#slowly but surely. attempting to relearn how to draw

[oofuri2003]

abe is saying a bunch of really boring shit about the physics of backspin

[thesilentmedium]

Silent But Friendly || Jonas & Parker

TIMING: When Jonas was still in the hospital SETTING: The Hospital PARTIES: @thesilentmedium & @wonder-in-wings SUMMARY: Parker visits Jonas and brings shrimp! Glorious Shrimp. WARNINGS: Domestic Abuse TW (Both men had terrible dads)

The soft sounds of pencil on paper could be heard from the hospital room as Jonas scribbled away at the portrait on his paper. It was of his family friend Jamie who was currently passed out on the couch in the room in a rather unflattering position. Jonas could have taken a picture to show Lil later but the drawing was a good way to get some of his depth perception back, or so he hoped. He had been informed that his left eye was badly damaged and that the chances of him seeing out of it again were low. He was doing his best to get used to the changes this entailed, especially relearning how far objects were in front of him. 

More than once he managed to run into the door frame leading to the bathroom. Lil had practically banned him from walking around on his own for the time being, which left Jonas with little to do other than sketch while he waited for Jamie to wake up. He didn’t mind though, the feeling of the pencil going across the paper was soothing. The repetitive action kept him grounded in the now rather than the past. He would have to make sure he thanked Andy properly for giving into his request for it. He was also glad that the bruises on his wrists were mostly numb at this point or he doubted this activity would be as beneficial as it was now. 

The other activity that kept his mind well away from what happened was visitors, something he enjoyed even more than the drawing. He was reminded how much he was cared for by the amount of people showing up to wish him well. Regulars who had found out he was in the hospital sent flowers and cards that now littered any empty space there was in the hospital room. He was hoping his visitor today wasn’t allergic to any of them. He knew Parker was allergic to dogs, but one allergy often led to having others. Jonas paused in his drawing to look towards the door, he was excited for the older man to stop by. 

—

A large bag that maintained the temperature of whatever was in it. A spare hand removing itself from its comfort spot on a black-blotched belt (temporarily hollow and missing all of the weapons that usually nestled in their respective holsters) to flex and extend in a subconscious, nervous habit. A room number, leading to a gaze as Parker carefully avoided interacting with most of the staff, though part of him wondered how many of them recognized him from the last time he was there, doing his best and rubbing nis nerves raw in attempts to help Rhett leave while making sure neither of them would’ve been charged with anything. Parker hated hospitals, and his most recent visit, also being his first as he went to retrieve Rhett, was a terrible first impression, though not because of the staff. He never did talk to the older Warden about any of that. He never asked if he had the identities of the fae and werewolf combination that had torn him to shreds. He never brought up how he still felt an uncharacteristic anxiety tug on his stomach on occasion from the incident; he had long since assumed that it was some residual emotion that hadn’t been properly addressed that day or any day after. ‘What’s the matter with you now, boy?’ His father asked frequently, now as he lingered outside of the door to the hospital room Jonas was resting in. ‘You don’t let nothin’ bother you. You just… decide what does?’ The Warden exhaled, shaking his father’s voice out of his head absently before he opened the door slowly and carefully though he knew Jonas wouldn’t have been able to hear it - all the more reason to move slowly. However, as Parker did a quick glance around the room before his blue eyes settled on the beaten, but not deathly visage of one of the Ballard twins, his breath jumped into his throat as they caught a man sleeping in the corner. He didn’t know someone else was going to be there. So, when his eyes found Jonas, his expression carried a hint of surprise. He placed the bag on a chair quietly before he started to sign. “I’m sorry, should I come back later?” Parker asked, much more intelligible now that he wasn’t awkwardly trying to obscure his face and he pointed to the sleeping figure.

—

Jonas smiled as the taller figure made his way into the room. He was glad to see the other man looking well, if only a little nervous. “Hm? Oh, no! That is Jamie, he is a friend of the family. He is here to keep me safe while Lil is out but he was up late last night. I do not think he will wake up.” Jamie was often napping during the day in Jonas’ hospital room, he rarely saw the man stir while talking to those who came to visit him. In fact Jonas was sure alarms could start ringing in the hospital and if he didn’t go over there to wake the man up Jamie would simply sleep through it. Not that he would hear the alarms himself.

Now that he thought about it perhaps that was concerning for someone who was meant to protect him, then again it had been calm since he woke up here a few days ago, something Jonas was mostly grateful for. Times when no one was visiting were the worst though, his mind was free to wander back into the woods. He hadn’t slept properly since the incident and his sketchbook was starting to be filled with the haunting trees that had surrounded him that night. He wasn’t sure if Andy would be happy to find Jonas sketching the scene of his trauma so many times in her gift. He didn’t know what else to do though, talking about it was too difficult he was tired of rehashing the night's events over and over. It was draining to have to speak about what happened, but drawing let him get it out without really acknowledging it was him who was hurt. 

He could draw the trees and the man locked inside them didn’t have to be him, it could be anyone. Jonas didn’t feel great wishing this had happened to someone else but he found that he was having a harder time accepting it had happened to him. He knew it had, the evidence was all over his skin, but if he could just pretend it didn’t for a little while he was able to find some peace. That was one of the reasons he was glad Parker decided to visit today. “How have you been? Is your family alright? I hope Blue’s omen wasn’t too bad of one.” 

—

“Only if you’re sure.” Parker replied, reading the words that were being signed before he cast one more, lasting glance over to the slumped figure. He was on edge, again, as usual apparently when he interacted with Jonas. If it wasn’t a dog, it was unwarranted kindness. If not that, a stranger in the room, a hospital room, a sterile and unusual place that the Warden had only ever been inside once before, and it was a stressful experience. Noise, movement. Yelling. He shook his head, pulling his gaze away from Jamie and his stare returned to Jonas, dancing over the intricate details and imperfections inflicted on him. The bandage over his eye, the abrasions, bruises. An inspired mind might’ve tried to give words of encouragement, but Parker, as one who never wanted any of his injuries to have attention drawn to them, found none of those words and after he gave a studious gaze to the medium, he responded to Jonas’ inquiries. “My mother got into an accident but she’s fine.” A pause. “Well… my brother said she was fine.” This was partially a lie - Parker hadn’t actually heard anything about Walker or their mother since that call a couple of months ago. He sighed softly, remembering that he promised the older Wright that he’d call more often. “I’ve been…” He faltered again. How had he been? He was missing one more finger than the last time Jonas had seen him, for starters. “It doesn’t matter.” He replied after a moment. “I’m not here for me. I’m here for you.”

