiosity got the better of her, so she decided to continue walking until she found at least one human being.

The more she walked through the vents, the more floors she went up and before she knew it, the voices of multiple different people were soon echoing throughout the vents where Y/n was. “Great, looks like I’m not alone.” After snooping around and taking a good look at the humans who lived in the tower and who she would have to stay hidden from, Y/n soon discovered that it housed multiple super heroes. She took note of who she had spied on so far. A blonde man with muscles who had a red, white, and blue flag up on the wall, a woman that could move things by using some kind of red orb in her hands, a guy that was playing with a bow and a few arrows, two scientists who were definitely going to be avoided at all costs, a woman with short red hair, and another blonde man who was playing with some funky looking hammer. “Of all the places I’ve lived, this definitely has to be the coolest and most strangest place I’ve come across”, said Y/n to herself.

She continued walking through the vents to find some place quiet when she stumbled upon a room that looked practically empty. The vent led her out onto a desk and without checking to see if any humans were around, she exited the vents and stepped foot out in the open. Y/n’s eyes trailed around the room for not even one second before they landed on the giant that occupied the room. He was sitting on the bed directly across from the desk she was on. She yelped, hoping that the human didn’t hear, and jumped behind the tissue box that was looming beside her.

She slowly peaked around the side of it and studied the human. He had raven black hair that barely passed his shoulders and was very pale looking, even from far away. It looked as if he was just at a costume party because he had this green, gold, and black armor on. He was also talking to someone, but there were no other humans in sight. Y/n looked around the room, confused as ever, to see if there was another human besides the one she was looking at. As Y/n continued staring at the human, her eyes went wide. There was a borrower sitting on the human’s knee, conversing with the giant. “Is that borrower crazy?”, Y/n asked herself. “That’s like asking to be killed.” Y/n decided to not stick around anymore, not wanting to get caught, so she decided to walk towards the edge of the desk to find an escape route.

Loki and Peter had ended their conversation about the rain and began to talk about their plans for tomorrow. “Okay, so I was thinking you could hide me in your pocket and we go down to Central Park for a nice morning walk!”, said Peter excitedly. Loki stared at him for a moment and said, “If you think I’m going to risk your safety just so you can look at a few trees while I have to deal with receiving unpleasant glares from strangers, you are mistaken, young Peter.” Loki tapped Peter on the head and laughed as he tried to push Loki’s finger away. “The rain will most likely continue throughout the morning. So I say we explore the library the Avengers Tower has to offer. I do not recall you telling me that you have been there before”, said Loki.

“I forgot about the library! I never went there though because Mr. Stark was always walking around. I didn’t want to risk being caught by a scientist”, said Peter. Loki smiled at the borrower sitting on top of his knee. “Yes, well, instead of a scientist, you ended up getting caught by the God of Mischief”, said Loki, which got a laugh out of Peter. Making his little friend laugh was probably one of the few things that warmed Loki’s heart. However, nothing beats earning the trust of such a small being. Loki still couldn’t believe that borrowers actually exist. He yearned to have another opportunity to become friends with another borrower. Peter would have someone to hang out with that was actually his size. As Loki looked at Peter laughing, his eyes wandered behind Peter and over to his desk. They fell upon a sight that made his heart want to leap out of his throat. A tiny girl, no bigger than Peter, was standing at the edge of his desk, looking down towards the floor. ‘If she were to fall, she would-...’, Loki couldn’t even finish the thought. He gently picked Peter up and set him down on the bed. “I’ll be one moment, Peter.” He didn’t give Peter a chance to question where he was going and made his way over towards the borrower on the desk.

“Okay..now what?”, asked Y/n to herself as she stared at the floor that seemed miles away from her. She really didn’t think this all the way through. Come to think of it, she didn’t even come to realize what her plan would be if the giant ended up seeing her. Just as Y/n was about to turn back around to get away from the edge, a shadow encased her in darkness. She slowly turned around to be met with the giant, who had been sitting on the bed, looming over her. It was then that she saw the giant’s hand that was coming closer. It was making its way towards her and she couldn’t do anything about it.

If she were to run, the hand would just snatch her right up, so what would be the point? As the giant’s fingers snaked themselves around Y/n’s waist, she closed her eyes. She felt herself being gently squeezed and before she was able to process what was happening, Y/n felt herself being raised higher and higher. Suddenly, she felt a squishy surface beneath her feet. Y/n’s legs were shaking like crazy and they weren’t able to hold her up, so she landed on her bum, and involuntary backpedaled until her back hit the fingers overhead that were more than twice her size. “This is it...I’m done for..”, said Y/n quietly to herself as she ducked her head down.

Loki studied the small girl in his palm. She had blonde hair that was neatly tied up in a ponytail, she wore a patchwork shirt with black pants and a pair of little, slip on shoes. Her clothes actually looked like she had gotten them off of a doll, but they looked as if they had been dumped in a bucket of water. “Were you caught out in the rain, little one?”, asked Loki. He saw the tiny girl flinch at the sound of his voice, but he received no response.

After observing her appearance and not getting an answer to his question, Loki almost forgot to think of how much he was scaring the girl. Her arms were covering her face, hands on her head, which seemed to be giving her some sense of protection, and even though she was smaller than his thumb, Loki could visibly see her quivering. ‘Poor thing. She must be terrified’, thought Loki to himself. His heart ached when his ears picked up on the inaudible, short breathes the tiny was taking in and out.

Y/n didn’t like the predicament she had gotten herself into. Her vision was blurred due to the tears in her eyes and she couldn’t even sit still. She wouldn’t let this giant see her break down. Y/n refused to let that happen again. Suddenly, an immense pressure was on her back, gently rubbing around in small circles. Y/n quickly realized that it was the giant’s finger, but she failed to notice how gentle he was being and instantly took it that she was being pet like an animal. That was the last straw. Y/n’s tears escaped the brims of her eyes and streamed down her rosey cheeks, getting her somewhat dry shirt wet again.

Loki, on the other hand, froze completely and removed his finger from her back. He didn’t expect her to break down this much. Peter was very frightened of Loki when they first encountered each other, but he didn’t react this badly. Without thinking, Loki walked over towards Peter, who was sitting on the bed the entire time. If anyone could calm the tiny girl down, it would definitely be Peter. Loki knelt down in front of Peter, holding the girl close to his chest. “Loki what happened? Why do I hear someone crying-..?”, as Peter finished asking his question, Loki had brought the girl down towards the bed and rested his hand on the mattress. He unfurled his fingers so Peter could see the new addition to the family. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “A-Another borrower?!”, he exclaimed. “Yes, and do make sure to be quiet, young Peter. She is petrified. I was wondering if you could somehow get her to a calmer state so we can all talk”, said Loki.

Peter clambered right on top of Loki’s hand without saying a word and walked over to the girl. Peter had never seen another borrower before, so this was a whole new experience for him. As Peter got closer to her, he noticed that she was much shorter than him. ‘Finally, I wouldn’t be the shortest person in the Tower anymore’, thought Peter to himself. He knelt down beside the girl, looking at her.

“H-Hey there, are you o-okay?” Peter mentally slapped himself for stuttering, but brushed that aside when he got a response out of her. She had looked up from her crouched position and was staring into Peter’s eyes. The only thing he saw was fear. Peter instinctively wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a hug. He felt the girl tense up, but she welcomed his embrace in a matter of seconds. “You really don’t have to be scared. Loki isn’t going to hurt you. He’s actually super nice!”, said Peter happily. His happiness grew by the dozens when the girl started talking to him. “H-He is?”, she asked. “Yeah! He acts tough on the outside, but he’s a real softie once you get to know him!”, exclaimed Peter, who was poked by Loki’s finger. He looked up to see Loki smirking at him. “I’m Peter by the way! What’s your name?” Peter broke the hug, but kept an arm around her to reassure that she was fine.

Y/n contemplated whether or not she should tell him what her name was, but she felt so relaxed after Peter had hugged her, that she now found it rude not to tell him. “U-Um I-..I-I’m Y-Y/n.”

“That’s a nice name! Do you want to tell Loki what your name is?”, asked Peter. He felt Y/n tense up again, so he said, “You really have nothing to be scared of. He’s not gonna hurt you. Trust me.” And with that, Y/n looked up at the giant who was holding her and Peter. The huge, green eyes staring at Y/n made her nervousness slightly go up again, but she tried to hold onto the confidence that she was feeling when he softly smiled at her. “My n-name is Y/n, s-sir.” Loki couldn’t believe his ears. She had told him her name. “Y/n..”, repeated Loki under his breath. He wanted to see how her name sounded when he said it. “You have the most elegant name I have ever heard of, little one. I am Loki, Prince of Asgard. It is lovely to meet your acquaintance my dear and please do not call me sir. It makes me feel old.” Loki chuckled softly.

“Wow, he’s really polite”, whispered Y/n to Peter. He laughed as he looked at Y/n. Peter suddenly got an idea. “Loki! Can we watch a movie to celebrate Y/n’s first night here at the Tower?” “Now, young one, we are still unsure if Y/n even wants to stay here with us. We did not even ask her yet”, said Loki. He didn’t want to force it upon Y/n to stay here with him and Peter. It was bad enough that he had scooped her up off of his desk without her consent. He didn’t want to mess things up and scare her all over again.

“You..you both wouldn’t m-mind if I stayed here?”, asked Y/n. “Oh by Odin! Of course we do not mind, little one!”, responded Loki. Y/n thought for a moment. Was she really going to do this? Stay in a tower full of super heroes? She didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so how could she pass up a chance to finally have a home? “I-I would love to stay here with you and Peter!”, exclaimed Y/n.

Peter hugged Y/n again and started listing off the different movies that they could watch. She looked up at Loki to see him laughing away at Peter’s actions. That’s when Y/n suddenly got an idea. When Peter released her from his bone crushing hug, Y/n stood up, catching her balance, and walked over to Loki’s thumb. She wrapped her arms around the long digit and just hugged it. “Th-Thank you. Thank you so much for giving me a new home, Loki”, she said as she continued to hug his finger.

Loki’s heart practically melted because of the sweet gesture. He used his pointer finger on his other hand to rub her back gently. “No need to thank me, my little dove. Everyone deserves a place to call home.” Loki ruffled Y/n’s hair a little, getting a sweet laugh out of her.

The days that followed Y/n’s first meeting with Loki and Peter were the best days she had ever lived through. Loki had made her a makeshift bed that was placed on his bedside table, but she hardly ever used it. She slept on his chest every night, with Peter next to her. A hand was always cupped over the two borrowers, sheltering them from the outside world. Loki would always read to them to help them sleep, and it always worked like a charm.

Y/n had finally done it. She had made new friends who she was proud to call her family.

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Let me know if you liked it! Also, let me know if I should do more oneshots like this! It was super fun writing this story :D

[gumnut-logic]

It was old.

Scott wasn’t exactly sure how old, but it had been around all his life at least. A hand-knitted patchwork of colours, likely from scraps of wool from other projects. Maybe Nanna? Nanna knitted didn’t she?

His memories of his mother’s mother were so vague, he couldn’t be sure. Gran Roca, dusty wind, gentle hugs, colours and not much more.

Of course, it could have been their mother, but he doubted it. She wouldn’t have had the time. Between her engineering team at Tracy Industries and five young children, she had been stretched thin.

Memories.

He fingered the blanket. It was frayed at the edges. One patch of lighter wool had a stain on it that could be attributed to John, a nasty flu and spaghetti bolognese. He could still remember Grandma’s panic at the time and the rush to get the wool soaking and clean.

It had seen many an illness. It was a go to when one of them was feeling down.

Of course, it wasn’t the only blanket available, they were a large family, after all. Each brother had their own snuggle rug, as Gordon called them. Each with its own unique motif, all terribly predictable.

Alan’s was the single bed quilt from his kiddy racing car bed, the only part of that set up that had survived the great paint explosion of 2052.

It had survived because it had been in another room at the time.

No one commented when it came out, his little brother usually buried under it on the lounge. When the racing car quilt came out, it was time for hugs, not stirring jokes.

Gordon, of course, had a giant squid faux mink blanket. The thing was massive, incredibly soft and the only one in existence. Virgil had it made during Gordon’s recovery. Their brother had lost so much weight, he had been cold all the time. The blanket was king size and huge. Big enough for more than one brother, if needed.

You would think John would have some space age material designed to be super warm, but no. A simple hand knitted star motif in soft wool was deployed on those nights when gravity crawled across his skin and the unregulated atmosphere crept under it. Scott wasn’t sure where he got it from. It just appeared shortly after his first stint on Five and it tended to reappear for the same reason.

Virgil’s blanket had paint stains. Specifically from the incident where he caught his brother in his studio shivering with a fever of 39C after that damned swamp rescue three years ago. The idiot’s hand had been shaking, struggling to paint anything, but for some stubborn artistic reason, he had had to paint right at that moment. Something about getting it all down now, before he lost it.

He lost it alright. Spilt his paint water all over himself, along with orange and blue paint when the canvas over balanced and fell on him.

The soft Scottish blend of wools had never been the same again. Grandma had once again been the once desperately trying to get the stains out of wool, while Scott carted his brother off to the infirmary.

Of course, on a tropical island, there often wasn’t much need for blankets, but they still used them. Sometimes they were scrunched up into makeshift pillows on the couch. Sometimes they were just something to curl up around.

It wasn’t like any of them had much in the way of bed company most nights and Scott wasn’t above seeking comfort in the soft folds of warm and familiar fabric on those nights when loneliness and his life beat him down to the basics.

But this blanket, this well worn host of memories, had seen them all.

He slipped the folded bulk out of the closet and let it unravel in his hands. There was a tiny hole forming in one corner. He must remember to get out the darning needle and fix that when he got a chance, before it became too big.

But for now, the blanket was needed.

Closing the closet door, he flung the knitted fabric over one arm and headed down to the comms room.

It was dark outside and the house was quiet, most of the family had drifted off to bed an hour or so ago, leaving Scott and the one other occupant of the room to talk.

And talk they did.

Spread out on the sofas with room to spare, Scott and Virgil had shared a drink and simple conversation. Not about International Rescue, not about the Thunderbirds, not about work.

Just talk.

A few memories, a few aspirations, Virgil’s latest painting, a dash of current affairs, a little gossip regarding Scott’s secretary at TI and Alan.

It had been a good talk.

But life still existed even when you tried to ignore it, and Thunderbird Two had been out most of the day. Three rescues, all successful, but everyone was only allotted a certain amount of energy per day and at eleven o’clock at night, Virgil hit his limit.

Soft snores echoed across the hardwood floor as Scott re-entered the room. He had dimmed the lights and closed the main glass doors. The room felt cocooned and safe. The moon peeked through the rafters, hinting at the outside world, but for the moment, everything else was shut out.

They were protected.

Scott stepped softly across to the sunken lounge where Virgil was curled up on a sofa. An empty tumbler sat discarded on the end table.

His brother had shoved a cushion under his cheek and mashed his face into it. Technically the sofa was too short and too skinny for his large frame, but Virgil had curled himself up into a ball of flannel and denim.

Steel caps lay discarded on the floor.

The cushion was subjected to drool.

Scott couldn’t help but smile.

Virgil’s face was slack and so young in sleep. His huge hands were fisted up under his chin like the child he used to be and Scott was suddenly struck by the images of so many other nights with so many younger versions of his little brother doing exactly the same thing, yet smaller.

The smile turned into a fond grin.

Moments like these made everything worth it.

He spread the old blanket over Virgil’s legs, the folds landing softly over socked feet, and draped it across his waist.

His brother snorted and wriggled as only a man of his size could.

An unintelligible mutter, a sigh, and the snoring returned.

Still smiling, Scott straightened and backed away, turning to leave.

Dimming the lights to almost non-existence, he headed towards the stairs and his own bed.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[hekatepoetryxxwriting]

Experimental Gothic Work, Piece One: The Wolves in the Woods

There be wolves in them woods.

Let that warning sit in the bones, be a belly ache in the small children huddled in bed, sheets pressed tight to their eyes as the candlelight dims.

Walpurgis Night, when the moon descends upon the patchwork houses and women of the skies join hands and dance upon The Brocken. The church doors close, they will not open again until spring brings its first bloom, the lamb bleats its first cry. Instead the priest shall fix his cross to the wall, shall watch it slip and fix accordingly until the Bald Mountains brush away their glacial caps and return to God’s Eye. He is blind on the Sabbath and can do naught but watch as the heretics fell upon the kirkyards and yes, my child, they will find grandma’s corpse, and feast upon it. Because that is what mother says witches do.

The villagers pray in the town square. Standing at the foot of an idol made of sticks and kindling, a wicker remnant of a time before God, even though the abbess claims this does not exist. God has existed since before time, she ‘educates’. The people nod, they don’t dare mention the honey cakes and ale they would gift to the Forest. An old woman strays from the flock to listen once more: there was a time the Forest would hum back.

The idol moves! No, not the idol, silly girl. The witch who stands upon the altar, her lungs as black as her heart. All witches have black hearts, mother says so, so it must be true. Mother learned this from her mother, a bloody lullaby she sings by the hearth, where the fire crackles and keeps the dark where it belongs. The fire purges, it reduces the girl upon the pyre to ashes. Her brother watches from the lawman’s cottage that he had visited for so many days before they came for the witchling. Her mother pleads with God to open His gates an inch, to allow her newly-bled daughter in. Don’t you know that your God has better things to do on such unholy nights?

When the clouds part the men shall gather up the bones and cast them into the dirt. Witches have no place in the kirkyard. Their bones crawl back up from the ground, a tasty treat for the neighbours dog.

A boy cries “Wolf!”. The men come running, they come with torches and axes. A boy would not lie. He cannot be tempted so, does not possess the hollow space between his belly and his flesh. Women are corrupted when the fruit is rotted, everyone knows that. They search, they find nothing. Perhaps the wolf was simply scared off. The boy bares his teeth and runs home. His next cry may be to warn of an animal with two-legs instead.

Before the night is over, a young woman must don her cloak to visit Grandma. The old lady is sick, she mumbles prayers and keeps her Bible beneath her pillow, though she cannot read. Reading is for the Devil’s Daughters. It is done under moonlight, hidden away from the civilised folk. The young woman knows better than to keep pages in her house. She is as good a Christian as her father has prayed she could be.

The forest is painted purple and orange, where the moon goddess guides the sun god into her, their blinding light splits the stars. For this one night, they are not enemies.

The girl walks into the forest alone anyways, ignores the hunters who insist on ‘keeping her company’. She has done this journey a dozen times, she tells them so.

But not tonight. They whisper it as she turns her back on the village. Who would dare wander on Walpurgis Night?

But she goes anyway, wrapped in white; her mother’s wedding cloak. It catches on branches, their pine-crested fingertips threaten to carry her from the path. Oh, but those wolves do howl so. It is like birdsong to her ears. She pauses to listen, opens her mouth to call back. No sound comes out.