—

“I am very sure, it is lovely to see you again.”  Jonas peeked over at the bag on the chair, a little curious as to what food Parker brought along. He had made sure not to have lunch in order to have room for the treat. The nurse was concerned at first till he hurriedly explained that his friend was bringing him food. Though now that he was getting a good look at Parker’s face with his uncovered eye, he was beginning to think maybe he should have waited till he was home to have the other bring his food. It was easy to see just how tense the older man was. He understood, hospitals could make quite a number of people uncomfortable, he was one of them. If it weren’t for the salt lining the room and the other ghost proofing steps Lil took he would have been swarmed by the dead. He could still hear them faintly outside his room but thankfully it was muffled enough not to give him one of his usual headaches. 

“I am glad to hear she is alright.” Jonas beamed at the other man glad Blue’s message was a minor one this time. His smile faltered a little though as he finally took note of the other man’s hand. His reluctance to answer the question and the new injury made Jonas a little worried. “I do not wish to make you talk about things that make you uncomfortable but, if you do wish to talk, we have quite a lot of time before dinner.” He knew Parker was more of a private man than he was and wasn’t going to push but he did hope the older man still would offer what had happened on his own. 

—

He wished he knew why he interacting with Jonas specifically seemed to put him on edge. Was it because of their embarrassing first interaction, where Parker remembered with a grit of his teeth how he looked and he sounded, a tall and proud man reduced to a sniveling mess of nerves? ‘Or it could be that you think he’s hiding something.’ Walker suggested unhelpfully. ‘What’s he asking for, I wonder? Is it because he can speak to the ghosts of the people you’ve killed? Daddy’s little serial killer, remember?’ The Warden didn’t think it was that; he had resigned himself to acknowledging what he had to do in the past. He wasn’t even sure if fae carried spirits with them. ‘Okay okay, maybe it’s so he can learn something about you that he can hold over your head later!’ Walker mused. ‘You don’t have friends, remember? Look at that face. Look at how he’s related to Lil. There’s something simmering, I can feel it–’ “Go away, Walker.” Parker murmured, lowering his head so his lips couldn’t have been read by the bedbound medium. Perhaps it was something as simple as the disarming nature of Jonas. Surely there had to be an ulterior motive. Paranoia wasn’t something Parker drew from often and subsequently, didn’t carry well and especially if it was reserved for Jonas, of all people and creatures. “Why?” He ended up asking as he made eye contact with Jonas once more, his brow furrowed as he obviously asked the question with a genuine tone, even if it was nonverbal. “I don’t understand.” He added, though he wasn’t sure how to embellish the statement further. He didn’t, and that was where the thought stopped before it started to unravel, questions on top of questions on top of the fundamental lack of knowing why Jonas could’ve possibly cared about anything in Parker’s life. None of it was relevant, none of it was interesting or worth discussing.

—

“Why?” Jonas was more used to people shunning his kindness over asking why he was kind. He supposed it was because he genuinely cared, perhaps too much. Or maybe it was simply because his mother had hammered into his head so often that he had to be kind. Maybe he wasn’t actually as nice as he seemed to be and was doing it more from a sense of duty. He sure hadn’t been feeling kind towards the people who landed him in this bed, even going as far as feeling a little glad they were dead and unable to hurt him again. He felt guilty over it, but he was sure he actually cared about things happening to Parker. He felt relieved to hear the other’s mother was okay in the end. 

“I think it is normal to be glad that the family of your friends are okay. I also think it is very normal to check in and make sure they are okay themselves. If it feels like I am overstepping your boundaries please let me know. I will make sure to try and not to pry if it seems something is wrong.” Jonas didn’t want the other man to feel like Jonas’ worry was another thing to be bothered by. Or that Jonas was fake in his worry, even if he himself was starting to doubt it. 

The incident in the woods had shaken Jonas more than he was willing to let on to most people. He was startled by any sort of movement he happened to catch outside his door, sleep had been so easy before but now he struggled to even close his eyes for five minutes, then there was the feeling in his stomach. One that wasn’t anxiety or sadness. It was anger, frustration at the situation that was surrounding him. An anger that made him question why he was the one to be hurt? What wrong had he done for the world to decide he deserved such a punishment? Perhaps this was why people took up religion, anything to answer why. 

—

“You aren’t overstepping.” Parker replied first, though he wasn’t sure why he wanted that to be the first reply. Responding to the rest of it took a little more time for the Warden, however and the latter glanced over at the sleeping figure once more in thought. Jonas said that it was normal. Perhaps that was why it seemed so unusual to him. What did he know about normal? There was a moment of unsigned silence between them as Parker realized just how abnormal everything around them was. He wasn’t normal. Jonas’ ability to see and communicate with ghosts wasn’t normal. The Warden being in a hospital, Jonas almost being killed, the knowledge that Blue was in Jonas’ shadow literally and not metaphorically wasn’t normal. “Is normal what you want right now?” He found himself asking, his brow furrowing ever-so-slightly as he signed to the medium. A pause before he added onto it. “I’m sorry, I’m not adept at normal things. What can I do to be normal for you?” Another pause. “Would me talking about it… make it normal?”

—

“Oh! No I did not mean to insinuate that you were not normal. Perhaps I should have said it was common for one to be worried for their friends and their family.” Jonas would have loved some normalcy in this moment, but his life had never been that way and to suggest that someone else was abnormal was simply rude of him. “You are fine as you are. It was simply an invitation to talk if something had happened.” it was obvious from the missing finger that the other had been in some sort of trouble. 

This was Wicked’s Rest though, trouble was the town’s motto. Admittedly when you were away from it for so long it was easy to forget.  Perhaps he had been too caught up in his own problems of the past to remember just how horrible this town could be to those around you. No one was truly having a peaceful time in this place. Normal just didn’t exist here either. Chances are the person you were talking to was a hunter or a medium or even a vampire, something he admittedly only learned about upon his return. If they weren’t powered then there was always the chance they had been affected by something that was. Ghosts, fire breathing cats, dogs that brought upon bad omens. It was all there to mess with someone’s day. 

“If you like we can move on, I am still interested in what food you brought.” Perhaps a change in subject would save the awkward air between him and Parker. Jonas did want the other man to enjoy his time here even if the circumstances were not the best. 