She continues to Grandma’s house.

But Grandma has another visitor tonight. His arrival is announced by the wind battering against the old woman’s windows. She has drawn her curtains closed, kept her fire burning, done all the things her mother beat in her before going to the grave. It means nothing when you cannot read the book meant to protect you.

A knock at the door causes her cross to fall from its station.

Who is there? She calls.

Your most loving granddaughter, the mimic cries back. His voice is a stolen relic of some other young girl he has devoured months before. Claimed her heart and then her insides and only then had he swallowed her whole, taken her into him. Lycanthrope; the ability to shift, to transform, to adapt.

The wolf enters, dressed in man-skin and a sharp-toothed smile. Grandma can only clutch at the rosary around her neck, but this is not a demon, there is no salvation when the Forest comes howling at your door. Her skin is like leather but the flesh still tastes good, he delights in this, takes what is left and bundles it up and throws it on the fire, watches the hair spark like tinder.

The young girl arrives precisely on time. He smells her, scents the familiar odour of a girl teetering between girlhood and womanhood. The wolf-man adorns Grandma’s cap, curls up in her bed and hides his bloodied teeth behind full, pinkish lips.

The girl steps into the open door, drops her basket filled with warm cakes and cheeses, and breathes deeply. The faint smell of musk and iron lingers on her tongue. As if drawn by an instinct dwelling deep inside the pit of her soul, she nears the bed.

She exclaims “Oh my, Grandma - what big eyes you have!” Already, the wolf’s deceit fails him. Society has become an ocean when it was once a stone; he has not seen the world of man in quite some time. The power of the woman is to shift, to transform, to adapt. He flutters long lashes, watches the girl unlace her boots and perch upon the end of the bed.

“All the better to see you with.”

She inches closer, unbuttoning her coat. And then her blouse, and then reaches for her apron. Nimble hands make quick work of it, dropping it into a pile with the other garments. She reaches for his hand, grasps the large digits into her tiny fingers. His prints are calloused, rough against her skin like sandpaper. He pulls her closer, presses her hand to his lips, and licks. He has a cat’s tongue, the papillae sharp and spiny, prickling her skin.

The girl smirks, he may be the cat, but it is she who has the cream. “Oh my Grandma, what big ears you have!”

“All the better to hear you with, my dear.”

He listens to her heartbeat slow. Watches with dark eyes, pupils squeezed into slits, as she drops her skirt, and lifts one arm to undo the veil that covered her hair. Her hair falls naked, drops to her bare chest and hangs around her mother’s wedding cloak, the only clothing she has remaining.

She does not comment on the smell of burning, of the reek of scorched meat. She is not the trodden women of the village, with their heads wrapped in silk, hidden from men and from the world. Now she sits upon the lap of the wolf, who stares at her with pupils blown wide, ears open and perked. What little humanity he has, he is giving it to her freely.

Her final question becomes a request, spoken with understanding. “My oh my Grandma, what big teeth you have!”

And so he bares them, and she laughs. Then she stands, and allows him to sweep her from the floor and into his arms, the coarse, dark hair growing with each step to the door. Her wedding cloak becomes a waving flag in the wind as dawn breaks over the surface of the Forest.

Walpurgis Night comes to an end.

And the Hunter who would arrive later, who did not stop to question the footprints between the wolf’s claw marks. He lays a makeshift cross, and the village mourns. They mourn and then forget, returning to their bedtime stories for the young and naïve.

There be wolves in them woods. And somewhere, amongst the howls beseeching the night, was a woman’s cries of joy entering the chorus.

[somediyprojects]

All designs from Mirabilia Designs by Nora Corbett: 

#11: Mother's Arms (OOP)

Every mother understands the desire to surround her child with love. Here that love is represented in the most exquisite of details: the infant's patchwork quilt of hearts, the faithful stuffed bunny, the white doves of peace, and the mother-of-pearl charms that surround the precious pair with health and happiness.

#12: The Kiss— January 1, 1995 (OOP)

Strolling through a garden abloom with pink and crimson roses, this romantic couple shares a sweet moment of their honeymoon. Her gown is awash with pink iridescent Pebble Beads and blue, peach and pale rose Kreinik Metallics. He, of course, is simply tall, dark, and handsome.

#13: Winter Queen— March 14, 1995

Regal in pale periwinkle blue satin against a serene white background, this cool beauty’s upswept hair is adorned with purple violets beneath a beaded coronet. Whisper-white ermine trims her elegantly draped gown, and strands of blue beads lend an opulent touch to her hem. If you find beauty in a clear, quiet, blue-skied January day, you’ll love our Winter Queen.

#14: English Roses— May 15, 1995

Silk ribbon roses, beaded leaves and softly falling rose petals surround this profile of a Victorian woman lost in private thoughts. Her gown of pale purple crystal beads is accented by an elaborate circle of pale pink roses in her hair. So beautiful, so mysterious, it’s hard to believe she’ll be alone with her thoughts for long.

#15: Santa's Magic— July 15, 1995

Eight different colors of Kreinik Metallics make up this fanciful Santa, all rich and dazzling and true. Some things must be experienced in person and this Father Christmas is one. We know he will become a Christmas tradition your family , and their families, will enjoy for years to come.

#16: Baby Boat— September 14, 1995

One tiny sister sleeps, another knits, and the third scatters pale pink rose petals on the glistening water as they drift lazily by in a rose-draped, swan-shaped boat. Their fuzzy hats and collars, innocent pastels and sparkling crystals make them an utterly charming trio. But will they be home in time for tea?

#17: Stone Roses— November 15, 1995

Green ivy protectively encircles an angel turned to stone centuries ago, as she in turn stands guard over an enchanted garden, a pale pink sash forever fluttering at her waist. The drapery borders at her feet create a sampler effect, complete with mother-of-pearl buttons and fine white ribbon.

#18: Blooming Bride— January 1, 1996 (OOP)

Perhaps on her way to meet her groom, this enchanting beauty pauses for a moment against a background of rich brown or spun silver 32-count linen, her gown resplendent in jewel-toned roses, brown velvet ribbons, Crystal Treasures and Mill Hill Beads. Her delicate hands and face may be worked in petit point or the traditional two-over-two. Every bride is lovely but we think you’ll agree that this new design by Nora Corbett is absolutely breathtaking.

#19: Deco Spirits— March 14, 1996

If you’ve come to expect anything from Nora Corbett, it’s the unusual and unexpected, and her new “Deco Spirits” continues that tradition. Inspired by art deco architecture, the four spirits represent the elements of earth, fire, water, and air. Each features muted metallics in shades of seafoam, periwinkle, gold, and aubergine. Because they can be stitched and framed together or individually, “Deco Spirits” is the perfect choice for beginners or advanced stitchers, or anyone who appreciates a fresh, innovative design.

#20: Fairy Tales— May 14, 1996

Once upon a time, in a field strewn with magical flower petals, a doting mother read a bedtime tale to her very littlest angel. A gentle breeze rustled her lacy gown, the golden child smiled, and they lived happily ever after.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

3, 6, 20 for the writing meta asks!

Why hello there! I won’t lie, I was, of course, extremely happy to see another ask in my ask box! Perfect thing to wake up to, and get the brain juices flowing! So, let’s do some answering! >:D

****

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

There’s one particular scene that’s actually been in my head for days, but of course, when I try to actually write it, my brain just fizzles out into the unknown. However, the scene I want to write and will have to write is Fane and Solas ‘reuniting’. More or less, when Solas finally realizes what and who Fane is and vice versa. It involves a lot of build up from previous chapters and scenes, and since those aren’t written yet I’m a little stuck on how to get it off the ground. I can share a few little concepts though that I did manage to write up!

“May I?”, Solas asked quietly and softly, carefully lifting a hand to hover near the aggravated gash. He would not touch it unless Fane explicitly stated that it was amenable. He would do no more harm than he had already.

There was a long pause, the two of them sitting practical inches from each other until Solas heard a sound between a growl and huff exit past sealed lips. That had a small smile working its way onto his face. How painfully nostalgic that sound was to him, like rolling thunder during a downpour..

“Hmph.”, Fane huffed out again before jerking his head lightly to indicate that it was fine, but he could see how a serpentine jaw locked up instinctively. 

Solas frowned slightly at that before shifting a bit closer, not ignoring how the other tensed up even more as he let his palm rest against the seeping wound. 

To have such adverse reactions.. How much have you had to suffer due to my rashness? A heavy, crushing feeling bore down on Solas’s heart--it was like a spiked cage was closing in around it, threatening to puncture and leave him to bleed out. He did not know all of what happened surrounding the Herald’s early life, but he had witnessed the man’s sensitivity to magic, watched as a normally proud and dominating form crumbled into no more than weak shivers and suffocating retching. He had also, during a moment of childish weakness, caught glimpses of magically burnt, jagged patchwork scars along an uncommonly naked arm--the skin, for once, having been freed to breathe and scream. Solas had not been close enough to see more, at the time, but the severity, the deepness of those torn segments he had seen, and the fact that Fane’s body was covered neck to waist in leather wraps told him then that strong arms were not the only place such...familiar, but gruesome scars existed.

The scars upon his arms, and most likely his entire body… They are indicative of what his kin had endured, but how…? Solas felt his frown deepen further upon that thought before refocusing on the wound marring a porcelain visage, which was as hard as stone as it peered into his own. He would have to think on those aspects later. He would get no answers while Fane refused to speak to him, and it would do neither of them favors to speculate. 

Solas gingerly swiped a thumb along the crimson gash on Fane’s cheek, involuntarily hushing the man softly when a light hiss escaped tight lips. The wound would scar, no matter how much healing Fane would allow. It was deep, nearly piercing through the thin skin of a cheek, and Solas had done that. In self defense, yes, but he had still caused damage.

He had caused harm due to an inability to stay. away.

He must suffer another scar because I was blind. He cannot not wrap this one. He cannot hide it from sight to make its deepness feel more shallow. I have marked him, in two ways, and neither are kind.. The weighty thought flitted through his mind before Solas blinked as he felt and watched Fane lightly lean into his touch, gold glittering in emerald despite the dimness of the cave as those eyes narrowed a bit from both stinging pain of a wet wound and, dare he say, contentment from a century absent gesture. 

That had Solas’s smile turning sad as he absently stroked under a brilliant golden emerald eye, unphased by the two toned hue that encompassed a blackened pupil as it met his gaze unflinchingly. How had he not seen it before? The truth was always staring at him--figuratively and physically. Why had he averted his own gaze? To hide? To run? Or was it to protect? He knew not. However, he did know, from the way a warm, but crushing feeling wrapped around his entire soul was a truth that could never be denied for fear of justifiable rage--for fear of punishment for mistakes so grave as to render a vow completely moot.

“...I missed you.”, Solas whispered against his better judgement and earlier thoughts, watching as Fane’s pupil widened a bit before it trembled slightly with emotion, the emerald within the iris deepening to drown out brilliant gold. He had to close his eyes at that, a feeling of weightlessness and oncoming longing threatening to have him, too, drowning within emerald. “What am I saying? I have no right to have missed you, but I can’t.. No. I do not have the right..”, he murmured  in the next moment before lightly shaking his head, absently cupping Fane’s warm cheek more fully. 

There was no use dwelling upon his lack of foresight, for it was his own blindness that had shaded him from the truth--his own pride and fear. He had not wanted to believe there was hope, and he did not deserve to have such lofty ideas after what he had done. He deserved to wander about in darkness, happiers visions obscured while only ghostly apparitions haunted him beyond the Veil, clambering, clawing for a way out of the prison he had locked them in. This was nothing but a hopeful dream--one of many that constantly plagued him with falsities and--

“I missed you, too..”, a hoarse, exhausted, but distinct voice sounded, completely cutting off the wave of his thoughts to shove Solas’s mind back into reality before it came once again, quietly. “I’m sorry..”

Solas’s eyes shot open upon those words, ignoring the way he could feel the hand that rested upon Fane’s cheek trembling slightly to gaze into deep, deep emerald as it shook just as much with concealed emotion. No--no, this could not be real. He did not deserve for this to be real!

“Sorry? For what? I am the one that should be sorry..”, Solas stated with a deep frown, gaze flitting down to the hand that bore the Anchor--his magic. “I have shackled you without even rattling the chains before you myself. It is a sound you should never have known..”

Fane let out a tired sigh, shaking his head slowly with a tiny grimace. “You have never held them, Solas.”, he said before sighing again. “The chains were always there, and you weren’t the one to make me aware of their sound.”

“But the orb--the mark, it is..”

“Yours, I know, but it’s not the same. I remember the difference. Trust me.”, Fane said before leaning into his hand more. “I remember...everything. Well, mostly everything. Some parts are still fuzzy, but I know you, I know who or...what I am, I know the bond we held, and I know how I died..”

Solas couldn’t help but flinch at that last statement, almost retracting his hand until Fane reached up weakly to keep it in place. “Herald, I--”

The corner of Fane’s mouth twisted into a tired sneer. “Don’t recede into formality. I hate when you do that.”, he said before letting his hand fall back to the ground with a light thump. “Responding as if I’m a stranger to you is pointless.”

“How would you have me respond after all that has happened? Should I feel jubilant from the pain I have inflicted upon the world, upon my people--upon you? Should I ignore that all that has transpired and will transpire is my doing--my mistake?”, Solas questioned, a niggling of irritability born of mental exhaustion working its way into his voice. He was exceedingly growing weary due to not resting for more than several hours at a time, the two of them having to swap routinely for watch.

He watched Fane’s chest rise and fall heavily with another sigh before glittering eyes shut with equal weariness. Solas frowned at that. What had gotten into him? He was tired, yes, but so was Fane, and he had not just had his identity sundered like a torn blanket, only to be stitched back together again with completely different patchwork. He had also not just suffered having his mind nearly broken from magic so potent and so sickeningly familiar as to cause an age old frenzy to take hold without an ounce of hesitation. This whole ordeal was simply exhausting and unbelievable, even as proof practically...leaned against him?

Solas blinked, thoughts once again veering off a depressive trail as he felt a heavy, but warm weight resting itself on his shoulder. He turned his head a bit to see that Fane’s head had lulled forward to find a place to rest--eyes shut and snowy brows furrowed as if in some kind of discomfort.

“Fane..?”, he called out softly, tentatively reaching up to card a few fingers through snowy hair--the strands coated in a grey hue due to residual ash and dirt. 

Emerald made a reappearance as Fane cracked his eyes open, glancing up at him drearily before starting to shift as if to move away. “Sorry.. I was--”

Solas quickly, perhaps too quickly, shook his head, weaving his fingers into dirty hair to gently guide the other to stay put. He should not do this, but...he couldn’t help it. Against his better judgement, Solas let his own head come to carefully rest upon the side of Fane’s before he shut his eyes--an instant wave of contentment filling in the void of his soul.

“Rest. We will speak more of this at a better time.”, he commanded quietly, smiling a bit as he felt the other relax his tensed up form. “I can tell you are exhausted still.”

“So are you..”, Fane muttered, his voice rumbling pleasantly which had Solas letting out a quiet hum. How he had missed that sound, even when it had had no voice to go along with it..

“I will wake you in a few hours. I can manage until then.”, he said softly before absently stroking through silky strands of white. He couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at the texture. How was it, that despite the grime and despairing ash, there was still a softened quality to the dragon’s hair? Perhaps that said something about Fane himself..

“Mm..”, a content hum reached Solas’s ears, the small smile upon his face growing by a fraction before he felt warmth and strength wrap around the rest of his body in the form of two tired arms. He tensed a bit before he realized what was happening; Fane was hugging him--holding him as if Solas would suddenly disappear..

He shifted his head a bit to gaze down at where Fane was resting against him, his heart growing tight upon a matching frown etched into a pale face. Oh, my dragon. I only cause you harm, so why do you continue to tempt more? And why can I not dissuade it? His mind questioned before his own arms came up to wrap around Fane’s shoulders, tangling a hand into snowy, short locks. 

He should not do this. He should not give false hope and promises to someone who deserved better, but it was like a tidal wave of longing, of yearning, and of grief had suddenly come crashing into him--slamming him against the rocks, wet and spent from fighting the tide. He wanted to drown in a sea of emerald and gold…

“Ma’isenatha..”, Solas whispered out the Elvhen without a shred of hesitation, even as his mind practically screamed for him not to. “Ma’isenatha..”, he said once more as he buried his face into Fane’s neck, the man’s own arms tightening around him to pull closer.

Obviously, there will have to be one hundred percent more context and soul searching, but I’m mainly just playing around with ideas of how both Solas and Fane will handle the situation. Like I’ve said before, I don’t see them avoiding each other, even with Solas constantly stating he’ll only cause Fane harm. Fane isn’t made of glass and Solas knows that, and he also knows that Fane has a place upon this particular chess board, but not as a pawn, but more along the lines of a rook or a knight. Fane’s involvement is essential to Solas, even if he’s not happy about it since it could end the same way it did before. It also helps that Fane is stubborn and as his abilities reawaken, he can back Solas into a corner to make the man face what he’s fearful of. That was Fane’s role as a dragon, after all. To guide emotion and unclog the dams of them so they could flow freely in a realm where emotion and imagination were the world’s very foundation. But again, this is just a concept of what could potentially happen after Haven, so it may change later on when I finally get there! 

6. What character do you have the most fun writing?

In terms of my OCs, it’s obviously Fane since I can still find ways to evolve his character and add on to what I already have established. In terms of those not of my own creation, I would say Solas. He’s easy for me to write, to formulate thoughts about. I think it all boils down to the fact that, in a certain way, he and Fane are parallels. There’s evidence in canon, of course, to support the Inquisitor is a mirror for Solas, but I took that a bit further. I also wanted to explore the emotions, that I believe, Solas would showcase with someone he not only knew before the Veil was erected, but loved in a forbidden way. I will never tire of making Solas melt over Fane and vice versa. There’s not enough softness in the world, so I seek to rectify that! >:3

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

I’m a slut for symbolism. Yes, I said it, I’m a slut for it. The whole reason I have focused so heavily on eyes in my fics is because eyes are the gate way to the soul. Fane can see into that window with his abilities and even without them depending on how open a person is, and it allows him to properly communicate without offending. It’s more or less a way of saying, ‘If you just look at someone, truly look at them, then you don’t need words to understand them. You can see the pain, the happiness, the sorrow, the whispered love without ever uttering a single word.’ That’s the whole basis of Solas and Fane’s relationship, and how it even formed in the first place. I mean, how else do you think a Elvhen god and a dragon became friends, and then lovers? It took a lot, I’m not gonna lie, but Fane is Solas’s heart and Solas is Fane’s sky. A heart and sky don’t need words; they only need someone to listen to the beat or gaze upwards to the clouds. Fane and Solas from the start, as two elves, synchronize with each other as if their souls are greeting each other without their physical forms knowing. You might say, ‘Well, wouldn’t Solas clue in after watching Fane? Or wouldn’t he know from his eyes?” 

Yes and no. The eyes throw Solas off, but he doesn’t focus on them because the memory of them belonging to another is too painful. This is another way of me saying, ‘If you don’t face the truth, it will remain hidden to you, but the pain it harbors in its very shadows will not. It will stalk you, it will taunt you, and it will tear you apart from the inside until you look.’ Solas denies his heart, even as it beats before him, from a fear of foolish hopes being mere dreams, and a grief that is so aged from hands died with draconic blood and magical chains. Fane turns his potent gaze from the sky, even as blue eternity stretches before him with love and understanding, for fear of turning it grey as he is and trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care even though he cares so much. It’s tragic in its own way, but I visualize a happy ending or at least bittersweet one.

There’s also a very heavy focus on color, primarily grey. This is physical in some way to Fane, things look muted to him or take on a greyish hue, but overall, its how he views the world at present. It’s grey, not black and white. Same things happen for different reasons and sometimes neither of them are good and neither of them are bad. Fane views the world in grey because that’s how he feels on a daily basis. He’s grey because he doesn’t know who he is or what race he should answer to. His existence is not black and white and sometimes, he wishes it were because it would be easier to accept. Those feelings lessen over time as Fane reconciles with the fact that he’s a dual creature with experiences spanning two lifetimes and two races, but the world’s greyness doesn’t lessen for him because between all the political intrigue, war, corruption, and ignorance, there’s red, crimson. As much as grey can make Fane feel hollow and out of place, red is another ball game--a terrifying one that houses inevitability and every time a noble topples peasant and opponent alike for personal gain, every time a plain of nature is destroyed for expansion, every time magic is used as a dominating influence rather than a ritualistic one, every. time. a dragon is erased permanently from a world that sorely needs them, that angry hue paints Fane’s vision and hands where there was otherwise indifference. And once again, it is inevitable, those happenings simply spur it to climb faster and faster. What is it, you ask? Well, I think we all have an idea. 

****

Thank you for the ask and apologies for it being so loooong! You chose the question for me to ramble and I ramble ramble ramble! >:3

[mwolf0epsilon]

Prompt Time: The Projectionist free-roaming Malice Angel's domain. Level 14 barely has any stimulating things, so wouldn't it be nice if he got to visit Heavenly Toys and got to feel all the nice soft plushies?

Summary: "The worst nightmare is the nightmare that continues even when you wake up." --Mehmet Murat ildan

Warning for character death, blood and mild!

[[MORE]]

---

No matter how much the hulking beast that was the Projectionist walked (or how far its warped mind perceived that it went), the one thing that it could be truly certain of was the neverending pain that permeated its skin and old bones, that followed every step with a diligent sort of precision.

A truly terrible and wretched notion indeed, as walking was all it knew to do anymore…

With a gaze lost to the expanse of the soundless halls ahead, and its thoughts long since seized from a lack of…Something...

A stimulus? A purpose perhaps? It had to be one of those, but it couldn't really recall which was correct.

It didn't know if it had ever known the answer to its plight at all.

But walking? Walking came easily!

Not that it wasn't a harduos task, mind you, just not so easy for the semi-mechanical abomination to forget.

One limb after the other, the creak of old joints and the sting of stiff muscles.

The dull ache at the base of its hips that sharpened as it climbed all the way to the base of its strained neck.

The painful throb of something squishy-but-not-quite encased in metal, and driven by the soundless clicking and blinking of things it could fix but not put a name to.

Walking was both easy and hard, but necessary.

If it could walk, it would be safe. If it could walk, it could keep an eye on its many projectors. If it could walk, it could defend itself and its many, many, responsibilities…

So walk it did, no matter how much the burden of it all hurt its patchwork body.

To anyone with a somewhat intact sanity, traversing the halls was a tedious and mind numbing act. Not that there was much that the Projectionist thought about anyway. It's mind was… Buzzing, but not with any musings of a past life. It was numb in a way its body could never replicate.

Fragmented after going so long missing a vital piece of itself. A soul stagnated from the splintering of its essence, as well as the nonsensically repetitive motions of a lethargic routine.

Long ago this creature was once told that madness was the act of repeating an action hoping to achieve different results. If that was so, then this wretched being was the maddest of them all.

Lost to a looping cycle of its own, doing things that it should no longer care for.

Because why tend to the projectors? Why hunt for intruders? Why search for a part that was floors above, well beyond its reach?

Yes, the Projectionist must be mad. So mad that it no longer could do much more than act out the same motions over and over again.

Couldn't do more than walk the halls and redo its tasks… A looping reel.

Following tired feet with a blazing light and aching muscles that never rested.

How tragically ironic.

An infinite paradox within another.

Until one day it got a breath of fresh air.

The lift was a tool of the horned angel. A contraption that it had once used, as the man it no longer recalled having been. To the Projectionist however, it was merely a source of annoyance.

A means for intruders to trespass in its corner of the studio. An heinous apparatus of mayhem and frustration.

It caused it to feel things that swelled in its empty chest cavity, until they became nothing more than a senseless rage.

The kind that made its hackles raise with territorial trepidation, which quickly became the distinct urge to fight over flight.

The Projectionist could not recall being a man, but it could instinctively recall being an animal.

A one of a kind apex predator that stalked the halls with reckless abandon. And anything that stepped foot in its pooling maze was fair game.

The things, miserable creatures that they were, tended to come from that hellish metal box.

It made the ink in its pool vibrate with such force that it flooded its senses in a most confusing way.

Overwhelming and unpleasant all on its own, but with the added dilemma of some half-baked critter crawling right in to seek out its most coveted treasure: Its many hearts.

The Projectionist loathed all who thought they could steal its heart twice.

Added theirs to the expanding collection dotted all around its many inky roosts.

Thus the lift was deemed an enemy spawning ground, one that the hulking semi-mechanical beast did not trust in the slightest, but one that it kept an eye on nonetheless… If just to have some peace of mind. As shattered as it may be.

Imagine then, how jarring it was, for a creature that did little else than roam, maim, and maintain, to find such a vile blight baring it's gaping maw at it in broad studio light.

For the first time in years, its routine was completely broken, with the Projectionist standing there just staring at the open lift with a stalling empty mind.

It did not know what to do. What to expect.

In a situation like this, what was there really to do? The distrust it felt of the lift coupled with its sudden and unexpected behavior was certainly quite troubling for a creature of the Projectionist's caliber.

So terribly dulled from its stagnant pattern that it needed time to even realize such an event was abnormal to begin with.

Once it clicked that, yes, the lift should not be in its domain and showcasing its hungry maw so pridefully, it did the only thing it knew to do to anything that offended it.

It shrieked aggressively and rushed it.

Now, once upon a time, a man by the name Norman Polk would have stared at this scene and bellowed with disbelieving laughter.

To see such a frightfully powerful beast struggle with something so mundane as an empty elevator… It would have tickled him positively funny.

Perhaps reminding him of this big old bully of a gator that used to sun itself near the drinking hole his old pops used to plant some of the best sugarcane in all of Louisiana (or so he boasted). Big and strong, enough so that it could snap a man's arm clean in half with just one bite, yet dumber than half a box of marbles.

That lump of gigantic muscle had gotten it's jaws stuck in so many crawdad traps that it was a miracle it had grown so big and strong at all. Lucky bastard that brute… the same could be said for the Projectionist.

If good old Norman could have witnessed this hulking horror struggle in the lift like it was fighting some battle of titanic proportions, he would have wondered how it hadn't gotten itself killed yet.

Sadly Norman could never question such things, as he himself was the abominable creature he would have likely found so humorous.

The mind was a fragile thing indeed.

One so incomplete as his, made the Projectionist truly seem like a dumb animal at best…

As the object-headed bruiser calmed down after its initial fruitless assault (in which it had toppled over and only further distressed itself), it began to attempt to right itself. Looking so pathetic like a turtle stuck on its back, until flailing limbs caught the bars of its source of frustration, and pulled with all it's might.

The thudding of heavy feet against the lift flooring sent vibrations that jolted its wires uncomfortably, making it screech at nothing as it turned to look for whatever was setting it off now.

Upon finding nothing it simply stood there, winded from the exertion of having to pull itself back onto its clumsy feet.

Not an easy task when one's head weighted so much.

Now that the few senses the Projectionist still had were not under any stress, the rage began to dissipate. The soothing silence pulled at its frayed sanity, both comforting and familiar in a world that had become so alien to its past self.

Boredom was sinking in quickly, beckoning it to move on back into its usual flow.

It lifted one leg, ready to begin the endless trek of the maze all over again, only to freeze when the lift door closed with it still inside.

The seconds trickled as it slowly processed the newest development to this earth-shattering event.

It was stuck. Trapped. Caged.

Another unholy screech left its ruined speaker as it began to thrash violently, trying to get out of this tight little coffin that tormented it so cruelly.

Calling out for freedom it thought it had.

A loud hum made the cage vibrate, and its shrieks only increased in intensity as it tried to protect its sensitive body from the droning it couldn't even hear.

Then the mobile prison began to ascend.

The Projectionist was no stranger to the levels above and below of its own. Sometimes it wandered up and down the stairs to check up on the myriad of hearts it had stored in multiple other places it had rested in, after chasing particularly persistent prey that didn't get the hint. Often it tracked ink that facilitated its navigation across these alien floors, as the vibrations of this substance helped it track down it's assailants (the footprints they left behind also helped).

It had frequent encounters with the doggish wolves it had seen strapped to tables. Most gutted before it could claim their precious insides itself, although some he found fresh and ready to put a meaty fist through.

There were also times where it had encounters with the thief that wore the grinning devil mask, often finding it near peculiar objects the fiend seemed to covet.

Tall necky things with sharp strings that hurt its fingers, round flat things that made a strange hum when it hit them with a closed fist, and big square things that had loose teeth that also made alluring vibrations.

The thief liked these strange objects, so the Projectionist made sure to track it through locating them whenever it could remember… If it could remember.

Thinking was much too hard when it had so much time just to roam and live inside its own empty head.

How strange was that?

As the tiny cage continued its ascension the burly beast fell to its knees and hugged them tightly to its chest.

It whined uneasily as it watched familiarity fade with each level that it passed, trying to ignore the hum that occasionally assaulted its sensitive cables and chords.

It whimpered louder when it felt like it should know what these distinct pauses against its inky flesh should mean.

Then, finally, the lift came to a pause and the doors opened up wide, showcasing its captive passenger for the world to see. Not that the Projectionist gave the world much time anyway…

As soon as it sensed an opportunity to be free, it lunged itself forward. The uneven weight of its patchwork form, causing it to trip up and tumble down onto the wooden floors.

It rolled a few feet, hurting its knees and cutting up it's right arm against a few steps of what appeared to be… A very wide space.

It had no clue what this place was, and the beady eyes staring down at it made the Projectionist right itself immediately and shriek in monstrous defiance of whatever harm the creature possessing them may wish it… only to stop and stare as nothing moved.

The strange thing that was staring at him was just a doll. A very large doll in the shape of the not-gutted-wolves it had previously encountered.

It cocked its head to the side ever so slightly, so as to not tip over, and grunted in acknowledgement that this was no threat to its existence.

Sure enough, gazing around, all the eyes that it could see were more of the drawings like the ones that its projectors played. A few of the flat devils that were strewn around, and a big devil doll to keep the wolf some company.

Letting out another grunt and a huff as it shook its head, the Projectionist turned to glance at the churning fountain of ink separating the two dolls, and promptly growled at it. Warning any of the vermin that enjoyed such things to keep well aways from it, if they did not wish a painful death to befall them.

The gross ink slugs were squishy, and hard to get out from beneath its nails. They stuck to its feet and made it feel icky and gross.

When nothing reared its ugly head out from within the fountain, the Projectionist marched on through this new strange place… Momentarily wondering if it would find more hearts for its collection.

The stimulation was doing wonders it seemed, if it could ponder such things.

Environmental awareness wasn't really a thing that it often considered while aimlessly wandering the halls. Its feet just took it wherever they pleased, gaze focused on nothing in particular, the patchwork bruiser just ticking by like a broken clock.

This newly discovered location was different, and brought with it new rules. The Projectionist was suddenly hyper aware and hyper focused on everything surrounding it.

The spacious expanse of this floor was interesting all around, truly a place where it could wander and get lost and just experience new things it couldn't in its maze.

Speaking of clocks, it whirred curiously as it noted all of the paraphernalia that was just everywhere. From limb swinging devil-clocks, to devil and wolf dolls of various sizes. At some point it found a bowl containing a squishy blob that jumped and changed shapes when it poked it out of curiosity.

The sudden movement had made the large brute shriek and crush the bowl with a powerful strike from its hand, but the blob had prevailed despite being surrounded by shards of ceramic that had cut into the large ink beast's hand.

Once established that it wasn't attacking him (and that the stinging pain was its own doing) the Projectionist let the bouncy mass be, and continued to just wander and take in all the three dimensional creatures that it was accustomed to see flat on the walls.

The room full of clocks and dolls was especially alluring.

There was a very big wolf plush like the one before in the spacy room with the fountain. The Projectionist fixated on it and approached, reaching out to pat the inanimate pooch's ears, and then reach up to pat its own round prongs in curious comparison. The toy was not taller than it, but certainly felt squishy where it was more solid.

It reached out to touch again, fingers sinking into pillowy fabric while it's palm ran over the new texture.

A strange little word crept up into its splintered mind: Comfy.

So soft it was to the touch… Would it feel good to lay on top of it?

Surely doing something of the sort would be against every survival instinct it still had keeping it going, right?

Walking was important!

Walking was surviving!

But resting… How its aching body craved to finally rest!

And look at just how inviting the plush's soft body was… it couldn't hurt to stop for a few minutes, right?

Against all odds, the Projectionist braced itself to a position where it would be less likely to hit its clunky head, then lunged forward. Practically purring as it felt itself sink into the comforting embrace of the false wolf.

Slumber, it would finally meet with it at last!

Without second thought, the Projectionist's light shut off as consciousness slipped away into the welcoming darkness.

-

Norman startled awake in bed, fumbling blindly as he tried to make sense of where he was at the moment, while kicking up his legs which were trapped under a mass of weighted blankets.

It was so dark! Why couldn't he see? He could always see in the dark halls, the light of the projector lens illuminating even the shadiest corners of the studio… He…

No. No he couldn't see in the dark?

And this place… He knew this place!

This was his and his wife's room back at their apartment.

A rush of confused thoughts flooded his frazzled brain, as Norman glanced around. His hand subconsciously reaching out to click on the bedside lamp, and it soothed him slightly when the darkness melted away under the soft yellow light that cast over the familiar scene.

He was home. But… how?

His bad eye darted about, refusing to focus as usual, while his good eye carefully surveilled his surroundings.

It landed on his bedside table, above the silly novel he'd recently picked up from the bookstore. There was a note there, waiting to be read by his curious eyes.

With a shaky hand, one much smaller than the brutish claw of the Projectionist, he took hold of the unassuming piece of paper.

"Went to the store to get a few things before dinner. Told the kids to behave so you could rest. Please don't overwork yourself ever again, you had a 102° fever dear. Love Maggie <3"

He read the words once, twice and then trice, heart hammering away in his chest as it all slowly sunk in.

Had it… Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Had he, in his feverish state, dreamt up all the horrors that he thought had really occurred at Joey Drew Studios?

Had he really conjured up all of the madness and pain in those hostile halls? Pictured his own gruesome transition into a mindless abomination that couldn't even remember it was a person? A monster that was too afraid to let others attack it first?

A dry and slightly choked up laugh forced its way out of his constricted chest as relief washed over him.

He was home…

He was home and he could think, and it didn't hurt to move his neck or limbs, and he was himself.

What a terrible nightmare his fever had gifted him, one that felt so real that he expected to find a monster when he slowly kicked the blankets off and rose up from the bed.

His bedroom mirror told a different story to what he'd thought he'd find reflected back. There he was, strong features, big round nose and lips, tired eyes (one moving about, never to meet the other's focus point since birth) and dark curly hair that was starting to gray.

He felt the stubble on his face and hummed softly to himself. He needed a shave, lest he end up looking like the photos of his Poppop Polk…

But first he desperately needed a glass of water. He usually had one resting beside his book, but Maggie had likely taken it back to the kitchen once he'd drained it throughout the night.

Not an issue. A leisurely walk around their home was a welcomed thing after he'd been so sure he'd be stuck staring at inky sepia toned (and slightly rotted), wooden panels for the rest of his miserable and dreadfully quiet life.

So that's what he did.

He put on some slippers and shrugged on his robe, and strolled out of the room at a very calm and deliberately slow pace.

It was honestly a little ridiculous how long it took him to reach the kitchen. He'd really had a grand old time of just listening to the background noises of the city, and admiring the house decor.

That really ugly vase his mama sent them as a wedding gift, where they kept a half dried up fern (he was terrible with plants and so was Maggie). The equally ugly rug his pops had found in a flea market and sent to them in the mail (ugly enough that his wife had begged him to burn it, so how could he not set it down so he could watch her purposefully scratch it up with her high heels, due to her pure and unadulterated hatred of the garish horror of checkers and polkadots?), the collection of child's drawings he and Maggie had taken to taping to the wall in proud display, as well as Aaron's many pictures (the kid really took the whole photography thing seriously since he'd bought him his own camera for his birthday).

Pictures… Oh how he'd admired the family photos so lovingly… Every portrait, every baby photo, every holiday he'd managed to document with his old battered camera that he hoped to fix one day.

That terrible nightmare had shook him up so bad that Norman genuinely thought he was never going to see those smiling faces ever again.

He passed by his children's rooms but thought better than to disturb them. They had classes tomorrow, and the clock told him that at this hour they'd be doing their homework, like he and their mother had stipulated early on.

They could do whatever with their time, but 18pm was schoolwork time.

Instead Norman carried on into the kitchen and breathed in the smells. A hint of freshly baked bread coming from the breadbasket they kept near the oven, as well as veggie soup that was cooling in the pot that was currently resting on the stove.

Fuck, he'd missed vegetable soup, and he hated eating his greens! How could a series of vivid images feel like such a lifetime when they were merely hours?

The mind sure was a mysterious thing, one much harder to understand than the projectors he maintained at the studio.

Shrugging to himself while taking a glass from one of the cupboards, the tired projectionist moved over to the sink and opened the tap without a second thought… It took a second for him to realize it wasn't water coming out.

The glass shattered upon being dropped by a retreating Norman, who stumbled back and away from the distressing sight as if he'd been burnt.

From the tap was coming out thick oily ink that smelled just as toxic as the deathly scent of the warped studio in his dreams.

No, this… this couldn't be.

It had been a dream! Hadn't it?

He was home! He was safe!

Except the ink pouring out of the sink contradicted this. So thick it was, like sticky tar, clotting in the drain and filling up the sink. It took far little time to begin overflowing and overtaking all it touched.