—

How was it that everything he thought, everything he signed out, seemed to make it awkward? It was so strange and, dare one say, abnormal. Parker was used to awkward interactions; it pretty much came with him interacting with anyone outside of Walker or Metzli now, and even then Metzli was strange like him. ‘You wanna blame the dog.’ He wanted to blame the dog. How Jonas perceived him through his own lens of how others must’ve seen him was something Parker never adjusted well to, and their first interaction was branded on the inside of his skull, as was every other first interaction with everyone he’d met. This one was marred with shame, his father’s oppressive shadow looming over him every time any weakness escaped from the Warden whether it was– ‘All of it is your fault, boy. Remember that. Don’t think otherwise.’ So when Jonas offered for him to change conversation topics, to something easier for him to talk about than wherever was going on in his life regardless of how normal or not it was, Parker found some of the tension leaving his body. “Sorry.” He found himself apologizing anyway, his brow knitting with guilt that he didn’t know how to shake. “I just don’t…” He shook his head and waved his hands as though clearing the air. Maybe moving on from the topic would help make it easier to return to it later, once he was more comfortable. “I brought shrimp etouffee.” He explained, his expression altering slightly to be less melancholy as he motioned to the thermal bag. “You said you were okay with shellfish, and it’s warm.”

—

Jonas shook his head when the other man began to apologize. He was beginning to realize that Parker was a man who put a lot of stock in how he appeared to others. Something Jonas understood very well. For a long time he had tried his best to be what his father wanted but he never did live up to the image. Perhaps it was a good thing. If Jonas was anything like his father he wouldn’t be a good person, he wouldn’t be kind or understanding, he wouldn’t be able to talk a ghost into moving on peacefully. Lil wouldn’t love him and he doubted he would have any friends, Jacob never did. He found peace by accepting his father would never love him, even if the man’s words still bothered him from time to time. 

Maybe that was something similar to Parker. Someone made the older man feel inadequate, or strange enough for him to stumble in social situations. “Shrimp Etouffee?” Jonas leaned over and opened the bag taking in the food on offer. “It looks delicious!” He had never had such a dish before but was glad Parker thought to bring it along. “Do you want to have some now or should we save it for later?” He was glad the change of topic seemed to get the other to relax a little more. 

—

At the expression of interest for what he had brought, Parker found himself altering again, another subtle shift in his demeanor though he was the last person to be able to explain why. “It’s shrimp in roux sauce with broth, some select herbs and served over rice.” He explained, pausing for a moment before adding “I wasn’t sure how you liked spicy, so it’s a little milder than usual.” As he signed this, he realized with a somewhat startling abruptness that Jonas was asking about him but he himself knew astonishingly little about Jonas. He likes his dog, that was the first thing Parker learned. He was a medium, and confident enough in his ability that he didn’t feel the need to hide it from the public. He liked to cook, and at least partially owned a bakery. He was a twin, and the more gentle of the two… which made a small, rotten part of the Warden wonder if that was why he got so viciously attacked. Could he fight? Did he want to fight? Or did he take pride in never having to have had to? When he entered the room earlier, he noticed that Jonas was doing something in a sketchbook so he either wrote or drew. Perhaps both. This lent itself to an idea that Parker had, and he reflected the thought in his expression as he glanced up in contemplation. “I think… having something in front of me gives me something to do in addition to conversing.” He said. “I’d… like to know more about you, if that’s okay.” Another brief pause. “But if you’d like to wait, we can. Like I said, I’m here for you.”

—

“It looks amazing! I have some bowls we can use.” Jonas moved the blanket off his legs, careful to place his sketchbook on the side table first, as he shuffled to get out of the bed. He was glad the garb the hospital gave him didn’t open in the back like he had seen on so many shows. He didn’t think Parker needed to see what underwear he was wearing as he shuffled around, keeping his hand to the bed for reference. He really wasn’t meant to be moving on his own with his tendency to bump into things but he didn’t think simply going to the bags across the room would be a big deal. It was mostly open space. “I am um alright with spice, my mother was quite the fan of it in her cooking.” 

He spoke in what he hoped was a quiet tone, as he tugged a couple of plastic bowls and spoons out of the bag in front of him. With people bringing food Jonas had asked Lil to make sure there was something on hand just in case. He carefully made his way back over to the bed, only nearly bumping into Parker and the chair and muttering a small apology as he sat on the edge of the bed, bowls in hand. He was a little surprised Parker asked about him, he offered a little smile and set the bowls aside so his hands were free. 

“I do not mind, what would you like to know?” Jonas did his best to keep his eyes on Parker as he scooped out a serving of Shrimp Etouffee into each bowl. He was excited to try it, cooking for Jonas was an act of love so any food made by his friends was something he would treasure even if the taste was a little off. Though luckily for him the food Parker had made was delicious. 

—

The Warden had a mind to tell the boy that he didn’t need to trouble himself with getting up (as Parker had brought dishware of his own for the occasion) but before he could, the medium had already made the motion to get out of bed. Instinctively, one of Parker’s hands reached out, ready to catch Jonas if the latter stumbled or fell but he didn’t and instead, sharp blue eyes were glued to his tottering form as he shuffled to retrieve the bowls and plasticware. While Jonas moved around, though, it gave Parker a chance to observe the man’s body movements, as though to assess what damage, if any, had been done. An arm did make it to the medium when the latter almost bumped into him, a firm, but gentle reassurance to keep him stable - not that Jonas particularly needed Parker’s help, but perhaps Parker was just still too raw with watching as Rhett hobbled from place to place. ‘Whatever that means.’ Walked scoffed. He didn’t take his eyes off of Jonas until he had sat back down, where he nodded and collected the bowls briefly, maneuvering around so that he could still see Jonas sign while he served them up. “Anything you’re willing to tell me. About you. About what you like or do when you aren’t at work.” He replied before heaping some rice into each bowl, then draping the etouffee over it. “And maybe… if you want, I can say some stuff about me, too.” He added after handing Jonas his bowl with the fork in it and sitting down carefully in the chair next to the hospital bed. Still tense, but trying harder than usual to just relax.

—

What did Jonas do outside of work? Now that he thought of it, most of his time was set in his bakery. He woke up ridiculously early to go there and warm up the ovens while he started making the bread for the breakfast rush, setting up bagels and doughnuts so that they were as fresh as possible for his customers. He didn’t leave till just after closing time around 8pm. He was there most of the week. He really was in need of help, it couldn’t be healthy the way he handled his business, but he always did feel guilty leaving Andy there alone when he couldn’t be in and he didn’t dare make her work more than eight hours. It was probably why his friend circle was so small in the town. You couldn’t really make friends if you were at work all day. It didn’t help that when he was out of work he could feel them following him, whoever they were. 

He munched on his food a little as he contemplated this new discovery, not expecting it to come about from a simple question. When he was free from here he would have to make sure he set about hiring new people and maybe learning some self defense so he would feel more free to enjoy his day. “If I am being honest there is not much that I do. I sometimes go to a club for dancing, I like to paint scenery from the town, I go on walks with Blue. I visit tea shops. I adore good tea. Occasionally I go out in a wig and dress…being followed has… limited my activities.” Jonas offered a nervous smile hoping he didn’t sound too plain for the other man. “I would love to hear more about you, what is it you do for a living? And of course if you wish to share your hobbies I am more than happy to learn about them!” 

—

Parker would’ve been lying if he considered something like ‘going out in wigs and a dress’ to be on the same level as just about everything else Jonas had said, but the Warden himself had eclectic hobbies and… niche interests, to put it mildly, not to mention he simply wasn’t the type to judge someone based on something like that. Jonas mentioning that he liked tea was a little closer to something the Warden could identify with, though, having grown not fond of it but it was something he did with Burrow now, and it wasn’t something he hated. And, of course, the explanation was there and gone, too short for Parker to really think about when he anticipated the obligatory ‘what about you’ from Jonas. He thought for a moment, allowing whatever hesitancy he held about speaking on himself to be shown in his facial animation; the faint twitch of his brow, how he looked down and his eyes danced as though reading from an invisible script. There was no script. ‘Just be simple. It’s so easy not to be weird.’ If Parker had a nickel every time Walker told him that while playfully nudging his shoulder with an elbow. “Yeah, I’d be wary, too.” He replied before taking some bites of his food. He didn’t ask Jonas how it was, though he probably should’ve, but Jonas was eating it. And he didn’t seem the type to outright say that he didn’t like something. Maybe he should ask. 

‘Oh my god you’re so stubborn. Just answer the damn question.’ “I’m a collector.” Parker explained. “I have an entomology exhibition at the science museum.” That was as simple as he could make it. It would do. “...Insects.” He added. “Hobbies.” He glanced up in thought, eating more of his etouffee. “I like to swim.” More idling as he legitimately thought about what else he did. “I’ve been meaning to go to the theater to see their musicals.” He scoffed. “I suppose I don’t really have that many hobbies. I’m pretty… boring.”

—

“Oh I forgot my manners, this is very delicious.” Jonas was being honest, Parker was a good cook, something Jonas would note for later. He could perhaps have the man help out during holiday dinners, if he was free. He nodded, he was definitely wary and this latest incident did nothing to help his growing paranoia. He was hopeful that lil would be able to find something about Astra to help get this situation under control. He didn’t want to be so scared of going outside or of sleeping. 

Jonas paused trying to think if he’d ever bothered to go to the museum recently. “That is quite impressive, that your work is good enough to be in a museum.” He offered a smile and nodded when Parker explained his hobbies. “Swimming is fun, though I do not imagine you do much of it in this cold weather. Just because you do not have many activities that you do does not mean you are boring. It just means you know what you like and stick to it.” Jonas was never one to let a negative comment slide. His mother hadn’t been either and he knew it was sometimes important to remind people that they were fine as they were. He was never sure if others got annoyed by it but he was hoping it was more helpful than harmful. 

—

The compliment was signed, and it was followed by the faint creep of heat across the Warden’s cheeks, though it wasn’t there for very long as the ghost of a smile threatened to pull on the corner of his mouth before it slid back into its normal location. “There are indoor pools,” Parker replied after taking another bite, hoping it disguised some of the unwarranted emotion that had happened onto his face. “And as for the museum… it’s science and history. Insects are… easy. To incorporate.” That compliment was waved off with a noncommittal shrug; not something worth praising, in his opinion. There was a pause as something else crossed Parker’s mind, and ergo his face as he thought on it for a moment. He shook his head to himself. Mentioning his father was irrelevant. ‘So long as you never forget what I tell you, boy. The first of which being to straighten up.’ The Warden straightened up. “I found a tea place recently.” He continued after the brief lull in the conversation; he really was terrible at initiating and maintaining small talk. “Their menu is… expansive. It’s called ‘Steeper’s Stop’, have you heard of them?” Another pause. “What… kind of tea do you like?”

—

“That is true.” Jonas still couldn’t imagine going to a pool during a Maine winter even if it was inside. The cold seemed to reach even the smallest of cracks in a building. If Jonas was home all of the fire places would likely be working hard to heat the old house. Then again Jonas had always been weak to the cold. Going outside these days required more layers, thankfully it was a blessing when it came to working near the bakery ovens. “That does not mean it is not still impressive.” He doubted a museum would take just any work offered to it. 

“I have, though I have yet to visit it.” Jonas paused as he moved his spoon around his food, thinking about his teas. He had quite the collection at home from earl greys to peppermint tea. “Mm I think my favorites would be peach tea and chamomile. I have found a rather good supplier of loose leaf teas for both.  Oh there is also a hot cinnamon spice tea that I got in order to try it but the… Well I ended up here before I got the chance. Perhaps when I am out you would like to come over and try it with me.” It was still hard to admit outloud what had happened even if he knew not saying it didn’t stop the past from being the past. 

—

If Parker had been a little more… normal, as Jonas had assured him it was okay not to be earlier, he would’ve thought it impressive that there were so many different tea combinations, and there were people who could list off that information as though it was second nature to them. ‘That’s what you do with insects, weirdo.’ But he couldn’t; to him, it was relative to people knowing a plethora of pop culture references. Such was the curse of being Parker Wright, always watching through the window and never quite feeling like he was welcome in. And that was okay. When the medium trailed off for a moment before seemingly recovering, Parker realized one reason why he preferred signing sometimes; he was always bad with tone. Always. And it had gotten him into trouble when he was a child. Walker joked that he was ‘comically serious’ but it took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to understand the meaning behind different tones, but with the lack of sound, he could spend more time observing facial expressions and body movement. Jonas moved past the snag in the sentence and Parker’s blue eyes turned downwards to examine the remnants of his food for a moment. “Yeah. I’ll try some. Sounds ideal for this time of year/” He replied, glancing back up before his hands tapped each other for a moment in thought. “I was wondering… I’m… sorry about what happened to you.” He repeated his apology from earlier. “If you want… I can teach you self-defense.” Parker suggested, that unfamiliar uncertainty returning to his own body language; he almost preferred this part if it was online but as his father hissed for him to get himself together, he did so and he squared his shoulders subconsciously, straightening up and he looked at the medium earnestly. It wasn’t a false invitation, if anything; he didn’t make those.

—

Jonas perked up considerably at Parker agreeing to come over and try his tea, it always was more fun to try new things with friends though his face fell when the other man mentioned he was sorry for what happened. He really was doing his best to be in denial of it all when he could. He stirred the food around in his plate as he thought of it, only half was gone. Self defense would be something he needed to learn eventually. He knew he couldn’t deny that fact any longer, but it would keep the event in the back of his mind and make it harder to simply avoid it.