The color draining from everything the black substance came into contact with. Stretching out over the floor, crawling towards him, with liquid reaching fingers. Wanting to claim him.

Fearfully, Norman fled from the kitchen and down the hall. Not wanting to be pulled back by that demonic stuff.

The chemical smell was driving him nuts, burning his eyes and nose so terribly they were beginning to run.

He fled until his legs ached. But his tired stinging eyes found something quite concerning.

Norman hadn't moved an inch since getting to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

It was as if he'd been slipping in oil the entire time. No traction to propel him forward, just a useless struggle against an unseen force.

And then a new smell hit him.

One that made his heart turn to ice in his chest. A coppery smell that hit the back of his throat, and made his mouth taste like loose pennies.

His hands felt warm and sticky and hurt to move.

Sheer terror of the familiarity of this whole scene made him feel absolutely nauseous. He knew he shouldn't look, knew what expected him once he did so, but he couldn't help himself.

Curiosity (morbid as it may be) was his mistress after all.

Norman looked to his left, where the doors to his four children's rooms greeted him, wide open. Inviting.

God...There was so much blood...

The mortified projectionist fell to his knees as he stared down in pure horror at what remained of his and his wife's beautiful children. His babies… all dead, torn apart by some heartless butcher.

The terrified look immortalized in their young and lifeless features making him sob openly. He shakily reached out to hold them close to himself, screaming in fright when his eldest son's hand shot out to grasp his blood covered hands.

Empty eyes that were once warm with love and childlike wonder, bore holes into Norman's own mismatched gaze.

"Why did you kill us daddy? Why did you take our hearts?"

The projectionist shook his head, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to deny it. Deny the atrocity the ghost of his son accused him of committing against his own kin. But no matter how much he tried, Norman couldn't speak over the lump in his throat.

Everything hurt, and everything was warm and sticky, his little ones' hearts still beat in his monstrous hands that had slain them without thought.

And then the click of the house key made his blood run cold all over again.

"Honey? Are you up?"

No… no no no no! Maggie! It wasn't safe! He wasn't safe! She'd die! He'd kill her too!

He tried calling out, to beg for her to run, but all that came out was the primal and blood-curdling screech of the Projectionist, as it turned and trampled over the corpses of its previous victims, rushing to claim another heart for it's collection.

Norman's very soul screamed upon seeing his wife's confused and then terrified face under the beast's burning gaze.

-

The Projectionist screamed. It screamed in terror and anguish as it kicked away from the comfy wolf it had decided to rest upon on a whim.

It screamed as it tried to force itself away from a person that was not physically there, thus safe from its violence.

It screamed, as Norman Polk was still very presently in charge of his mental faculties, after having had his "brain" so stimulated and overworked for the first time in years.

He screamed until the speaker lodged in his torso gave out, spluttering weakly as it temporarily short-circuited. The internal mess of organic and non-organic materials needing time to mend themselves once more into a semi-functional state.

Once finding himself incapable of producing sound, the Projectionist sat there, shaking and completely disoriented. Trying to make sense of reality and dreams that were cruelly senseless.

And then the weight of it all crashed down… He could remember.

He was a person, not a something, a someone.

A father… He was a father who could forget these things all over again, and hurt his loved ones. A father who couldn't protect his beloved and his children as long as he was this… Heinous monstrosity.

A monster who'd sooner dismember anything it came across than think twice about their identity. A menace to society.

With that knowledge Norman did the only thing he could think to do while he still had awareness.

He lashed out, letting the anguish and hatred of his situation demolish all that met with his brutish body.

Shelves broke, dolls were torn to shreds, the wolf plush was gutted, and the Bendy clocks shattered. All the while he screamed silently as he let the floodgates wide open to pour out all the torment.

Then, when there was nothing left to destroy, he cried.

Sobbing without a mouth or eyes to clear, hiding a lens into hands that could do cruel and devastating things.

Trembling inconsolably on his knees, in the darkness of a cold and dreary studio full of monsters just as odious as he.

Mourning what he'd become, until the memories faded back into obscurity. Letting himself fade back into nothing but an afterthought.

Above and well beyond out of sight, Susie Campbell wept as Alice whispered comfortingly to her in their shared mind.

The poor dear had only wanted her old friend to have a chance to be comfortable and rest. That, it seemed, had been a horrible mistake on her part.

There just wasn't anything in this cold and brutal world of theirs that could alleviate such misery as the one that burdened the Projectionist.

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck and Weave / 3

months and more than 5000 words later— also on ao3. Thank you to TenkeyLess and Nightmist on ao3 for beta-ing this for me.

Your senses return to you in a sluggish crawl. First, it’s the invasive sunlight that creeps in through the window. Next, it’s the awful taste of sleep in your mouth. You groan in protest as the world drags you to wakefulness, the sheets twisting and shifting around your fidgeting form. It’s beyond tempting to roll back over and delve back into slumber, but hunger claws ravenous at your stomach, and—nearly every part of you aches.

Raubahn’s arm severs from his body, the crowd screams, the water splashes dank around your ankles. The musky sewer air burns the back of your throat as you leave your allies, your friends behind.

The sheer force of the memories rattle your eyes open, lurching into a rigid, seated position. Where is Alphinaud? Tataru? The rest of the Scions? Your gaze shoots frantically around the unfamiliar chambers, fingers fisted tight in the blankets. It’s a bedroom, that much is plain. The mattress creaks as you begin to shift, inching towards the edge of the bed. Your muscles scream in protest, drawing your gaze down to the bandages that cover your body like patchwork.

Your escape had been hard-won. Even after emerging from the sewers, you’d been accosted by a patrol of soldiers. Though you managed to defeat them with Alphinaud’s assistance…

“Ah. I see thou hast awoken,” The door creaks open. A tall, broad elezen slips nimbly into the rooms, his dark robes swishing with each coordinated motion. The pale morning sunlight casts a vibrant sheen across his waves of grey hair. His gaze is tender as it lands on you, roaming your body up and down. “Take care not to strain thyself. Thine injuries wert most severe when thou wert delivered to me. I am Urianger Augurelt, an astrologian under the employ of the Holy See.”

A quick glance out the window is all it takes to confirm it. The grand spires of Ishgard grate against the cloudy, grey sky. The dull stonework and steel that makes up most of the city seems to blend together the longer you look, your mind fogged and disoriented.

Only when he clears his throat do you snap back from your discombobulated state.

“Thank you. For helping me,” Thanking him is the least you can do, right? Still, you don’t relinquish your grip on the bunched blankets. Having something to clutch so tight helps soothe the anger and the grief. It’s an anchor to the physical while the mental is lost in a tumultuous storm of emotion.

“My condolences,” his voice is a soothing balm and sympathy renders his expression something soft. He’s beautiful, really. He cuts a sharp figure, though his imposing stature is made elegant by the gentle swish and sway of his robes, inky black cloth with gold embroidery… the transparent, veil-like mask hides the lower half of his face, and you can’t help but wonder what his lips look like. “The guards who brought thee to mine chambers gave me a brief summary of the tragedy that befell thee. Rest assured that thou art safe here.” he strides to your bedside, placing a glass of water atop the mahogany nightstand.

Not a moment passes before you’re reaching for it. Gods, how long has it been? The back of your throat is as dry as the Sagolii, sandpaper feeling soothed by the cool water you gulp so desperately.

The muscles and bones of your arms whine with dull pain, left over from the terrible injuries you’ve suffered during your escape, as vicious and unnerving as the memories which accompany them.

“It will take thee at least a fortnite to heal from thy wounds. House Fortemps hath secured thee a place in the Holy See as their ward.”

“I…” It’s all too much to process. “What about the Scions?” The conversation slows to a stop as he carefully thinks over his answer, though his silence is all you need to know the verdict. Sudden nausea churns deep in your stomach, because you know. You were there. You heard the tunnel collapse. You watched Minfilia dash in the direction of the explosion. The allies you have come to know and treasure perished for your sake.

An aching coldness sweeps over you as your body curls in on itself, crushed. Alone, you realize. Alone. The support networks and bonds you’ve built ripped from your grasp in not even a bell’s work. Darkness envelops your vision as you bury your face in your knees, sobs beginning to rattle aching lungs.

What’s the point in being the Warrior of Light if you can’t protect those who matter most to you?

A large hand settles on your shoulder, reminding you of Urianger’s hovering presence. Your throat is hoarse and slick all at the same time, tears smeared wet across your cheeks, leaving you feeling even worse. Your lips part around a pathetic little gasp, drawing a trembling breath deep into your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper and laugh all in one. “I probably don’t seem like a Warrior of Light, right now.”

“‘Tis no trouble,” Urianger insists, offering you a white kerchief. The fine fabric glistens underneath the spare rays of sun. You almost hesitate to sully it, but you wipe your face down and blow your nose in it anyways, too far gone to feign humility.

“I can only imagine the depths of thou’s grief… but know this be a safe haven. Rest here as long as thou desirest.”

“Resting is the last thing I want to do right now,” you sigh. The grief, the doubt, the ‘what if’s’ press against you like a vice. You don’t completely believe it, still. That they’re gone. A part of you thinks perhaps Y’shtola or Thancred or any of the friends you’ve made along the way will walk through the door any moment, like nothing happened. But you know that’s not going to happen. That cannot happen. It’s that grim realization that spurs you into action. Your arms howl in agony as you press your hand to the mattress, pushing yourself out of bed.

The floor is cold against your bare feet. The plush robe you’re swaddled in shifts with the sudden movement, dangling over your shoulder to—

—to gift him a glimpse of thine exposed skin. Ne’r had he thought the day would arrive when a woman paralyzed him with her body alone, yet here he sat.

The ethereal sight was snatched away before he could truly savor it. Overpowering was the temptation to beckon thee hither and plead for another showing, but nay. Surely such a woeful and pitiful display from a stranger would gain him naught. A quieter, delicate approach must needs do.

He stood from his chair, hastening to your side.

“Prithee, allow me to run thee a warm bath. Thou hast been deep in slumber since yest’rday. T’would be advisable to clean and redress thy wounds.” His gaze rested upon thee, soft and imploring. A brief silence hung in the air, during which his heart thrums so passionately in his ears, so voluminous that he might have missed thy nod of agreement had he not been so focused on thine lips. “A seamstress hand-crafted a new shirt and pair of slacks for thy to adorn, alongside the proper smallclothes.”

He grasped the pile of garments from atop the drawers that rested against the far wall, delicately handing them to you. With great delight did he notice the petiteness of your hands, his heart set aflame at the difference in size between the both of you.

With eagerness did he escort you to the bathing chambers, endeavoring to keep his mind from wandering to the expanse of skin and plane that laid beneath that loose robe.

By his hand would your bond seed and propagate.

As hesitant as you are to trust a man you’ve just met, you allow Urianger to escort you to the bathroom. He slows his pace for your sake, the brief walk giving you a glimpse at the rest of his home… or at least just one, sprawling floor comprised of—well, you don’t get a look inside any of the rooms. The number of ornate doors that line the corridor on either side speak to his wealth and status.

“Forgive me,” he says as you reach the end of the corridor. His cheeks flush light pink, touching the tips of his ears. He doesn’t even look at you as he wraps a massive hand around the brass doorknob, tugging it open. “Dost thou require assistance disrobing?”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him with a small smile. His modesty is likely a standard among Ishgardian society, but you find it sweet regardless.

The bathroom is wide open and lavish. White tile spans across the floor. The sink is surrounded by a marble countertop and the faucet shines near gold in the pale sunlight. Tiny windows are placed up high, so even the most determined of lechers can’t catch a glimpse inside.

“Thank you, Urianger.” You can’t even begin to repay his hospitality, and while you hate to impose on him further… “I might need your help with rebandaging, though.”

“Of course,” he nods. Perhaps, after you heal and get back on your feet, you’ll be able to repay the incredible kindness he’s shown. For now, all you can do is step inside to the waiting bath. “I shall retrieve the necessary supplies while thou bathes. Take as long as thou require.”

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving you to simple silence and the thoughts that accompany it. Plush fabric slides down your skin as you disrobe, and you take care to drape it over a rack affixed to the wall. Your borrowed raiment is a deep, inky black that shimmers underneath the light, several sizes too large for you. You realize it likely comes from his own wardrobe, making it more of a relief that you didn’t simply shuck it off and let it fall to the floor.

After everything he’s done for you, you’d hate to let even a speck of dust sully it.

The process of peeling off your bandages is both sluggish and painful, but there’s a strange sense of relief that comes with letting your skin breathe. After tossing the sullied scraps into the nearby wastebin, you run the bath and allow the warm water and soap to wash over you. You’re tender still. Each brush of soap over wounded areas makes you cringe anew. The pain, however, is a welcome distraction from the thoughts and qualms that flock so readily to you.

You throw yourself into the task, losing track of time until you’ve finished. It’s with great reluctance that you climb from the warm water. The cold air surrounds you near instantly and clings like a second skin, sending an intrusive shiver down your spine.

After toweling off, you debate how much you should dress. On one hand, being close to bare in front of the man you have just met, you know if you’ll get dressed completely, he might just ask for you to disrobe again. He can’t very well treat you with clothes in the way. Nervousness briefly churns in your stomach as you opt to only tug on the undergarments.

You poke your head out the door. Much to your surprise, he’s already waiting with an armful of supplies.

“Should I come out there?”

“I can redress thy wounds wherever thou art most comfortable,” he informs you, his expression twisting with sympathy.

“In the bathroom is fine, then.” Despite the permanent Ishgardian cold, your palms sweat as you open the door, allowing him to stride inside. There’s no reason to fear or doubt his intentions. He’s been nothing but the finest of gentlemen thus far. His gaze remains affixed to the floor as he bustles inside. He carefully unloads his armful of gauze, bandages and salves onto the kitchen counter.

“I shan’t look anywhere unnecessary,” he assures you—

—And he hoped he did not lie.

Still, he cannot deny the incredible thrill that danced down his spine when his fingers brushed across thine skin. Even while injured, thou attempted to maintain a firm, resolute demeanor. Only the slightest twinge of thine expression betrayed thy agony.

The sight of thou’s bloodied visage returned to the forefront of his mind.

What kind of spectacle had thou created on the battlefield? How many foes had thou felled? Werest thou as incredible and grandiose as thy reputation had told?

Thy’s body tensed and flexed as he rubbed the soothing ointment onto thine skin. He mapped out every wondrous plane and curve. A fleeting gaze glimpsed roguely at thine softer parts, idly admiring thy incredible form as he re-layered each bandage, treatment gentle and thorough, worshipful. As devoutly as a priest expressed his undying love to Halone.

The fire that you sparked within him grew to a steady inferno, and to the Twelve he prayed thou did not notice the sheen of sweat that had coated his palms. Never had he felt such zealous passion.

Hardly a bell had passed whilst in your waking presence, and yet he was absolutely intoxicated. He was not a man, but rendered a beast, a hound, desperate for the slightest speck of attention thou might bestow upon him.

He felt a twinge of relief as he fastened—

The last piece of medical tape affixes yet another patch of gauze to your skin.

“Thank you,” you’ve lost how many times you’d said that to him since waking. “For everything. I can only hope that I’ll be able to repay you, one day.”

“While thine’s generosity is most appreciated, rest assured I have received due compensation. The Holy See ensures my coffers are well filled, but even had they not, seeing the Warrior of Light hale and hearty would have been reward enough.”

Urianger moves away, taking his warmth with him. Again, he collects the supplies he had come in with, strolling towards the door. You hastily shrug on the shirt and trousers he’s so generously provided for you, wincing with each pull of muscle until you’re warm and clothed. The garments are too big for you, but better that than too tight.

You grab the robe from the rack. The fabric is warm and insulated, and covered in a spiced scent you’ve come to recognize as his. Idly, you shrug it on before turning to the door—

He stood in the doorframe, his eyes widening as he drank in thine intoxicating visage. On thy own, thou wert stunning, but draped in his robe thou wert astronomically, impossibly ethereal. The rich fabric draped over thine form, flowing down and bunching on the floor around thine feet. The edges dragged behind you like a bride’s wedding trail.

It took several moments to jolt from his enraptured state, though the sight remained, burned deep into his mind, a lovely picture he would sooner die than forget.

Would his cologne and incense cling to thou after? For how long? How—

How long would it be until you can return to the field? The Scions are missing, not dead. You refused to believe that for the sake of your own sanity. Not until you find their bodies and could deny no further. You will not rest.

For now, though… all you can do is trail after him. He leads you into the same bedroom that you woke in, urging you to get more rest while he fixes breakfast. Had the simple process of bathing not been so draining, , you would try to assist him. Instead, you topple onto the mattress and worm underneath the blankets. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room bathed in blissful dark. Bookshelves line two of the walls, a gap between them left to make room for a desk. It’s hard to make out any other details, not when your eyelids are so traitorously heavy, not when your mind and body coalesce in their desires to corral you into an unsteady, uncomfortable sleep.

There’s no way to tell how much time passes when you wake next. The room is undisturbed, and the stillness near agitates you as you stir. Whether it’s been only fifteen minutes or several hours, you’re quite through with being still. How can you be content to waste away in sleep when there’s still so much you don’t know? When there are people who still so desperately need your help?

Even if you don’t know where the Scions reside, Raubahn is still likely imprisoned. Tataru is out there with no one to protect her. You ignore the twinges and pangs of pain that assault you when you throw your legs over the bed’s edge. If nothing else, the flare of agony helps awaken you further. The polished wooden floor is freezing against the bottoms of your feet as you amble towards the door…

Yet, a strange apprehension takes hold you you as you stand before it.

Should you really be walking around Urianger’s house alone while you’re his guest? Perhaps it’s only been fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’re disoriented and paranoid. You feel like a child who’s stayed up much too late and has to make the perilous sneak up to bed to avoid a scolding. Even after felling gods and monsters alike, it’s still social interaction and customs that worry you the most.

What would Thancred say, if he saw you so baffled by something so simple? He’d probably laugh and tease you. Maybe pat you on the back before offering genuine words of advice—maybe he’d know the ins and outs of Ishgardian etiquette thanks to some bizarre and far flung mission. You don’t know. You can’t ask him.

You don’t like being left alone with your thoughts.

That’s what pushes you to grab the doorknob and stroll into the hall, taking in the long corridor that looms ahead.

“Urianger?” You call cautiously. Steps slow, your breathing quiet as you grab the first doorknob to your left. Upon giving it a cursory twist, you discover it’s unlocked. Of course it is! He likely hasn’t expected you to snoop.

The door creaks open, revealing another bedroom. It’s similar to the guest one you have been given. The bed is perfectly made, sheets black and white, not a single crease out of place. The smell of recently burned incense makes you wrinkle your nose, curious. A desk nestles against a wall, haphazardly covered in papers and scrolls. It’s enough to pique your curiosity, but not enough to make you actually enter and investigate. That honor goes to the familiar pile of clothes nestled in one of the crannies, between the nightstand and a dresser.