Still he doubted he would get such a sincere offer to be taught again and Parker didn’t seem like he’d be a harsh teacher. “Okay. I would like to learn.” Jonas offered a tired smile along with his response. He would do his best as long as Parker was willing to teach him. Maybe the activity would prove a good distraction from everything as well. Something to look forward to rather than dread. His brain was hardwired to always try and find the good in a situation and he was sure he could find the good in all this as well if he tried hard enough. 

—

There was a sense of unease for a moment as Jonas ruminated on his answer, despite Parker seeming professional and willing to take whichever answer the medium would’ve given him. Maybe he should’ve mentioned that he was teaching Lil how to swim? Then again, maybe that would’ve just made things worse. Or maybe– ‘Okay okay, you’re officially thinking too much. Cut it out.’ And, as it turned out, Jonas said yes anyway. He didn’t realize it but Parker exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. He nodded slowly and this time, he did allow a small, upwards tilt of the corner of his mouth, not confident or seeming like it belonged there but it was there all the same. “Affirmative. Once you get out, we can train, then… have some tea.” He suggested. The Warden still wasn’t sure what particular paths in life had to have been taken to have him act as the teacher for the Ballard twins, but as he sat in that uncomfortable hospital room, warm food sitting on his lip in a bowl and enjoying their silent conversations, he didn’t think he minded those paths. He wasn’t sure how easy it was going to be to teach Jonas, but at present, he wasn’t entirely worried about it.

[vesuvian-american-fics]

better with time. Ch 2

less than favorable. 

As you become more acquainted with Captain Levi, finding him unpleasant is quite the understatement. (AO3)

Words: 1,858

A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead as you stared back at the man before you. He was short in stature but nevertheless very intimidating. His pale fair skin looked even more porcelain in contrast to his shiny raven black hair that was styled so neatly, his thin brown drawn together in a frown, his dark eyes narrowing as the silence drew on.  

He kicked the bars of your cell harshly, making you jump violently, pressing yourself further into the corner until you couldn’t retreat any further.

“Answer me when I speak to you.” He ordered. There was another pause before you remembered what he asked you. Who are you? You racked your mind for the answer, and as you opened your mouth to finally respond you found no noise followed.  

You grasped tightly at your throat at the realization. Where is your voice?! Panic making your tremble you tried to speak again and still, no sound.

“Oi! Enough with the games.” He said, losing his patience rather quickly. You shook your head wildly and pointed to your neck until he seemed to catch on.  

“You can’t speak?” Levi cocked his brow at you, unamused as he didn’t believe your story. You nodded your head fast and tried again to speak, your heart rate picking up. Why now, why can’t you speak? Maybe going for who knows how long without speaking did a number on your vocal cords, weakening them to the point you were mute.  

Levi sucked his teeth in annoyance and without another word, he left and you listened closely as he ascending the stairs that were just out of your line of sight. So, you were underground huh? That explains why it’s so chilly down here. The minutes passed, the silence did nothing to alleviate your mounting anxiety. Without warning, loud rushed stomping sounds cascaded down the stairs at alarming speed. Fear crawled up your spine, as your eyes darted around for any place to hide. Just as you were about to throw yourself underneath the sheets on your bed, a childish effort really, two hands gripped onto the bars of your cell harshly.

“You’re awake!” They exclaimed, pushing they’re head between the bars to get a closer look at you. You froze, slowly craning your neck to look behind you and see who sounded so eager to see you. A brunette that wore thick glasses, eyes sparkling with interest and a feverish blush spreading across their tanned cheeks.  

Your face twisted in confusion, your eyes slid over to the man that stood next to this new character and back to the brunette.  

“What’s your name?” They shouted; you could practically feel the excitement flowing off of them in waves. It was refreshing though you were still on guard with this situation you found yourself in.  

You thought for a moment before drawing a blank. You shrugged your shoulders, before looking sheepishly between to two people before you. You don’t remember your name, really. You felt your heart drop, the more you tried to remember the more holes in your memory that you discovered.

“Oh...” They sounded a bit disappointed in that, but quickly bounced back.

“I’m Hange Zoë, and this is Captain Levi." Finally, having names for the two calmed you just a bit. Hange seemed kind, much more refreshing than their grumpy counterpart.  

Levi huffed, seeming not too keen on the fact that you know his name now. You frowned at that before returned your attention to Hange.

“I hear you lost your voice?” They said, more focused on the task at hand now. They took a step back from your cell and retrieved a notepad and pen from their lab coat, ready to record anything.

You nodded in response, before sitting yourself on your bed. From there, Hange continued to question you, and you attempting to answer the best you could.  

“Why don’t you give her the notepad so she can actually give a proper response, idiot.” Levi suggested, a tired look in his eye. He must have grown bored with the game of charades before him. The idea wasn’t so bad, you had to admit, it would make things a lot easier and you were excited to finally explain your side of the story in detail.  

Without waiting for a response, Levi snatched the pen and notepad from Hange’s grip and tossed them into the cell. Of course, he couldn’t give you the respect of handing it off to your properly. You shot him a glare before dropping to your knees to collect the items, sitting back on your bed you huff at his actions before looking at the page before you.

Hange’s handwriting, you couldn’t read a single word of it, and not just because of how sloppy it was. The words looked completely foreign to you and yet you still knew it was your language. You just couldn’t understand a single thing, and then you realized something else. If you didn’t know how to read anymore, how could you write? Your mind was empty, frustration boiling inside. Just how many skills did you lose in your time as a titan?

You balled up your fists and brought them to your head, giving yourself a few good whacks before attempting to read again. Still, nothing was coming to you. Angry tears clouded your vision, you looked back up to Hange and tossed your hands into the air in defeat.  

Hange’s eyebrows rose in alarm.  

“You can't, speak, you can’t read, and you can’t write?” They asked inquisitively. Feeling dejected you nodded your head as you wiped your tears on your blouse. Slowly you rose from where you were seated and handed off the notepad and pen back to Hange. Understanding and kind as they seemed to be, Hange placed a hand on your shoulder, rubbing minute circles there with their thumb.  

“Don’t look so sad, this just makes it all the more fun for me to figure you out!” They said, that was more so good news for themself than for you but still, it made you smile and silently chuckle. This was still leagues better than being a titan, and surely, with time you can easily relearn these skills.

Levi rolled his eyes before stalking out of the basement. Halfway up the stairs he turned back to Hange and spoke.  

“Get her a bath, she looks like shit.” He spat before you heard, rather than saw him ascend the rest of the stares. Your mouth fell open at his insult, the nerve of that guy. He was so rude and off putting. You hated him!  