Your clothes. A strange, ominous feeling sinks to your stomach as you push the door open and step inside, crossing the room in a few, deft strides. Why does he have these? The garments aren’t clean, still smattered in blood and other stains that make you grimace as you grip your shirt. You guess it makes sense. He couldn’t treat you with your filthy clothes on, after all. But seeing your garments so casually resting in a practical stranger’s home unsettles you regardless. Even worse, his bedroom.

Your glazed eyes roam the length of your ruined clothes briefly before you set them back down, folding them the way they had been. The way you back out of the bedroom is hasty, but the closing of the door is done with the delicacy and precision of a master calligrapher.

Relief relaxes you somewhat as you continue down the hall, glad you haven’t been caught red-handed. It takes a matter of minutes to find him, still in the kitchen, having just finished cooking. Breakfast is delicious, though the food settles uneasily in your stomach.

You don’t know his intentions. Had you not discovered your clothes neatly stacked away in his room. Are his intentions really pure? Had he intended to wash your garments and return them to you at a later time?

Are you any safer here than you were back in Ul’dah?

You blink, and you’re suddenly back in the banquet hall, underneath the dazzling lights and immersed in conversation with some gaudy noble you don’t even know.

The scene changes all too quickly—

A disembodied arm, the screams of innocent servers and bystanders—the way the Elder Seedseer and the Storm General saw fit to merely watch as you and your allies were chased from the banquet. They let this happen, you realize while you sit on Urianger’s couch and drink some tea.

They let this happen. After you’ve chased gods out of their homes, after you lent your aid, assisting their people with everything you have. Cold. It’s so, so cold and the breakfast in your stomach threatens to resurface because-gods, how can you ever trust anyone again? Especially those in power?

It’s Urianger’s voice that distracts you, brings you back to the surface. He returns from his study and remains at your side for the next few hours, much to your surprise. Your memory is a blur from then on. Your senses fade in and out, lost in a daze for god knows how long. Only the gentle touch of his hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality.

How long had he been speaking to you? You do your best to piece through the conversation, half lost in your thoughts and half still in the present.

Isn’t he someone important? You can’t quite recall what he said–something about working for the church, about being a healer. Doesn’t he have something else to do? You imagine the Holy See needs all the help you can get with the ongoing war—but you don’t question him.

Conversation is slow and steady. Only every now and then does he ask questions, things that are easy to answer–

“From where dost thou hail?” “Was breakfast to thine liking?” “Would thou likest more tea? Another blend, perhaps?”

Calm, casual, yet you do not miss the looks he sends you when he thinks you are not aware. Something changes in his expression, the quiet, thoughtful calm touching a shade darker. Those keen, gold glances make your spine stiffen, your body curling in on itself, taking shelter in the robe he so kindly gifted you. The afternoon slopes by, time passing quicker once he grants you access to his incredible library.

The immense shelves line the walls and cluster around a single wooden table in rows. After grabbing an index of fairytales, you tuck yourself into a seat and mindlessly draw your gaze across the pages, taking in the immense detail put into each drawing.

It’s easy to lose track of time. By the time you finish combing through your chosen book, you realize the sunlight is darkened, the day beginning to come to a close.

Your legs cry out and cramp as you push away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping against the hard wood floor.

The hallways of Urianger’s home are lit by several floating orbs of light. They flounce through the air, casting the hall into patterns of warm glow and dim shadows.

You can pass through them without trouble–they part and shape around your body, making room for you to pass. A sudden jolt of stomach that gnaws your stomach prevents you from investigating the lights. Ah, you had missed lunch. Further, you venture, keeping an ear out for footsteps, breathing, any words said–

“Urianger, my good fellow! Too long has it been since we last saw each other!” A broad, familiar voice reaches your ears and draws you forward. You grasp a doorknob and pull it open to reveal the living room,the same as you left it bells prior. The front door on the far side of the room clicks shut behind Haurchefant de Fortemps’s tall, striking form. He’s abandoned the platemail and armor you’re so accustomed to seeing him in, instead donning a thick jacket, black pants and knee-high boots. A plaid scarf is bundled around his neck, checkered blue and white.

Haurchefant brightens at the sight of you, blue eyes widening, lips curling into the widest of smiles. He bustles past Urianger, arms outstretched to receive you.

“Oh, my friend! How glad I am to see you safe and sound.” His voice lowers to a soothing rumble as he wraps you in an embrace, swaddling you in decadent warmth. He’s soft and warm and alive, someone you actually know and can rely on in terrible, turbulent times. The tension dissolves from your body as you lean forward, slumping into his arms. “When I heard of what happened, I feared the worst. I would have stormed through the gates of Ul’dah myself had I not heard of your escape and timely arrival.”

His cheek nuzzles against your temple. There aren’t words to describe your relief, so you settle for curling your fingers into the back of his coat, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

No, no. You will not cry again. Yda wouldn’t want you to cry.

Regardless, the tears break free and smudge against the fabric of his coat.

“After dinner, we’ll bring you home–back to Fortemps manor. My father and brothers are incredibly excited to meet you.” He pulls back, but keeps you within arms reach, a large hand perching on your shoulder whilst the other idles at your side. Had it been any other day, you would have flustered at his closeness, but now you feel hot shame well up within you. He shouldn’t have to see you like this–not when he praises you as the realm’s greatest warrior, not when he sings your praises as though you’re immortal.

Upon sight of your teary expression, he freezes. The smile on his face dims, expression contorting in the deepest sympathy. That’s what does it, your mind and body cracking like an egg as a sob breaks free from your chapped lips.

“Oh, do not look at me so,” he shepherds you close to his chest a second time, rocking you gently back and forth. His sweater smells like a warm hearth. The faint scent of chocolate clings to the thick fabric, bringing you back to Camp Dragonhead, to a place softer and simpler. “A smile better suits a hero.”

“I… shall begin preparations for thine dinner,” Urianger says awkwardly from the corner of the room. In the middle of the your emotions breaking free, you quite forgot his presence.

“Ah, as much as I appreciate your magnanimity, that will not be necessary.” You can hear the regret in Haurchefant’s voice. “I will gladly set some time aside for us to fraternize at a later date. However, I came with the intent to bring her to the manor. We already have a room prepared, you see.”

“I see’st,” There’s a tension to Urianger’s voice, like he wants to object, but he offers no argument, no refusal. He says your name softly, breathing out a tender sigh. “I left thine belongings in the guest bedroom. Permit me to retrieve–”

“No!” You break away from Haurchefant’s hold, voice impassioned, “I can get them myself.” Despite your injuries, you’re not made of glass. This constant state of inaction leaves you feeling worthless, helpless, even though you’re not. You’ve felled countless gods! You can weather the pain, you can do something as simple as climb the stairs to get your own damn belongings.

“As thou wishest.” Urianger nods, and Haurchefant allows you to fully break from his embrace to journey back into the hallway. You fumble in the dark of the guest bedroom until you find your staff and the bag of items you had on your person during the battle, minus… your old clothes. Before you leave, you cast off the robe Urianger so generally lent you, immediately missing its warmth. Perhaps you’d have taken a last indulgent sniff of it, but the sight that greeted you in his bedroom haunts you.

You want to get out of this place as soon as possible. Maybe the fresh air will help clear your head and relax you.

You shrug the bag’s strap over your shoulder, thanking the Twelve that at least one part of you was left uninjured. You don’t linger, ambling out of the room, journeying back down the corridor, coming to a stop before the living room door.

“I would prefer it if thou left her in my care for the time being. The nature of her injuries is severe. T’would be most advised to keep her close to a professional–” Urianger’s voice is imploring yet hesitant, as though smothering pure fervent passion.

“It is quite fortunate that House Fortemps has some of Ishgard’s best chirurgeons under their employ, then,” Haurchefant cuts him off, steadfast and assured. He leaves little room for argument. You’ve never heard him cut someone off so abruptly. “Pardon my assumption, but you seem quite flustered, my friend. Is there a reason she should be left exclusively under your care?”

“My simple wish is to see mine task doled to by the Holy See through to fullest completion, tis all,” Urianger dismisses him.

“Then on behalf of the Holy See, as a member of the Heavens Ward, allow me to assure you that this will have no effect on your standing nor your pay. Archbishop Aymeric was notified of my intentions and approved them.” A pause. The creaking of the floorboards underneath someone’s feet. “It’s unlike you to be so emotionally transparent, my friend. You usually covet your feelings like a dragon hoards its treasure.”

“Thou art jumping to conclusions in your theatrics, lord Haurchefant.”

“If that’s the case, then, I so humbly beg your forgiveness and thank you for your service. Your… attentiveness to my lady has been noticed. And appropriately appreciated.” There’s a sharpness underneath Haurchefant’s typically airy voice that you’ve never quite heard from him.

...You don’t want to hear it anymore.

You grasp and twist the doorknob, the living room falling silent as you enter.

“There you are! Come along, come along,” Haurchefant wastes no time in bustling over to you. “Allow me to take that. You’ll bear no such burden while I am at your side.” He tugs on the strap of your bag and you submit, allowing him to throw it over his shoulder. “You should also take my coat, tis cold without,” in an admittedly impressive juggling act, he both keeps grip on your belongings and shrugs off his jacket at the same time, handing you the heavy, soft garment.

“Are you sure?” you hold it up and eye it with a raised eyebrow, before looking to him.

“Of course. I have long adjusted to Ishgard’s admittedly inhospitable climate, whereas you have just arrived. The walk is short. I’ll be perfectly fine.” He’s wearing long sleeves, so you don’t push it. Instead, you slide into the coat, taking in the warm, soft fabric and enjoying the scent that clings to it. The heart and the home, warm hot chocolate prepared upon your arrival to Camp Dragonhead.

The sleeves cover your hands by a long shot and the entire garment is big enough for you to wear it as a dress. The weight of it, and how much it covers is comforting.

Comforting to the point where you don’t allow yourself to bat an eye as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close to his body. You don’t want to read into his actions, don’t want to think about anything you overheard. Even the notion of having something else to worry about and lose sleep over nearly makes you break down all over again.

You say your last thanks to Urianger and promise to visit him. It’s the least you can do after he was kind enough to heal you. Perhaps he was being paid to do so, but you don’t imagine cooking breakfast was a part of his job. Nor was it his job to make you tea and fetch you new clothes, new shoes, most like.

A cold gust of air greets you as soon as Haurchefant opens the front door. The light has long died, leaving the street lamps to illuminate the grand avenues of Ishgard’s upper class district. This is your first look at the city’s interior, you realize. Your gaze draws over the grand buildings, taking in their steepness and structure. It’s grim, but beautiful. Deadset and stiff in its design but stable and confident in the face of the tragedy it regularly endures.

There is no moon, tonight, as though it too has decided to hide away with its own grief.

---

He apologized to you as he tread upstairs. He apologized to Minfilia, to the vast pantheon of gods and goddesses, to the Scions, to all those he hadn’t been able to aid in their time of need.

Urianger’s exhaustion burned him raw. He was not privy to the framing and ambush of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. However, that doesn’t alleviate him of his guilt and grief. Having thou so politely dropped into his lap by the newly appointed Archbishop had granted him brief succor. Knowing he had the chance to help the survivors of the incident was a soothing balm to the wound.

He had not anticipated the way he had grown so instantly attached. Neither had he anticipated the fervent desire that gripped him, nor the way his blood boiled when that rapscallion barged into his home and stole you away.

The guest bedroom did not bear your scent as he hoped it would.

He felt as though a hostage in his own body as he navigated to the bed, gaze fixed upon the robe thou hadst cast so generously onto the sheets. A mere piece of thee to tide him over until he saw thou next. The mattress bounced as he fell upon it, face shoved into the plushness of the garment, taking in a deep breath. His cock throbbed at the scent of you, blood rushing down whilst he parted his robes with a trembling hand.

Like a howling, braying beast did he rock his hips. The friction was painful without oil, but pain mattered precious little when he craved thou so. Moans rattled from his weary lungs, his mind corrupted with images of thee, so decadent underneath him.

Thy nails, digging into his shoulder as thou let thy voice ring free–crying and sobbing and begging for benediction by his hand, by his cock. That mattress creaked as he worked himself to completion, a final cry freeing itself from his parted lips as he spilled sticky and hot onto the robe.

He collapsed to the side, hot shame washing over him as he lifted his gaze to the window, contemplating a moonless sky.

[unicyclehippo]

Beauyashter prompt, 'Touch starved but oh so very patient'?

beau is good at one thing: being a smart ass. she’s been talking back to people since she was only months old, so the story goes—a red faced scrunched up ugly as all hell baby (cute despite it all, because this story was only ever told kindly) and any time her parents cooed over her or spoke to her she’d burst back with a torrent of angry baby talk, tiny baby fists waving.

wait.

beau is good at two things: being a smart ass, and being a shit kicker. she’s got a helluva mouth on her, two fists and two feet, and the gods themselves can’t do shit to stop her from using ‘em.

no, wait. fuck.

she’ll get it right this time. she’s trying this whole awareness thing, truth thing, and has this thought that, like, if she runs from the truths inherent in herself then she’s gonna miss them in other people, so—

beau is good at three things—being a smart ass, being a shit kicker, and being a nosy piece of shit. figuring stuff out. curiosity is her constant companion, infects her tongue, infects her hands, makes her say things and touch things because she wants to know who, and how, and what, and why? what’s better in this world than knowing how it all works? taking the time to figure it all out?

way back when, when she was by herself and cutting out from the archives to see the world and what it had to offer, she was interested in liars and cheats and scoundrels and gems. she loves gems. jewellery too, actually—likes the way the claws of rings hold cut stones in place, likes to watch as jewellers grins and polish them into shapes. likes examining them for facets and flaws. big surprise there, to anyone who knows beau. back then, she wouldn’t’ve said anything about it but now—months down the track and kinda embroiled in a lot of people’s messes—if anyone asked, beau might—might—admit she isn’t in it for the flaws. she just—thinks they’re important. thinks they can’t and shouldn’t be looked over. flaws...set gems apart, make them different. hell, sometimes they even make them more expensive! and it’s the same with people, in some ways. it’s not that she’s looking for the bad shit they do, or the ways in which they’re fucked up—it’s just that once you know that, once you’ve found that, sometimes it shows you more about the person.

okay, that’s a relatively new revelation.

beau used to just like to be able to point out the fact that hey, fucker, i might be a piece of shit but so are you, and here’s my fucking proof: exhibit a, and so on.

but now.

people are complicated, and they’re in over their heads, and things that sound like lies aren’t always lies—or not entirely—and beau has always been a details kinda person but she knows when to take a step back and gauge the entirety of a situation. even when it’s hard. even if it strains the mind, proves impossible.

which is all to say, that is, beau is sharing a room with jester and yasha and she hasn’t been able to sleep for thinking.

she has, as quietly as she was able, moved a small table to sit beneath the window and she has her jewellers kit laid out to clean and polish a few of the rings and other pieces they’ve picked up along their journey, the beading and crystal and stone worked into her fine expositors robes. it’s not something she does when other people can see—earns more questions than she would like, which is zero—but they’re having an audience with the king again tomorrow and they didn’t have a choice about it last time but beau would like to make something of a good impression this time.

the work is slow and methodical, repetitive. calming. gives her plenty of space to think.

so beau does.

her mind clicks over the cult and trent and caleb, and the letter, and kamordah for a moment before beau snaps away from that, powerfully enough that her head actually snaps to the side.

she shakes the thought away.

blinks over at her friends and forces her heart beat to slow and settle.

yasha sleeps differently now. deeply. beau’s mind fiddles and fusses with the details of what it has learned, fits jagged pieces together like a puzzle. a mosaic, more like, with the pieces sharp enough to cut. beau must cut herself on them because she winces when she thinks, defensive mechanism maybe? hoping to die in her sleep? or maybe just to stay in a dream where she was more of herself?

she would have to ask yasha questions to find out more. she’s not doing that.

jester, meanwhile, is sleeping fitfully. she’s laying on her side and has an extra pillow cuddled tight to her, and as beau drags a polishing cloth over the pretty emerald of what is very clearly a fake stone—a good one, but fake—she watches jester twitch and mumble something in her sleep. watches fingers dig tight into the pillow. watches her tail wrap and wrap around her calf and ankle.

a nightmare. she doesn’t have to ask jester to know that.

beau is good at three things: being a smart ass, being a shit kicker, and figuring shit out.

her friends, her girls, they need something and beau knows what some of it is: calm, safety, protection, reassurances, attention. the things most people need when they’ve been through not just one but, like, a hundred fucking traumatic experiences.

thing is, beau can figure shit out. she’s good at it, most of the time. the thing she isn’t good at—really, really isn’t good at—is fixing things.

beau returns her attention to the rings. sets the finished ones aside but the one she’s working on now—real sapphire, square cut, gold—she wears on her index finger, turning it carefully to get at the problem spots.

she isn’t good at it. but she can try.

//

yasha is in some ways harder to talk to than jester, but in a big way she’s also much easier to talk to. the woman has been admitting to things and explaining things and trying her best to make amends in whatever patchwork manner she can, and beau has zero qualms in using that for her own purpose.

‘you look like shit,’ beau tells her, sitting down across from her at the breakfast table. the inn they’ve stopped in is small but nice, and it has opened the shutters on the east wall to let the morning light stream in like pillars of gold. yasha is sat next to one of them, scritching carefully behind the ears of frumpkin.

yasha glances up. settles a moment on beau’s chest before looking away again. ‘i just bathed.’

‘that’s - no - you don’t look like actual shit,’

‘beau.’ the woman smiles. ‘i’m joking.’

beau leans back on the bench seat, braces her elbows against the back board, scoffs. ‘yeah, totally, i knew that.’ she looks away. the maid is still making up her plate. ‘you want to talk about it?’

‘sure,’ yasha agrees easily. her shoulders betray her, tensing, tightening.

they sit there in an awkward silence before,

‘usually people say something—‘

‘do you have questio—‘

‘oh, go ahead,’

‘no, no,’ yasha waves her free hand, the other still so gently petting frumpkin. she hides behind her hand like it’s a shield, interposed between them. ‘go ahead.’

beau clears her throat. feels an itch behind her eyes, exhaustion on so many levels, for so many reasons.

‘i was just gonna say, you said yes to talking but then you didn’t, so,’

‘i thought...you had questions.’

‘i didn’t mean it as a fucking interrogation, yash,’ beau says, and there’s no heat to her words at all. just dry. just dust, spilling out of her. ‘if you wanna talk, i’m here. that’s all i meant.’

yasha nods.

beau’s breakfast comes and she eats as she always does in quick motions, an arm curled around the plate as she shovels the eggs into her mouth. a few strips of bacon into the pocket for later and she’s done. she shoves the plate to the far end of the table to take back to the kitchens later. doesn’t move just yet.

she lets her eyes fall onto the window. the dark wood is painted nearly white with the morning sunlight and she can see dust motes drifting gently through the haze, puffing into swirls and eddys whenever someone moves.