Hange laughed a bit at your reaction before unlocking your cell and leading you up the stairs and towards the washroom. On the way you passed a large room where many other people sat, eating and talking amongst themselves. Your eyes scanned over their faces and none of them noticed your presence in the moment your walked across the doorway. That is until your eyes locked on a pair of vibrant emerald eyes. In that split moment, there felt like there was a secret understanding between the two of you, it was unnerving but just as quickly as you saw him, you were pulled away further down the corridor.

Finally, at the end of the hall you were met with a large wooden tub. It had been so long since you’ve taken a proper bath and the steaming water that was waiting for you looked to be so inviting. You were snapped from your thoughts as Hange spoke.

“For safety purposes, I won't be leaving.” Hange stated matter-of-factly, they almost looked more eager than you. You scrunched your face at the lack of privacy but you understood. At least there was a partition so you could undress with a little peace of mind.  

Sliding into the bath water you silently sighed, hearing the splashing of water die down, Hange turned around to face you once more. In their hand was a bottle of a fragrant liquid, seeing the confusion in your expression they explained.  

“Shampoo. I'm sure you want your hair washed free of all that titan gunk.” You grinned, bobbing your head up and down in appreciation and agreement. Little did you know just how rough Hange’s hands would turn out to be.

<3

Levi decided to check up on Hange seeing at they still hadn’t brought you back down to the cellar. Fearing the worst, he rushed into the washroom without knocking and there he found you, still in the bath fighting to keep your head above water as Hange torturously scrubbed your scalp.  

Your arms flailed around as they tried in vain to find purchase against the rim of the tub and hold yourself up. Hange, too busy talking your ear off hadn’t noticed you struggling underneath their ministrations. Hange often got lost in their own world when they discussed titans, science, and their research, it was their favorite past time. Levi found it secretly amusing but he didn’t want you drowning at Hange’s hand, at least not before he figured you out.

“Oi! Keep scrubbing like that and she won’t have any hair left on her head.” He interjected, making Hange jump as they hadn’t even realized Levi had entered the room.  

“O-oh! Sorry!” Hange snatched their calloused hands from your head and your you winced as your caressed your scalp after that wicked assault. Flustered at how carried away they got Hange pat your head apologetically, before helping your stand. Levi quickly turned his back to you, giving you privacy before barking out another order.  

“Clean this place up too, don’t want her germs infecting the place.” He said was he waved his hand around lazily, gesturing to your filthy clothes that littered the floor.  You huffed at his attitude before wrapping a towel around your frame, and hiding behind the partition as you waited for Hange to find you new fresh clothes. Two sets of footsteps left you alone in the washroom, and not long after, you heard Hange rush back inside with a new blouse and skirt for you to wear.  

“Sorry about that again.” Hange said as they scratched nervously at the back of their head, you waved off their apology before dressing yourself. Taking a look at yourself in the mirror you smiled at the outfit before reaching for your boots and lacing them up. Just as you did, your stomach growled loudly, your face growing hot in embarrassment at the sound. How many years has it been since you had a proper meal?

One that wasn’t human flesh that is.

Hange chuckled before patting your back roughly, knocking the wind out of you.

“No worries, I'll bring you food down to your cell! We don’t serve human though, sorry.” They poked at your side and laughed at their own joke as you pouted and shot Hange a playful glare. Your expression softened though, Hange didn’t seem to be afraid of you, and though you were in less than favorable circumstances, you felt you may end up having a little bit of fun here.  

[jungle321jungle]

Ten Of Swords- Level Three: The First Of Many

The world of Swords of Power and Conquest was one Virgil dove head first into, giving his soul and life to the game. He would play whenever he could, and had even decided he wanted to go into game design. At times he had even dreamt of how wonderful it would be to be inside that world for even a moment- until that world became his reality.

The familiar world he had come to love was now a foreign prison, one with no way out.

A Log Horizon AU. If you don’t know what that is, this is a Show Better Than SAO AU. If you still don’t know, the sides get trapped in a video game.

Taglist: @hells-missing-a-goat @angels-and-dreams @ollyollyoxinfree @gattonero17 @chumo-cookie @dreaming-always @anxiety-ismy-name @mrbubbajones @janustheliar

Ao3 - Masterlist

Warning: temporary character death

~~~~

Level Three: The First Of Many

Hylin’s River. 

A river which stretches through western Lirya. It begins a few towns over from the Starting Village and goes continuing through increasingly more and more dangerous places with harder monsters as you go. It was the perfect place to try and beat as many monsters as possible, or alternatively it was a good place as any to relearn how to play the game. It made sense in many ways and Virgil could certainly understand how the group had come to the agreement to train going down the river, but he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. As if the idea of monsters actually succeeding in trying to kill him wasn’t enough, they didn’t seem to be the only ones who had the idea to come here. There weren’t a great many others, but it was more than the handful he had expected. And quite frankly as a group walking around with five legendary swords and zero clue how to play anymore, they seemed like targets. Not to mention how recognizable Remus and Roman’s characters were. Despite Virgil’s instance Roman had refused to deviate from his typical knight’s greaves, samurai chest armor, and bright red hair. It seemed to him it didn’t matter how much he stuck out despite being the biggest target among them. 

Not only had TheSwordTwins put up a video discussing going against a sphinx, but Roman also had a reputation for being harsh to players who “played wrong” or those who called him a Guild Hopper, and he was also known to give negative reviews for other games he had tried. Roman was literally a living target and somehow Virgil didn’t think he would see it unless someone physically painted one on him. 

Remus however was another story. For one he had agreed to change his clothes from his usual flashy green pirate dress to a more muted one but what really made him different was that on the brother’s channel he didn’t generally review anything. He would just go through Let’s Plays of him being a mercenary for hire and his character <3getting2Dsat1 decimating wherever she went- without using a legendary sword. So yes Remus drew attention, but judging from the comments Virgil used to scroll through, he didn’t seem to draw hate.

After him Logan was certainly the most well known of the party. Every high level player, and every guild member in the game had heard of the legendary Tactician, 56Logan_Teslacoil43. Guilds would fight over him to have his expertise in a war with another, but unlike Roman he wouldn’t join a single one. His services went to those with the deeper pockets. So he was well known, but at the same time no one would be stupid enough to try to attack him. 

Then there was Dee. He was well known to those in the business of information. So the general public he was a nobody, but the people pulling the strings would know it would have to be something important to pull the lordofthelies from the shadows. 

Lastly (other than himself) was kittycat=patt or Patton. Someone which Virgil knew virtually nothing about. From what Patton had said, she was a friend of Roman and Remus’ and had aided them in a few raids but with Patton’s level being 56- the lowest of the party- Virgil couldn’t help but have... apprehensions. 

“You’re worrying too loudly, dear.”

Virgil didn’t reply as Dee put an arm around his shoulder and began walking him back toward the group. “We’re targets, Eric,” he said finally. 

“I’m aware.”

Virgil stopped walking and looked up to his friend’s face with an eyebrow raised. “You’re aware? This is when you’re supposed to tell me I’m being stupid.”

“But you’re right. We’re targets. But the only way for us to fix that is to learn faster than our pursuers do.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t meant to. But at the same time... everyone likes being right, right?”

Virgil could only sigh in response. 