‘are you going to - report me?’

beau blinks. drags her attention back to yasha. sees not fear or upset but a deep and abiding resignation in those eyes.

‘i already have,’ she tells yasha. the woman nods. ‘and i told them the truth. you weren’t yourself.’

‘you said you didn’t know that. not for sure. you said—‘

‘i say a lot of shit.’

‘you were not lying. you nearly died,’ yasha says, and she doesn’t stumble over that or flinch away from it, though she had a big hand in it. ‘i think you could barely see, then, let alone lie.’

‘i lie better than i see,’ beau tells her. shrugs. ‘but you’re not wrong. i told you i figured two things were the most likely. and we got you back, so, eliminated the other reason. you weren’t yourself,’ beau tells her with the exact force and directness she had told the high curator to their face, zero intention of negotiating or altering that statement.

after a moment, when yasha says nothing, just sits opposite her, head lowered, beau leans back in her seat and moves one booted foot forward until it touches yasha’s. she looks away, returns her attention to the window.

the other woman pulls her foot back to make room for beau’s. beau can feel yasha watching her, so she closes her eyes.

eventually, she feels a pressure against the side of her foot, yasha’s finding hers again and resting alongside it. and they sit.

//

jester is harder to talk to. she speaks in dizzying circles and makes jokes and has beau all in a tangle before she can ask anything important, but beau still tries. it takes a little longer but beau takes that step back that she needs sometimes and watches properly, like jester is a mark or a competitor. and beau sees that beyond the whirlwind of chatter and creation and creativity, that jester has made for herself a very neat little bubble. no one goes in. jester rarely comes out. so when jester makes an offer—one that she knows, she knows, beau will refuse—beau looks her square in the eyes and accepts.

jester stops in her tracks. a cute little frown digs between her brows. ‘what?’

‘i said sure,’ beau tells her, crooks a challenging smile. ‘go wild.’

‘you want me—to paint your face?’

‘yup.’

‘like, me? with my paints?’

‘yeah. it’s a party, right?’

‘yeah,’ jester agrees, eyes widening, and she clambers to her feet. ‘oh my gosh, oh my gosh, beau, this is going to be so much fun! and so much better than the last time i did it, i promise i won’t make you into a creepy snake again, it’ll be so pretty, i promise.’

beau shrugs. ‘sure. i trust you.’

jester hurries to her haversack, planted at caleb’s feet within the clear set dome of the hut. she can’t hear their conversation but does notice that jester comes close to but doesn’t quite touch caleb. respectful of his raw state, maybe. she returns with a set of familiar paints, coloured and carefully wrapped in protective cloth and leather.

‘this isn’t the magic stuff, is it?’

‘no,’ jester laughs. ‘just my normal paints. what do you want? a moor bounder?’

‘we’re in the empire so i’m gonna have to do with no.’

‘they might not know what they look like. you might just look really really cool and scary.’

‘that’s true.’

‘i could almost make you a cat or a tree or a bunny or an eagle or—‘

‘can you make me an owl?’

jester grins, eyes bright. ‘i can try. it’ll take a while and—hey caleb? can you make frumpie—‘

‘he can’t hear you, jes,’

‘CAN YOU MAKE FRUMPIE—‘

‘no,’ beau laughs, throwing a hand up over jester’s mouth. the touch sends a jolt through her palm, makes her heart race. she’s too aware of that bubble jester has made around herself, too aware that she just broke it. she lets her hand drop, wipes it on her knee, feeling the rasp of fabric make her skin prickle, tickle, in almost the same manner. ‘he’s in the hut, it blocks sound.’

‘oh. right.’

fifteen minutes later, owl frumpkin perched and sleeping on beau’s pack beside her, they are ready. jester sits beside her and lays out the paints. negotiates for a full minute how to sit so that she can comfortably paint beau’s face. her cheeks darken with colour as she scoots closer, darken further still when beau spreads her legs for her.

jester moves closer. her knees press to the inside of beau’s thighs and, when she reaches up to paint the first layer over beau’s face, her free hand comes to rest on the bunched tight muscle of beau’s thigh, stabilising herself.

beau swallows. it makes a dry click in her throat. she closes her eyes. tries to focus on the balmy day, the sounds of fjord and nott training in the field nearby, rather than the hand pressing on her leg or the wet tacky pull of the paint as it slowly layers on.

jester is quiet.

it strikes beau as odd a few minutes into this whole thing—and her brain sharpens, pulls her focus from the hazed, drifting she’s touching me, she smells like lavender to purpose.

beau’s eyes flutter open. wander over the look of peace, of focused intent, of muted joy as jester paints. feels acutely pinned under the force of blue eyes as jester leans in, drags the wet tip of the brush just so under her chin and along the side of her jaw to frame her face. when she pulls back, her eyes slide to meet beau’s and she smiles, crinkles her nose.

‘hi,’ she whispers.

‘hey.’

she doesn’t have any questions any more. jester looks at peace for once, and if this is what it takes, beau can provide it for her.

//

beau takes jester’s hand, guides her over the cracked and crumbling rocks down off the path. jester’s head tilts in the direction of yasha, walking slow and purposeful like a fucking death march by herself. so beau finds herself flanking the woman with jester, setting her hand on the small of yasha’s back.

//

yasha awakes in the swampy heat that rolls in before a storm. beau fumbles awake at her side. ignores yasha’s quiet offer to go back to sleep, to not worry. leans heavy against her shoulder when yasha takes her place at the fire and beau falls back to sleep like that. drools a little. yasha doesn’t seem to mind so much because as they make their second days’ march across the sulphur drenched fields toward pride’s call, yasha is a solid presence at her side.

//

beau braids jester’s hair.

puts a hand on yasha’s shoulder like she would for caleb when she haltingly tells them of her last visit to this pit, to pride’s call.

drapes her blue and brown coat around jester when she tosses and turns in a sleepless night, lays beside her with a hand on her staff, so jester knows she’s safe, knows beau is there for her.

brings jester into a tight hug when the other girl shivers, shakes, at the sight of the massacre in the pit, the rows and piles of dead bodies.

‘anyone else reminded of that arcane laboratory back in zadash? the one with the pit fjord fell into?’ beau asks, and she wraps her other arm around yasha. a silent addition. this wasn’t you.

fjord picks up on it easily, tracks where beau begins and ends, connected to both yasha and jester. he nods. ‘i was just thinking the same thing,’ he says, and nothing more.

//

they have to go through kamordah. a contact is there, or something. beau doesn’t quite know because her head fills with this buzzing, crackling sound and when she sees jester talking to her she can’t make out the words. she can feel, though, the way gentle hands take her and press her down to sitting and her heart stutters when strong arms wrap around her in a hug. her brain that never ever stops going...stops. almost sighs with relief. fingers wind and weave in her hair, scratching against her scalp. rubbing gently at her shoulders. soothing beau into sleep.

when she wakes, it is with a single thought prominent in her mind, like her brain had pieces it together while she slept and hung it there, waiting for her to return to consciousness, return to her own mind.

jester and yasha want to be touched, want to be reassured, safe, calm, soothed. and so do you.

//

touching and being touched are two very different things, beau realises, and now that she knows it, everything gets a little bit harder. she can’t stop reassuring jester and yasha—wouldn’t hurt them like that, she’s not an asshole—but every time she does there is a flicker not of resentment but something akin to it, not directed to them but to herself. want, maybe. guilt, maybe. touching isn’t the same as being touched, and beau wants someone to want to touch her, to care enough to see what she needs. it feels ungracious of her but...to give back a little of what she gives.

the closer they get to kamordah, the more beau remembers that it’s not going to happen again. she made a fool of herself, panicking, which is why they held her.

things work in particular ways. beau knows this. the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. the seasons follow in their set pattern. small fish eat smaller fish, big fish eat the smaller fish. things have their uses, their purposes.

beau doesn’t get to need things. that’s not who she is. she isn’t the one who needs a hug or a pat on the shoulder. she won’t get one, so—

a hand wriggles into her own. tries to, but beau has it clenched into a painful fist so jester wraps her hand arojnd her wrist instead, fingers curling and stroking there and over beau’s knuckles.

‘okay?’ she asks brightly, worry clear in her eyes.

beau swallows hard. her smile ticks at the corner of her mouth but doesn’t stick. ‘sure. why not, right?’

‘maybe because your family seems like shit,’ yasha says in a low, angry rumble. her hand is big and warm and it rubs up and down beau’s spine. makes beau’s stomach flip and twist, makes her breath crackle out of her on a shuddering breath. she almost steps away from the touch—it’s too much—but she’s greedy. that’s another thing beau is. smart ass, shit kicker, smart, greedy. four things that she is. she unfurls one hand. jester takes it, squeezes.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

if it helps yours beat

I wrote some Ponyo AU! Based on the absolutely amazing commission @minky-for-short did for me yesterday! 

------

Caleb had come to dread the mornings. The gentle warmth prickling his skin, coming in through the bubble like airship windows he’d taken from a decommissioned submarine. Not yet the honey golden light of true sunrise, just the pale blue of the hour just before the world was truly awake.  Still, when he opened his heavy, bruise shadowed eyes and saw it, he felt his heart sink.

And, true enough, a second later came the warm hand on his shoulder, the voice gentle and sorrowful, “I must go, my love. Until next cycle…”

Caleb wanted to close his eyes again and pretend he hadn’t heard those words. He wanted to cling to his husband and beg him not to go, like a child thinking he could change the course of nature if he stamped his foot hard enough. He wanted to weep at the unfairness of it all, curse the heart that made him love who he loved.

But he did none of those things. He sat up, silky blankets falling away from his naked body but he didn’t yank them back into place. Not in front of Molly. His husband looked beautiful, ethereal, purple skin glowing softly in the shifting dark. Every one of his tattoos was picked out in starlight, constellations that rolled and moved across him as if Caleb was a planet, looking up at him from below.

Caleb wanted to pull Mollymauk back into bed, kiss every one of those points of light, chase them across his thighs until his lips and tongue glowed. He wanted to glory again in the fact that someone as powerful and beautiful as Mollymauk actually wanted him.

Instead, he kissed his lips, lightly and sweetly as he could, “I know, mein Mondlicht. Until next time.”

Molly gave a forlorn sigh, like he was wrestling with the same pointless desires as Caleb, “Who knows? Maybe this time we made another star…”

Caleb had to smile, “I would like that. I know Trinket would love that.”

Molly laughed softly, though there was a brief flash of sorrow in it, “Trinket...I won’t wake him. Tell him I said goodbye?”

“I will,” Caleb promised, leaning in and kissing his cheek, knowing what Mollymauk needed to hear but also knowing how much it would hurt to say it, “You should go, mein Mondlicht, the sun is rising.”

Molly nodded, the jewellery in his horns ringing softly. Already he was glowing brighter, the white moonlight threatening to swallow his shape entirely, “I love you. Look for me?”

“Every night,” Caleb murmured, turning away as Molly’s form blurred. He never could bear to watch him leave.

He pulled the blankets over his head but he knew it was pointless. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep, not now. Not with the room now so cold and dark without Molly, even with the sun rising.

Caleb got up with a sigh, just putting on a robe for now before walking out into the main viewing deck. He’d built his ship with an entirely glass side so he could see out into the sky around them. It had taken him years to scavenge all of the panes curved at just the right angles but it was worth it.

He gripped the railing tight and leaned out as far as he dared, wanting to forget he was trapped here inside all of this metal and junk while Molly was out there in the fading night sky, getting further and further away from him. Wanting to forget there would always be that distance between them.

“Papa?”

Caleb pulled back, turning. His son stood in the doorway to his own bedroom, looking bedraggled and sleepy, rubbing a tiny fist against one eye. There were times when he looked more like Molly and times when he looked more like Caleb but right now he seemed to be the perfect blend of both of them, with his shock of rust red hair hiding his horns and purple skin and gentle glow.

“Trinket…” Caleb smiled, “What are you doing up, kleines Sternenlicht?”

“Sun woke me up…” Trinket took padding little footsteps along the walkway towards him, across the patches where the metal didn’t quite match, where the colours and textures changed, “Is daddy gone back to the sky?”

“That’s right,” Caleb sighed, kneeling so Trinket could walk right into his arms, “He asked me to tell you goodbye and he’ll see us again very soon.”

“It never feels like very soon,” Trinket mumbled, voice still heavy and indistinct from sleep.

Caleb stifled a sigh as he caught Trinket and lifted him into a tight, protective embrace, “I know…”

Trinket blinked his large white eyes, looking over his papa’s shoulder into the brightening sky, watching all the colour bleed into it slowly. He didn’t like daytime. His daddy felt further away then.

“It’s still too early to start work, kleines Sterenlicht,” Caleb hummed, rocking him, “And you’re going to be about as keen on going back to bed as I am. So why don’t we read a story?”

His armful of warm, sleep smelling toddler began to writhe excitedly at that, “Yes! Yes! Story!”

Caleb chuckled, taking him over to the ship’s enormous bookshelves, “Which one? Aerospace Engineering: A History or Constellations of the Northern Hemisphere?”

“Constellations!” Trinket leaned back excitedly so he could reach up and tap the spine of the book he wanted.

Caleb obliged, sliding it out and carrying them over to the battered old wingback that slumped near the bookshelves. He settled into it, letting Trinket find a comfortable position on his knee before opening up the enormous tome.

Already, Trinket’s face was a mask of delight, prodding one picture with a pudgy finger, “That one’s on daddy’s arm!”

“That’s right, it’s Serpens,” Caleb smiled proudly, starting to read the accompanying passage, “In many mythologies, snakes represent rebirth and resurrection, owing to their habit of shedding their skin…”

Trinket leaned into his chest, enjoying the low rumbles that accompanied each word. Slowly, their patchwork airship filled with light and a new day began, softened by the comforting voice of his papa reading words as familiar as old friends.

Trinket didn’t like mornings. But he loved his papa very very much.

[nozomijoestar]

I kinda burned myself out with how hard I focused on these two months ago that it took this long to pick up again. I had an impulse to see them stargaze and then of course it turned into making myself cry ahaha

Once again they’re on the road because I couldn’t think of a better setting but that’s not important; its about the feelings

Trish inspected her nails with the eye of a professional. Night sky or no, nothing, nothing, interrupted her beauty checks. The moon had risen to its peak; the light confirmed her suspicion. She sighed. Her colored polish had degraded from smooth to a ragged patchwork. Oh well, there were worse things to worry about. She looked toward the road behind her. Empty. For some reason her stomach sank. All at once her body tensed to hold itself for danger that took its time. That was the worst kind. Your mind split from your control at the worry the enemy instilled on their own pace. They didn't need to always attack, wait long enough and she'd do it to herself. Trish swallowed hard and breathed out. The night insects kept singing. A few paces ahead Mista lost himself in stretches as he should; his insistence to 'Get off his ass a bit' had dragged them out to Nowheresville, population pending. Buccellati and the rest had gathered around their car. Abbaccio crouched studying Coco Jumbo; which meant poking and prodding and holding the turtle while its legs flailed. She sighed. At least this time she was outside the poor thing. Trish squinted at them through the darkness. Narancia was missing. Of course he was. If you stopped a road trip for so much as a yawn, he'd disappear no doubt slacking off till he wandered back. It was a rule; it was as natural as the wind. Trish wondered how the boy hadn't been born a cat. He had the fickleness down already; time to find him anyway. That was another of nature's laws. He got lost sure, but no matter how she grumbled there she went guiding him back. The grass reached her knees and clung like dozens of pushing hands. Not a tree stood for kilometers; at this distance the moon grew overwhelming. Narancia lay on the grass that'd molded around his body as if it were his bed. His head rested on his crossed arms; Trish would never understand how he did it. How could one person embody freedom? How did he do it when his heart roared in a storm he'd bound emotions to years ago? She should know by now unraveling all of him was no better than holding the breeze. Trish knew he heard her coming. It was the walk he liked to say. Easy as breathing her feet fell into a rich girl's stride. Confident, precise, expectant- Trish wished those were still things she knew instead of their shells. She took a deep breath. No time for that now. Narancia turned his head as she sat. The feel of his eyes made her heart pound for something not worrisome. God, he still didn't know whenever he did that. It was annoying at how easy, it was grounding in a world where up was down and down up. He had her smiling, smiling! And it felt liberating. "There's a bunch of 'em out tonight. You got a favorite?" She looked up and awe drowned the remainders of her gloom. Stars beyond counting dotted the sky; each speck burned to outdo the others. On a clear night they went on and on stretched beyond the horizon. Her eyes snapped to one set with ease. "Orion." "Huh?" "The constellation. Haven't you heard of it?" "Uh, well not really...wasn't around class long enough for that." His eyes flit anywhere but her face; his voice had trailed into something meek. Trish held back a 'Damnnit of course not.' to put her chin on her knees. You didn't ask stuff like that to people who never got past third grade. "Well it's ok Narancia, I'll just teach you a little. That alright?" He sat up to give her his full attention. A grin on his face told her everything was fine. God at this point Trish could do just about anything to him and he'd accommodate; follow and roll over like some dog for her. The realization of power made her queasy not for the first time. That was part of knowing him, being with him. At least for now. She smiled back. "Ok then go on and look at the sky. It always looks like a bunch of stuff smashed together at first. That's where the fun starts. The harder you look eventually you'll find what feels like it's going against the flow; like its part of something all its own." "Hmm...I guess. Geez people must have some killer eyes and nothin' to do all day- y'know, to do this right!" He added the last bit before her frown had settled. With an awkward laugh he mussed his hair. "Alright alright, so I look for the ones that stand out. That's easy. Aerosmith!-" "No Stands. By yourself sure but not with me ok?" "Huh? Why's that- oh..." Trish scooted closer to wrap her arms around his. She rested her head on his shoulder and grinned when he swallowed in awe. A blush colored his face. "Keep going." "Okay. So let's see uhh...there! That one is like a tiny sun. And there's smaller ones that look like they're followin' it an'...a triangle, I think." "That's Sirius, one half of the dog constellations. It's super bright I'm not surprised you found it first." Trish said with a chuckle. "Hey a minute ago I didn't know any of 'em. It ain't bad for a first try." "Liar I did mention Orion." "Oh yeah. Well s'not like I actually saw it. What makes you like that one? Is it cool?" She stared at him in way of open affection no words could capture. It was honesty; it was pure to at last be under a gaze that wouldn't vanish. He could hear her sure, but goddamn if his mind wasn't half lost in savoring what it felt to mean something. To be someone. He tucked a loose hair behind her ear; Trish kept right on though now she smiled again. "A lot of people like Orion since most think its in the shape of a hunter. Y'know, strong and reliable and protective. Things a lot of people want to be; at least to me anyway. I'm not all that different." She again gazed at the sky yet now in the moonlight her profile took on a serene determination. He knew then that he'd be one of the handful in a lifetime to see it. Narancia couldn't help his stillness; the urge that came from somewhere he didn't know to feel humbled. She continued as though she noticed nothing. There was passion in her voice no matter how casual her words. "When I find it at night or even in pictures, mom comes back. Just for a moment, just long enough for me to start crying. I see her in my head and I remember and it's like...like I'm watching my past while I hold my breath then- then it's gone before I can really understand it. The one thing to stay is feeling for a second as if none of this ever happened. As if I'm still back home and she's cooking before calling for me to help. It's...it's so safe." Tears had fallen as she uttered the final words; her tone drifted far, far away and he knew she'd stopped talking to him. Silently Narancia hugged her and welcomed his own, gentler cry. A minute passed where only the wind spoke as it brushed the grass. He could swear her heart raced and skirted danger. When he breathed deep however, it could've well been him. As with many things Trish took the lead and broke the quiet. "I wish I could be Orion. I wish my mom would give it a rest already." Her voice still hadn't recovered its confidence. She leaned into him in search of grasping it once more. "Trish...you are. That time on the plane to Sardegna, you were by yourself and you still got us outta there. I don't wanna think about getting thrown into that meat thing's mouth. A-and I don't have to thanks to you!" Their eyes met this time with an intensity neither could name. Trish shook her head while she rubbed his hand; the roughness that marked his body hadn't pierced who he really was, that kindness he breathed readier than air. Not for the gang alone did he slip into it. For them it was short sighs between the snarls when attitudes clashed. It was like he feared to release it always, to embrace it. But not for her, for her he never hesitated. That was the boy she loved most. He kept chatting and slurred his words as they fought to arrange themselves. She realized how much he noticed in ways she'd been too occupied to see. All the same she interrupted him with a finger on his lips. Trish brushed aside his bangs and spoke again of those things he alone had permission for. "Every time I think I'm getting closer to who I can be, I slide a few steps back. That's all." He wouldn't understand in a way he could yet articulate. She'd long come to accept that. The energy to his eyes took the place of fancy descriptions. He knew it too; it sat as the deepest pain beneath everything. People were participants on life's slippery slope until one day you died. She guessed, in the end, what mattered was which step you'd left on. Forward, or backward? Maybe her mother had stopped on backwards. Maybe she too would. Maybe instead as she studied his face and felt his life beside hers, maybe she wouldn't. And just maybe she could keep him from falling too. "Narancia, kiss me." He did softly and filled with unspoken things. In the now he was here and so was she. She was being silly; this moment was all that mattered. The echoes of shouting in the distance broke them apart. The calls of their names from the others pulled her back to reality. They were on a mission; their lives were fleeting and perishable. It churned her stomach and she reached to embrace Narancia one more time. He was warm despite the night chill. Her fingers dug into his hair as she whispered. "You're safe too." "I...same here Trish." He squeezed her afraid to let go but soon did so anyway. They helped each other stand and refused to let their hands separate. Together they ran towards their friends and answered their calls. They moved forward, ever forward.

[gumnut-logic]

Blanket

Okay, so it is not Friday and not yet November, but I was desperate to write and this was the only thing that worked. And let’s face it, I have to grab it when I can. I have no control over anything.

So you’ve got fluff. I hope you enjoy it.

Fluffember prompt #2 Blanket

-o-o-o-

It was old.

Scott wasn’t exactly sure how old, but it had been around all his life at least. A hand-knitted patchwork of colours, likely from scraps of wool from other projects. Maybe Nanna? Nanna knitted didn’t she?

His memories of his mother’s mother were so vague, he couldn’t be sure. Gran Roca, dusty wind, gentle hugs, colours and not much more.

Of course, it could have been their mother, but he doubted it. She wouldn’t have had the time. Between her engineering team at Tracy Industries and five young children, she had been stretched thin.

Memories.

He fingered the blanket. It was frayed at the edges. One patch of lighter wool had a stain on it that could be attributed to John, a nasty flu and spaghetti bolognese. He could still remember Grandma’s panic at the time and the rush to get the wool soaking and clean.

It had seen many an illness. It was a go to when one of them was feeling down.

Of course, it wasn’t the only blanket available, they were a large family, after all. Each brother had their own snuggle rug, as Gordon called them. Each with its own unique motif, all terribly predictable.

Alan’s was the single bed quilt from his kiddy racing car bed, the only part of that set up that had survived the great paint explosion of 2052.

It had survived because it had been in another room at the time.

No one commented when it came out, his little brother usually buried under it on the lounge. When the racing car quilt came out, it was time for hugs, not stirring jokes.

Gordon, of course, had a giant squid faux mink blanket. The thing was massive, incredibly soft and the only one in existence. Virgil had it made during Gordon’s recovery. Their brother had lost so much weight, he had been cold all the time. The blanket was king size and huge. Big enough for more than one brother, if needed.

You would think John would have some space age material designed to be super warm, but no. A simple hand knitted star motif in soft wool was deployed on those nights when gravity crawled across his skin and the unregulated atmosphere crept under it. Scott wasn’t sure where he got it from. It just appeared shortly after his first stint on Five and it tended to reappear for the same reason.

Virgil’s blanket had paint stains. Specifically from the incident where he caught his brother in his studio shivering with a fever of 39C after that damned swamp rescue three years ago. The idiot’s hand had been shaking, struggling to paint anything, but for some stubborn artistic reason, he had had to paint right at that moment. Something about getting it all down now, before he lost it.

He lost it alright. Spilt his paint water all over himself, along with orange and blue paint when the canvas over balanced and fell on him.

The soft Scottish blend of wools had never been the same again. Grandma had once again been the once desperately trying to get the stains out of wool, while Scott carted his brother off to the infirmary.

Of course, on a tropical island, there often wasn’t much need for blankets, but they still used them. Sometimes they were scrunched up into makeshift pillows on the couch. Sometimes they were just something to curl up around.

It wasn’t like any of them had much in the way of bed company most nights and Scott wasn’t above seeking comfort in the soft folds of warm and familiar fabric on those nights when loneliness and his life beat him down to the basics.

But this blanket, this well worn host of memories, had seen them all.

He slipped the folded bulk out of the closet and let it unravel in his hands. There was a tiny hole forming in one corner. He must remember to get out the darning needle and fix that when he got a chance, before it became too big.

But for now, the blanket was needed.

Closing the closet door, he flung the knitted fabric over one arm and headed down to the comms room.

It was dark outside and the house was quiet, most of the family had drifted off to bed an hour or so ago, leaving Scott and the one other occupant of the room to talk.

And talk they did.

Spread out on the sofas with room to spare, Scott and Virgil had shared a drink and simple conversation. Not about International Rescue, not about the Thunderbirds, not about work.

Just talk.

A few memories, a few aspirations, Virgil’s latest painting, a dash of current affairs, a little gossip regarding Scott’s secretary at TI and Alan.

It had been a good talk.

But life still existed even when you tried to ignore it, and Thunderbird Two had been out most of the day. Three rescues, all successful, but everyone was only allotted a certain amount of energy per day and at eleven o’clock at night, Virgil hit his limit.

Soft snores echoed across the hardwood floor as Scott re-entered the room. He had dimmed the lights and closed the main glass doors. The room felt cocooned and safe. The moon peeked through the rafters, hinting at the outside world, but for the moment, everything else was shut out.

They were protected.

Scott stepped softly across to the sunken lounge where Virgil was curled up on a sofa. An empty tumbler sat discarded on the end table.

His brother had shoved a cushion under his cheek and mashed his face into it. Technically the sofa was too short and too skinny for his large frame, but Virgil had curled himself up into a ball of flannel and denim.

Steel caps lay discarded on the floor.

The cushion was subjected to drool.

Scott couldn’t help but smile.

Virgil’s face was slack and so young in sleep. His huge hands were fisted up under his chin like the child he used to be and Scott was suddenly struck by the images of so many other nights with so many younger versions of his little brother doing exactly the same thing, yet smaller.

The smile turned into a fond grin.

Moments like these made everything worth it.

He spread the old blanket over Virgil’s legs, the folds landing softly over socked feet, and draped it across his waist.

His brother snorted and wriggled as only a man of his size could.

An unintelligible mutter, a sigh, and the snoring returned.

Still smiling, Scott straightened and backed away, turning to leave.

Dimming the lights to almost non-existence, he headed towards the stairs and his own bed.

-o-o-o-

[bazwillendinflames]

Read on AO3

A Diaz brothers Hogwarts AU for @head-full-of-things for the LIS2 Secret Santa. 

Sean’s baby brother is born at the height of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s terror. The first time Sean saw Daniel he was struck by just how tiny he looked. 

The world outside was so scary and Sean had already been taught what to do if there was trouble. (Find Mum or Dad unless he can’t. Then hide and be very, very quiet.) Sean can’t help but look down at the tiny baby curled in his cot and worry that baby Daniel wouldn’t be very good at hiding. He cried when he woke up and he only settled if someone told him a story; part of hiding was being quiet, what if- 

Sean made a promise to himself to look after Daniel no matter what, whether scary wizards or thunderstorms. 

Daniel grows a little and starts to walk and make noises that might be words. Outside, things get worse. 

His parents tried to keep the reality hidden. But Sean overheard worried conversations between them, read snippets of the news about deaths, heard them cry late, over lost friends, when he should be sleeping. 

And then it just stops. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stops. Sean spent that fateful Halloween night huddled at home with his Dad. Having a set of Muggle-born parents made any late night walks impossible, even for treats. 

The next morning, they tell him it’s safe. Or safer. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead now, stopped by a boy his brother's age. (That horrified Sean. That he would try to kill a baby. That someone might even want to kill Daniel.) 

The magical world is alive once more, full of joy and celebration. Just not for the Diazs. Karen walked away from magic; walked away from them . She gives Sean her wand and Esteban an address to write to. She leaves baby Daniel with nothing. 

Sean spent that night with his Mother’s wand under his pillow, pledging to use it to protect his baby brother if needed. His childhood had taught him that you had to be careful and if Daniel was too young to look out for himself, it must be Sean’s job to fill that role. 

He just hoped wherever Harry Potter ended up, he had someone to protect him too. 

  “Davis, Tracey.”

Sean glanced over at the group of first years, quiet for the first time since they had entered the hall and still waiting in line, trying to pick out his brother’s dark hair. In the crowd, it was impossible to find him. 

“On ‘D’ now,” Lyla whispered, “Dan will soon, right?” 

“Yeah.” Sean gave up on trying to find him. “Is it weird I’m more worried about his sorting than my own?” 

“Slytherin!” The hat roared, followed by applause from the table. Tracey ran over, leaving the stool at the front of the great hall empty again. 

Lyla laughed. “It’s sweet. You complain about Daniel, but it’s all talk.” 

“Diaz, Daniel.” 

Sean ignored Lyla, looking over as the tiny figure of Daniel moved towards the front of the hall. Daniel’s eyes drifted over to their table and he smiled at his younger brother, although he didn’t seem to notice. (Daniel was staring at Lyla all doe-eyed instead, typical .)

There was a long moment as Daniel pulled a face at whatever the sorting hat was whispering to him. Stubborn as ever. 

Then, Daniel looked directly over at their spot, giving Sean an excited thumbs up. He knew which house Daniel was in before the sorting hat declared him a “Hufflepuff!” 

Lyla poked him, “move up.” 

They shifted along, making a big enough space for Daniel to squeeze in. 

“Sean, Sean, we’re together!” 

“I knew we would be.” 

The sorting continued, with a few more additions to the Hufflepuff table. To Daniel’s delight, Chris joined them too. He lived in the same village as their Grandparents and the two had spent last summer together. They were also joined by Jacob’s sister, who seemed much less shy than her older brother. 

A hush fell over the hall when “Potter, Harry” was called. He looked even smaller than Daniel, with an explosion of messy black hair covering his scar. It was hard to believe someone so young had put an end to the terror of his childhood. 

“So cool,” Daniel whispered. 

The sorting hat declared him a Gryffindor and Sean was a little relieved. It wasn’t his fault but Sean had always thought Harry Potter would be a magnet for trouble. The last thing he wanted was Daniel getting dragged into it. 

His brother didn’t seem to share that concern. “Ah, no fair. He’s like so cool.” 

“Nah, you’re already enough of a handful enano .” 

“Hey!” Daniel stuck out his tongue and he smiled at his younger brother. 

Sean was glad that Daniel was in Hufflepuff with him. He could keep an eye on him and keep him on the right track. Truthfully, Sean couldn’t imagine Daniel anywhere else. His natural curiosity may have suited Ravenclaw (seriously, the kid never stopped talking) but Daniel had the biggest heart.

Besides, it seemed just right the Diaz brothers were together. 

   After the welcome feast, Daniel insisted on showing Sean his new dormitory. Whilst most of the other students seemed tired after a long day of travel and heavy meal to follow, Daniel was bouncy as ever, practically leaping up the stairs, dragging Sean behind him. 

“I’m coming, enano, slow down.” 

It was sweet, actually, to see such excitement on his face when he first saw the castle. Daniel had been pestering him for years about what Hogwarts was like, both in his letters and during his otherwise peaceful summers. He had been counting down the days till he got his school letter for as long as Sean could remember. 

“Ta-da!” 

Daniel was already bouncing on the bed in the furthest corner, messing up the homely, yellow patchwork blanket on top. The room was nice and clean, still yet to be turned into the unorganised tip Sean’s own was after five years of living there. 

“Come jump with me.”

“Really Daniel-“

“Please.” 

Sean glanced between the open door and his brother’s pleading face, before jumping onto the bed with him. Daniel laughed giddily, half-crushing Sean when the brothers eventually lay down. 

“Do you think Dad will miss us now we’re away?” 

“No way, he’ll love the peace.” 

“No fair. I don’t talk that much.” 

Sean wrapped his arms around him. “Okay, okay enano, he’ll probably miss us every day.” 

“Can I write to him soon? Just to let him know I’m okay.” 

Sean glanced at the slightly worried expression on his face. “Sure. I’ll show you where the owls are kept later.” 

“The hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor.” 

“You are pretty brave sometimes. And reckless.” 

Daniel nudged him. “You mean cool.” 

“Yeah. Guess you’re stuck with me instead.” 

“That’s not too bad. I guess.” 

“Dad was in Gryffindor.” 

“Cool!” Daniel sighed. “What about…” 

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Karen was a Ravenclaw. She was artsy and shit.” 

“I wish I could write to her too.” 

He frowned. “You know Karen made her choice.” 

Daniel pulled a pillow over his chest. “Okay. It’s so big here. And the stairs move! So magical.” 

“We’ll help you so you don’t get lost. Jake and Lyla are prefects so they’ll watch over you.” 

“But you’ll help too?” 

Sean nodded. “Yeah.” 

“Will show me where the dragons are?” 

“There’s no dragons at Hogwarts. And don’t go looking. The forest is dangerous.” 

Daniel half-yawned. “Okay. But... it’s safe here, right?” 

“I promise.” 

Daniel seemed relieved. “Will you help me unpack?” 

“No chance,” Sean said, pulling himself off the bed. “Leave it for tomorrow. You’re had a long day.” 

“I’m not even tired,” Daniel said, trying to cover another yawn with his hand. 

“Whatever you say.” Sean ruffled his hair, watching as Daniel rolled over in bed, blinking sleepily. “Goodnight Enano.” 

Sean pulled a blanket over him, watching his brother breathe peacefully. 

He’d look out for Daniel, no matter what. 

   The first week back from school was always hectic. After weeks of sleeping in, Sean felt zombified each morning. Lyla was her usual bubbly self no matter what time of day, so he relied on her to drag him to the right class. 

Having Daniel around was a little weird at first. His brother usually wrote to Sean every few days, sending pages of rambles and questions and drawings. Having him there in person instead meant most of the questions came directly from him, and his morning were much louder, but it also meant that Sean could actually hug his brother and the usual homesickness wasn’t so intense. Another figure appeared at their table in the library and all his Hufflepuff scarves seemed to go missing. 

Despite all the little changes having Daniel there meant, Sean was glad to share it with him. His Dad would be surprised at how well they got along at school. Even in his weekly letter, he seemed impressed that Sean was helping him. (Esteban wrote more to Daniel than him. Daily, even. So he wasn’t the only homesick one.) 

“You’re a big softie,” Lyla said. She was lying across his lap, eyes closed. Their closeness used to get a lot of strange looks and questions (how many times had he had to pretend to be sick when people asked if he was dating Lyla before they got the message?) but in the sixth year of platonic cuddles, no one looked twice. 

“Shut up,” he replied, already knowing what she meant. 

(Okay, maybe that’s why people called them a married couple.) 

   It hadn’t even been a full month when Harry Potter caused his first drama. Daniel, despite not being there, was more than happy to explain exactly how a first year had gotten on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Sean couldn’t help but roll his eyes: flying perfectly the first time and immediately getting on the team was a typically Gryffindor thing to do. (He was a good player, from the little Sean actually got from Quidditch. He only went to the games to help Lyla heckle the teams. Plus, the announcer with the purple hair was cute.) 

“Do you think I can join the team?” 

“No way Enano.” 

“No fair.” He pouted. “Well, I’ll practise all Summer with Dad and then I’ll be the best ever.” 

Sean couldn't help but snigger, Daniel had been on a broom exactly once and fallen off and into their neighbour’s garden. His training broom had been in the shed ever since. 

“Can’t wait.” Lyla fist bumped him. She was the captain of the Quidditch team. Sean mostly went to the games to support her, he was better at sports played on the ground. (“There’s no magic in being a fast runner.”) 

“Harry is so cool,” Daniel continued, “do you think he’s the Chosen One?” 

“There is no ‘Chosen One’. He’s just a kid.” 

“He’s my age.”

“Exactly.” Sean ruffled his head. “Just stick with Chris and Noah, okay?” He glanced over to where Jacob was chatting with his sister. “And maybe talk to Sarah-Lee. She seems nice.” 

Daniel was frowning but he nodded. 

Lyla flicked the back of his head. “Chill dude. I’m pretty sure he already has a Dad.” 

“I’m just looking out for him.” 

“He’s a sensible kid. Dan will stay out of trouble.”

“Shut up,” Sean replied, which Lyla knew meant she was right. 

“Plus,” she added, “Hogwarts is a safe place.” 

   “Troll, troll in the dudgeon!” 

Panic rippled across the hall as teachers rushed to hurry them somewhere safe. Lyla disappeared to lead the younger years inside, Sean following her quickly. 

“Sean?” Jacob’s voice was heavy with worry. “Have you seen my sister?” 

“No. Isn’t she with the other first years? Lyla’s meant to be leading them.” 

“No. She left dinner early. She was upset, our parents-” 

“I’m sure she’s on her way to the common room.” 

“I know she’s not.” Jacob glanced in the halls. “Do you ever have feelings of like, older brother instinct?” 

With growing dread, Sean nodded, all too aware he hadn’t seen Daniel since breakfast. “I’ll help you look for her.” 