~~~~

Virgil didn’t think he had ever been more frustrated in his life. 

This game was something he was good at- something he was supposed to be good at. But now, after his fifth time face planting after failing to do a combination sprint? Now he wasn’t so sure anymore. He pulled himself up with a groan, glancing at his health as he did. The amount lost for the amount of effort he put in was almost unsatisfying. With the way his body was screaming in pain, he wished he had lost enough to warrant the use of a health potion. 

“Someone needs to invent pain killers,” Virgil grumbled, wiping dirt from his face. But he doubted he had been heard. Everyone else was truly the saving grace of this situation, simply because they were doing just as badly. 

Logan was in the woods, focusing on trying to link sword hits together to increase damage dealt, but he had only succeeded in killing low level monsters  which wouldn’t even drop anything worth selling (and yet he still would come back and drop them all in front of where they had made camp angrily before walking off again). Also in the woods was Dee. Who had busied himself with attempting to using a combination concealment skill which theoretically would hide him in shadows to be undetected by monsters, but judging from the loud and distressed shouts and swearing Virgil could hear from his direction, Dee had only managed to call the monsters to him. 

Quite frankly Virgil had zero clue how Roman and Remus were doing. The two were sparring closer to the camp in the clearing and while it was clear it was very clumsy fighting, Virgil couldn’t tell much else. But considering how often Patton was practicing her healing skills while the duo fought, he doubted they had improved much either. 

Essentially they had gotten nowhere. 

And as much as he hated it Virgil had an idea as to why. 

“Tony?” Dee asked slowly, setting his gloved hands on Virgil’s shoulders. “Were you poisoned or something?”

Virgil rolled his eyes, “I’m not poisoned or crazy. I’m serious.”

“You’re stupid though,” Roman tossed in. “Intentionally going to get yourself killed?”

“I’m not trying to die. I’m trying to gain experience. If there's something I remember from back when I started playing this game, I had to throw myself into things that were difficult. So, despite how- stupid, crazy, and terrifying it sounds...”

“I believe Anthony has a point,” Logan said slowly. “We won’t know what true combat is in this version of the game until we try it.”

“I heard there’s a Yino up the river from some other guys,” Remus suggested. “We could work our way there? Sure it's a level 66 monster, but there’s six of us!”

Virgil watched as Roman opened his mouth to respond before his eyebrows knit together. “You just-”

“Then we should continue as we are, but now we have a destination in mind,” Logan concluded. “Now that that’s settled, shall we settle the manner of dinner? Patton I believe you said you would take the first turn. But we’ll need to decide how taking turns will work.”

“Anthony will be doing double for me since I can’t cook,” Dee put in.

Virgil shook his head, “I never agreed to that.”

“Do you really want to eat my cooking though?”

“Oh no, you knocked down my HP by 5% last week, but I don’t want to cook either.”

“There are still other housekeeping topics to discuss,” Logan interrupted. “There are other chores which must be done, and perhaps if you do not wish to cook Dee you take Anthony’s chore in something else?”

“We are camping,” Roman reminded them. “What more is there to do? We cook and we sleep.”

“Well we will still need someone to take watch at night,” Patton told him. “And there’s gathering firewood, and hunting. Someone will have to be in charge of maintaining the fire and finally boiling water since Logan pointed out that we don’t know if we can drink the river water.”

“I’ve been drinking it all day,” Remus said in confusion. “I’m fine.”

“It could have contaminants which make it unsafe, Remus,” Logan frowned. “This is no longer the game we know, after all. Virtual or not we could be affected by the landscape greatly. I do recall there are some wild grown foods are known to be poisonous in the game.”

“Don’t worry Specs, I’ve got super high luck and poison resistance. I can eat or drink whatever!”

“The rest of us should probably boil it though,” Patton told him. “The water in our inventory is gonna run out eventually. So we should stock up while we’re here at the river. We also don’t need to waste money on it this way.”

“Fine, what other chores do we need to do mom?”

“Leave her alone,” Dee yawned. “Let her cook.”

“He actually,” Patton corrected. “I picked to play as a female because the character designs were better overall. Lot more hairstyles and clothes, it’s kind of unfair. But anyway, we need to make something like... like a chore wheel!”

Virgil couldn’t help but grimace. 

Roman seemed to share the sentiment, “Aren't we only going to be out here a few nights? We’re not putting down roots.”

“We have roots while we are here,” Patton replied simply. “So, does anyone want to volunteer to do anything or should I designate?”

Patton ended up designating, and Virgil found himself feeling like he was back to living at home under his mother’s strict rule. But unlike his mother, Patton made up for it with his cooking ability. Virgil had zero clue what Patton had done to make virtual food taste like heaven, but when he had finished he had promised Patton his first born in return for cooking as long as they were in the game (to which Patton had quickly told Virgil to keep any potential children, and instead agreed to teach Virgil to cook, and Virgil guessed that was fine too). 

With dinner finished and everyone exhausted from a full day of failure they had agreed on a watch schedule and laid down to sleep. And quite frankly Virgil had expected to sleep the moment he had laid down, but he hadn’t been gifted the release of sleep, as instead he couldn’t help but think about the absurdity of it all. Camping with companions he barely knew in hopes they wouldn’t screw each other over. It was ridiculous, laying there. But it seemed there was nothing more than he could do but put faith in these people he didn’t know- hell as much as he felt he did, he barely knew Dee. 

“If you’re not going to sleep Tony I see no point in staying up on watch.”

Virgil sighed and rolled over to face Dee who was sitting with his back against a tree. It was strange seeing him this way. Virgil had seen this character so many times over the years, and yet seeing it for real in person was something he couldn’t entirely comprehend. There was something different about this Dee, something different about his attitude and how he spoke. While Virgil wasn’t sure what it was that seemed so strange, but he had the sneaking it wasn’t simply due to the change in perspective. Perspective hadn’t changed the physical. It hadn’t changed Dee’s affinity for heterochromatic eyes or gloves, nor had it changed his desire to wear suits and capes with high armor stats instead of actual armor. It was Dee himself who had changed. 