Jacob smiled gratefully, his reason for agreeing so quickly going unsaid between them. With all the chaos and the looming threat of a troll, they slipped off easily. Sean hoped that Daniel was with Lyla; chances were that he was looking for Sean, not the other way round. (He almost-believed it.) 

“Where do we start?” 

“Sarah’s still new so she doesn’t know a lot of places. When she gets upset at home, she locks herself in the toilet.” 

“It’s a start.” 

The hallways were so empty it was almost eerie. Sean and Jacob stuck close together, both holding out their wands as a precaution. The first of the girls toilets they checked was empty, the second belonging to a miserable ghost. 

“Maybe she did go back-”

Jacob’s hand suddenly grabbed his wrist. Sean jumped a little. 

“What-” 

“Did you hear that?”

Sean listened and a moment later he was met by a scream and a heavy thump. 

“That has to be the troll?”

“Shit.” Sean followed Jacob’s sprint, already running through all the healing spells he knew. (The voice sounded so young.)

The bathroom was a mess, with smashed bits of sink and wall everywhere. The troll stood in the middle, growling at four small figures by its feet. 

“Sarah!” Jacob called, spotting his sister, who was clinging onto the hand of the Gryffindor girl next to her. There was a Gryffindor boy too, with the signature Weasley red hair. But all of Sean’s attention was on his own brother, who had positioned himself protectively in front of the two shaking girls. 

The troll roared, oblivious to their arrival. It swung the hefty club down. Sean cast a protective charm, hoping his simple ‘Protego’ would be enough to help, just as another small figure jumped up on the troll’s back, sticking something up its nose. 

Sean held his protective charm, trying to work out if he could cast on the other kid, when one of them shouted ‘Wingardium Leviosa’, causing the club to hit the top of its head. It slumped down and the kid rolled off, close enough that Sean could make out his signature scar. 

What the hell was Daniel doing fighting a troll with Harry Potter?

“Jacob,” Sarah sobbed, running over and flinging herself at him. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Sean mostly directed his question at Daniel, but all the first years (they were first years…) seemed a little terrified of him. 

“I was going to ask the same thing Mr Diaz.” Professor McGonagall stepped into the bathroom, followed by Professors Snape and Quirrell. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.” 

Daniel shuffled back a little, unsure if Sean or McGonagall would give him a sterner talking to. 

“Well-” 

“Mr Diaz, Mr Hackerman, as sixth years, perhaps you could explain why you are here too?” 

“Some of our first years,” Sean began, fixing Daniel with a stern look, “were missing. As a Prefect, it’s Jacob’s job to look for them.” (It was mostly true.) 

“I asked Sean to come too,” Jacob added. 

“I suppose the fact it was your siblings were the ones missing has nothing to do with it?”

Under her strict gaze, Sean felt like a first year himself. 

“Although, I am much more concerned that a bunch of first years felt like they were capable of taking on a troll by themselves-” 

“Excuse me, Professor McGonagall…” the Gryffindor girl began timidly, “it’s my fault. I thought I could handle it alone because I’ve read about trolls. Harry and Ron came to rescue me.” She glanced at Daniel and Sarah-Lee. “They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought I could be all heroic but…” 

Sarah-Lee had another little sob and McGonagall turned to her. In a much kinder voice she suggested Jacob take his clearly distressed sister to the medical ward. 

“Daniel,” Sean said, “are you hurt?”

“No.” 

McGonagall continued to lecture the poor girl about responsibility, taking away ten points for Gryffindor. “As for you two,” she said, addressing Sean and Daniel, “it is clear that the older Mr Diaz was only trying to help protect some overambitious younger students. Ten points to Hufflepuff. Same for Mr Hackerman. As for the younger Mr Diaz, perhaps you would like to explain what you’re doing here?” 

“I was just trying to help Sarah. She got all upset and ran off so I brought her some food. I didn’t know about the troll.” 

“I see no reason to punish being in the wrong place or time. Sean, please escort your brother back to your common room.”

Sean and Daniel headed out. Daniel was being unusually quiet, his eyes downcast. 

“Sean, I-” 

“Come here.” Sean pulled Daniel close to him in a tight hug. “You scared the crap out of me Daniel.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He murmured. “I just wanted to help Sarah-Lee and…” 

“He was,” a voice said, “Daniel was really nice.” 

It was the Gryffindor girl from earlier. Her face was a little red and she sniffled a little. 

“Are you okay Hermoine?” 

“Yeah.” Hermoine smiled at Sean. “Thank you for helping us. That protective shield was good thinking.” 

“Thank God you didn’t need it.” He sighed. “You… okay kid?” 

“I was only in the toilet because I was crying,” she said, her voice wavering a little, “and then Sarah and Daniel came in. He brought her some sweets because she missed dinner. I was upset because…” she sniffled, “I don’t really have any friends. So, Daniel gave me some too.” 

Daniel blushed a little. “You said to be nice to Sarah-Lee, so…” 

“When the troll showed up, everything got very out of hand. Harry and Ron were trying to stop it.”

“Not you?” 

She looked a little embarrassed. “Well, I-” 

“Look kid, just be careful. When you first start and you have magic it’s easy to feel invincible. But sometimes, you have to know when to walk away. Or run, in the case of trolls.” 

Hermoine nodded but Sean wasn’t convinced. It was impossible to keep a Gryffindor out of trouble. 

“If you don’t have any friends yet,” Daniel said, “you can sit with us in lessons. Plus, you’re so smart!” 

Sean couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for his brother’s offers. Daniel was definitely an extrovert, able to make friends with anyone. 

“I’d like that.” Hermoine smiled, a little shy. “I should go back to my common room now. But, I’ll talk to you tomorrow Daniel. Thanks again…” 

“Sean.”

“Thank you Sean.” Hermoine left, looking much more positive than before. 

That left Sean and Daniel alone again. 

“Do you think Professor McGonagal will tell Dad?”

Sean had been in trouble enough times to know. “Yeah.” 

“Ah man.” 

“Dad will understand.” Sean ruffled his hair. “Hey, I got in trouble for the first time way before Halloween my first year.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well, it was all Lyla’s fault really…” 

   “You must have been so freaked out.” 

“I know. What the hell am I supposed to tell my Dad?”

Lyla was half-lying on Sean but he made no effort to move her. It was the only thing stopping him from getting up to check if he was safe in bed. (Sean had done the same when Daniel was a baby. He used to creep in at night to look in on his brother. If Daniel got restless or woke up, Sean would whisper stories through his cot bars until one of them fell asleep.) 

“It was an accident.” 

“That’s even worse. It’s like he’s in danger by just being here.”

Lyla patted his hand. “I don’t think trolls are a constant problem. And you can’t expect him to just go home.” 

“I know.” Sean resisted the urge to turn to the direction of his dorm. “So, what do I do?” 

“Maybe…” 

“Oh, I could walk him to class and…” 

Lyla sighed. “Sean.” 

“I’m going all Dad-mode. I know.”

“Wish I had an answer dude. Just look out for him.” 

“It’s not just Daniel. That Gryffindor kid used ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ and it worked but also it was the only spell they remembered.” 

Lyla rubbed her forehead. “Cause they’re kids. Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.”

They sat in silence for a while, thinking. (Worrying mostly, on Sean’s behalf.) 

“Let’s help them then.”

“Help them what?”

“Protect themselves.” Lyla sat up. “Who better to help them then the best freaking fighters?” 

Sean pulled her into a hug. “This is why you’re my best friend.”

   (They spent free afternoons teaching Daniel defensive spells, sometimes joined by Chris, Sarah-Lee or even the three Gryffindors Daniel had managed to befriend - fighting a troll together helped, he guessed. Hogwarts might not be safe but it was home. And Sean always wanted his brother to feel safe at home. 

And if that meant the best freaking fighters gained a few more fighters… that was okay.) 

[myriad-ocs]

i.

“When will we be able to go back home?”

Hope and Brendon exchange glances, the question they’ve been dreading to hear holding them in a chokehold as neither of them move to respond. Brendon’s shoulders tense, his jaw clenching as he studies Hope, watches as she kneels before their son. She reaches out, gently cupping his face in her hand as Alec giggles at her fingers tickling his skin. The sound brings a smile to Hope’s face — laughter is a rarity in these times, but it is always welcomed.

“I don’t know, my love,” she answers truthfully, and Alec’s face screws up slightly, his features bunched together as he tries to ponder what this means for him, for his parents. “For now, this is home.”

It doesn’t feel like home, Alec thinks, with the deteriorating walls and lack of sunlight. He listens to his father talk about how lucky they were to have stumbled across the tiny shelter, with its hidden underground entrance and two tiny rooms. It’s safe, his father insists, they’ll be safe here, and yet Alec doesn’t feel safe. He doesn’t feel safe in a place where the sunlight can’t reach him, where there’s nothing to stare at except the soil bursting through the cracks in the wooden walls.

“It doesn’t feel like home.” Alec mumbles, and Hope smiles sympathetically at him.

“I know,” she sighs, pulling Alec closer to her as he nestles his face into her shoulder. “I know, but we’ll have to make do.”

“Why are people fighting?” Alec asks, and he feels his mother stiffen as she pulls away slightly to face him. “Why must we run away?”

It is only then does Alec see the exhaustion on his poor mother’s face, her lips pressed together as if holding back the horrible truth of it all, swallowing it and letting it rot in her stomach instead of telling him. Shaking her head, she says, “People fight because they’re scared of each other, Alec, and everyone is very scared right now. The world is changing beyond what we can understand. All that you must know, my love, is that your father and I will always protect you. You needn’t worry about anything else.”

Alec nods, letting his head drop low. He’s not satisfied with the answer, but knows it will be the only answer he gets tonight.

“You must learn to trust your instincts.” Hope suddenly tells him, holding him by his arms as she forces him to look back up at her. His body feels fragile in her hands, her fingers able to wrap completely around his thin, growing bones. “If all else fails, your instincts will always protect you.”

Alec can barely make out her features in the dim lighting of their underground shelter. She has a young face, and even younger eyes, as if she is an entity frozen in time. “But what do I need protecting from?”

Hope smiles at him, loosening her grip around him as if remembering how she doesn’t want to scare him. She pauses, her gaze wandering towards the wall behind Alec as she thinks. “Remember when I taught you to always look for beauty in the world?”

Alec nods. A difficult duty for his mother to task him with, yet he tries every day. Some days, he thinks his mother is the only beauty that exists in the world. She nods along with him, taking in a deep breath as she continues, “Do you know why it’s so hard to find beauty, Alec? Because this world is full of ugliness. It’s full of war and violence, and some days, the only thing that can save you is your belief in yourself.”

She knows this is too much to burden onto his young mind. She can see his eyes searching hers, as if trying to decipher her words, and she lets out a soft chuckle. This world is too much for him, too starved and desperate to latch it’s teeth onto his skin and drain him. She thinks she’d rather die than let that happen.

“Alec,” she insists, holding him in her arms again. “Promise me you’ll never stop believing in yourself. That you’ll never give up on yourself.”  

He nods again. “I promise.”

Before Hope can try to change the subject, Alec casts a glance over to where his father sits in the darkened corner of their shelter, clinging to his rifle as he fights off the fatigue that weighs down on him. Looking back at Hope, Alec asks, “Why is father never happy?”

Hope looks over her shoulder, her eyes ever so briefly connecting with her weary husband, before she turns back to Alec.

“Your father is tired, my love. He is tired of fighting.” she finally says, reaching out to brush stray strands of hair out of his forehead. “He is a brave man, but brave men can only endure so much.”

Alec’s mouth opens, lips forming around another question, but Hope is quick to shush him, lifting him into her lap as her fingers tickle his stomach through the thin fabric of his shirt. Alec giggles, wriggling in his mother’s grasp, and she teases, “Come now, you’ve asked me too many questions, and I’m exhausted. It’s time for you to sleep.”

She scoops him up into her arms, carrying him into the back room, setting him down on the rickety bed which caves under Alec, despite how small he is. Brendon hears their hushed voices, their quiet giggling, and it brings the faintest of smiles onto his face. After a pause, Hope emerges from the room, quietly pulling the door shut as it creaks against its rusty hinges. He often wonders who built this shelter before they came upon it, who once dwelled here, and what tragedy forced them underground.

Something bitter rises in his throat as he realises history truly does repeat itself, throwing itself into war time and time again.

“He’s too young to hear about ugliness and war.” Brendon remarks as Hope approaches him, voice low, and Hope lets out a quiet sigh. She moves to sit beside him, reaching out to hold his rough, calloused hands in hers. It’s funny, he thinks, feeling the smoothness of her palms over his skin, how she remains to be soft in a world that is anything but.

“As are we.” Hope responds, gaze unwavering in the flickering candlelight. In times like these, it’s hard for the two of them to remember just how young they are, too. Too young to be parents, too young to be taken seriously, too young to be thrown into such violence. “There is no good age to face something as terrible as war.”

The two sit in silence, feeling the stale air stifling them before Hope leans forward, pressing a kiss to Brendon’s knuckles. Looking up at him, she whispers, “You should also get some rest, my dear.”

Brendon shakes his head, leaning his head up against the door of the shelter, the wood decaying and soft from the years of neglect before they came to inhabit it. He glances to the backroom, can picture Alec tucked under the patchwork sheets, soundly sleeping as his innocent mind has yet to be corrupted. It’s inevitable, with the war creeping closer and closer towards their doorstep, but Brendon wishes he could keep Alec innocent forever.

“I wish I could give a better life for the two of you,” Brendon says, voice trembling. “I wish the two of you could be away from the violence, could be somewhere safe…”

“Brendon,” Hope gently interrupts. “There’s no use dwelling on what could’ve been.”

[sanders-sides-spncau]

Vampires and Meeting the Knights

Pure Vampire: Pure Vampires, also simply called Pures, are someone who was born a vampire. Pures can be born to parents that are Turns, but they are weaker than Pures from parents that are Pure. Pures commonly have powers that develop as they age. All Pures have an immunity to the sun, and their first power is always some form of shapeshifting. Most only learn how to shift into bats. Some learn a few other creatures. Other common animals are cats, foxes, snakes, and spiders. Other common powers include but are not limited to telepathy, mind control, invisibility, psychokinesis, elemental manipulation, and teleportation. Some rarer powers include but are not limited to time travel, astral projection, biokinesis, necromancy, hypnosis, and atmokinesis. All vampires have heightened strength, hearing, sight, smell, and emotions. Pures more so than Turns. Pures also have healing attributes to their blood and saliva. Pures must be steaked with a steak made from white oak. When steaked they spontaneously combust and turn into ash. Verbane is an all around good vampire deterrent but not a 100% guaranteed protection.

Turned Vampires: Turned Vampires, also simply called Turns, are someone who was once human and was turned into a vampire, hence the name. Turns can mate with both humans and other vampires, but it is rare for two Turns to have kids and even rarer for a Turn and a human to have kids. Turns are looked down on by most Pures. Most Pures believe that Turns are scum and don’t deserve to be alive. Most Turns are treated like slaves. Only a few Pure families treat Turns like they are equals.The Knight family being one of them. Turns have no natural immunity to the sun or any special powers. They can however temporarily immunity by feeding from a Pure. Most Pures don't allow this, so Turns have found another way. This way requires the assistance of a Witch, and a piece of jewelry, namely a ring, bracelet, or necklace. The Witch will cast a specific protection spell on the jewelry and the Turn will be fine in the sunlight as long as they are wearing that piece of jewelry. If it is removed while they are in the sun, they will spontaneously combust and turn to ash.

The Knight Family: The Knight family is the oldest and most powerful Pure vampire family in the world. They technically run the vampire world. They are also one of the few Pure families that treat Turns fairly. They even employ a lot of Turns and make sure that they are well taken care of. They also provide a witch to cast the spell for any of their turns who needed it. It's usually a member of Belvoir family, seeing as the two families have been friends for a few millennia.

Name: Virgil Knight Species: Vampire (Pure) Age: Looks 25, Actually 500 Powers: Can shapeshift into a cat, bat and snake. Prefers cat and snake though. Can speak English or one of the other "human" languages he knows in his cat form. Can only speak English in snake form. Along with the shape shifting, Virgil's other powers are flight while in human form, invisibility, and slight mind reading. (That one is still new and is tough to figure out.) Appearance: -Humanform: Dresses similar to cannon!Virgil. So old rock band tees, either a solid black jack or the purple plaid patchwork one, black ripped jeans, and custom solid black Converse All-Stars. His hair is a couple of shades darker brown than canon. His eye color is light purple normally but shifts to a more red color when hasn't fed in a while. -Bat form: Nothing too special here. Just looks like a normal black bat, but has a purple tint to his fur. -Cat form: Black and gray fur, keeps his purple eyes, is more the size of a bobcat than a house cat -Snake from: Black Cobra with gray markings, purple eyes that are more white than purple Backstory: He is technically the heir to the Vampire throne, but he doesn't want it so he doesn't bring it up, or his parents for that matter. Even though his parents are very rich and he is very well off, he occasionally works in either a bookstore or library under fake names. (Don't need any mortals finding out exactly who he is.) He has also worked at a couple of tattoo parlors over the years. Other: Roman's older twin. Tiny crush on the new guy in town, Logan, who turns out to be a werewolf. Okay maybe a huge crush on the hot werewolf. Went through med school several times. Easier to steal blood bags that way. Prefers blood from the bag, because he doesn't like hurting anyone.

Name : Roman Knight Species : Vampire (Pure) Age : Looks 22, Actually 500 Powers : Can shapeshift into a bat, wolf, and rat. Prefers wolf though. He can speak Spanish, Italian, and French normally as well as in his wolf and rat forms. Along with the shape shifting, Roman's powers include fire manipulation, and hypnosis. He also has increased speed, more so than most pures. He moves so fast that most mistake it as teleportation. Appearance : -Human Form: Looks like a stereotypical football jock. Usually wearing a custom made red and white letterman jacket with a red and white 'K' on it, black shirt (it typically has some reference to royalty on it), light blue jeans, and red Converse High Tops. His hair is a few shades lighter than canon. His eyes are normally green but shift to a dark red color when he hasn't fed in a while. -Bat form: Nothing too special here. Just looks like a normal black bat, but has a red tint to his fur. -Wolf Form: Rusit brown fur with black marking on his ears, paws, and tail. Dark green eyes. ~Rat Form: White fur and red eyes. Looks albino. Slightly longer than a normal rat and a tad bigger as well. Backstory : In line for the throne, after Virgil of course. He always brags about being apart of the Knight family, and he would gladly take Virgil's place if he could. He has “worked” in several theaters and done some small time acting over the years, also using fake names. He has also done some voice acting in the more modern times. He also worked in a couple of schools as a theater director. Other: Virgil’s younger twin. Huge crush on Patton. Afraid to lose him if he admits it to him. Acts like a man whore, but it's mostly so he can feed. Think Damon from “Vampire Diaries”, but without all the killing. Prefers blood straight from the vein; calms blood bags taste like plastic.