“Am I the way you imagined?” Virgil asked finally. 

“Well I certainly didn’t think you’d look like your character no,” Dee replied. But when Virgil gave silence as a response he continued after a sigh. “You’re less confident than I thought. What about me?”

“I... I don’t know. And that’s what’s bothering me.”

Dee gave a shrug and looked up into the tree canopy staring at something Virgil couldn’t tell, “I act differently online. I act cocky, and like I’m always the smartest in the room. I use and manipulate other people- that’s how I got this sword in the first place... but that’s not who I am, Tony. I’m just here and scared just like everyone else. But- but I won’t let them know that.”

“You let me.”

Dee’s eyes locked with Virgil’s for a moment before Dee blinked and his eyes went past Virgil to fire with emotions Virgil couldn’t distinguish. “Even I make mistakes...”

Virgil wanted to talk further. To ask what he had truly meant, but fatigue lulled him to sleep before the question could form on his tongue. 

~~~~

Day two of training was unfortunately mimicking the first. But one thing different Virgil supposed was he was learning more about the others fighting styles. He had had slight knowledge of Roman and Remus’ from watching their videos, but it was different watching them in front of him. For example, rather than focusing on the set moves keyboards allowed, Roman seemed to be quite experimental and able to change what he was trying to do quickly, and it was actually quite impressive to watch him switch the way he holds his katana. He could switch between two hands, right hand, to left in an instant- it was like his fighting ability was innate. Remus was also experimental, but judging from the way he literally threw himself into a cave of low level monsters shouting “cannonball!”, his being experimental was more of him testing his limits and surviving off of his high luck stat. Logan meanwhile seemed to be Remus’ complete opposite and was extremely cautious in his fighting. 

He had walked up to the pig like monster and circled it dodging calmly and easily like some sort of dance which was kind of mesmerizing to watch (and Virgil quickly realized he wasn’t the only one staring). And then when Logan was fully confident in his abilities he’d unsheath his saber, strike, and resheath it so quickly it was hard to see. But most interesting to Virgil personally was Patton. 

Patton was fierce in his own way. One moment Patton would be cooing over how cute a monster was, and then once the monster would lunge at him Patton’s short sword was in his hand and he was attacking. It was like a switch would flip in him, and Virgil needed to know how to avoid it before Patton tried to kill him in his sleep. 

“Tony!”

If later asked, Virgil would deny jumping at the sound of Patton’s voice. 

“Oh, sorry! didn’t mean to scare you kiddo!” Patton apologized coming up beside him. 

“You- you didn't scare me,” Virgil said quickly. “What’s up?”

“Oh I just couldn’t help but notice the hole in your sword, is there a reason?”

Virgil blinked as he hefted his sword up to show the hole in the top of his dadao. “Um, I’m not entirely sure. I googled it once, I think it’s a center of gravity thing because it’s heavy? Logan knows random things, he might know.”

“Is it that heavy?” Patton asked, seemingly interested. 

“Yeah um, I’d let you feel it if like... it wouldn’t revert to your sword style once you touched it.”

“I’ve always wanted to change my sword style. Shortswords are cool and all, but I always thought it would be cool to have something else. Something with more distance? I don’t like having to get so close. It’s scary.”

Virgil couldn’t exactly disagree. Part of him wanted to sprint away at the sight of a monster no matter the level, but another part of him felt a thrill at the prospect of fighting back. 

“I usually did support with my bow even when this was a normal game,” Patton continued. “And the Sword of Ice and Water can also be used at a distance.”

“Well when we face bigger things I think you should stay in the back,” Virgil said slowly. “We all should protect you as the healer.”

“Oh no, I’ll take care of myself. I need to prove that I can work with all of you. I mean you’re level 74 Tony!”

Virgil stared into Patton’s determined blue eyes for a moment before he shook his head, “You joined the twins in raids and you have a legendary sword. That’s proof enough that you’re going to be a big help.” But as the words Virgil left his mouth he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. He had judged Patton quickly because of his level too, hadn’t he? What right did he have to try and make Patton feel better?

“I’m still gonna go all out and try my best though,” Patton was saying. “So I can protect all of you.”

“Let’s all just agree to try our best to not need saving at all?”

Patton gave a slight laugh and Virgil couldn’t help but smile slightly in response. 

~~~~

“This is a terrible idea.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, “This was your idea.”

Virgil gave a nod of acknowledgement, “Yes it was. And now I deeply regret it.”

“Too late,” Roman sang, swinging an arm over Virgil’s shoulder and pulling him closer to the cliff edge to look into the area through the trees. Or more accurately at the yino. A level 66 monster three times the height of Virgil and very wide with hands which could crush a minivan with little effort. When this was just a game it would have been easy to take down, a single player who was good enough at their speed and jumping could hit its weak spot on the side of its neck and take it down in a few good hits. But Virgil sincerely doubted that even the six of them with nothing more than basic runs and jumps could reach the spot needed. 

“We could stack on top of each other,” Remus suggested. “Or Patton looks skinny, we could throw him.”

“Or we could go with our previously established plan,” Logan put in but at Remus’ blank look he pushed his glasses up (probably to hide an eyeroll). “Patton is focusing on healing, Janus will provide long range cover and hit the weak point if he has the shot, Roman and I will try to create opportunities for you and Virgil to attack. We can't reach the weak point, so we will need to deal damage until Janus can shoot. Understand?”

“Roger! So... are we gonna jump its bones or just stand here thinking about it?”

“We need to preserve our moment of surprise, not be reckless.”

“Reckless is his favorite word,” Roman frowned. 

Virgil was still deeply regretting his decision in this the moment that Logan and Roman charged the beast. They thankfully approached unnoticed and managed to each get in strike on each leg- but when Virgil’s eyes flickered to the monster’s HP it seemed they hadn’t done anything besides anger it. The monster gave a swipe of its huge paw and the two jumped back- Logan managed to dodge- but Roman was sent flying across the field and out of sight. Virgil didn’t even have a moment to check on Roman’s HP as he began running in himself, but words did slip from his lips. 

“This was really a mistake,” 

“It’s gonna be fun Tony!” Remus cheered running past him. 

“No it’s not.”

If Remus heard he didn’t reply and rather he ran closer to the two already engaged. Virgil watched as he jumped- probably attempting for a combination- and promptly crashed to the ground. Virgil ran past him, toward where Logan was fighting (and failing alone). He needed to get the yino’s attention of him and Logan so Dee could take the shot. That’s the only way this could possibly work. But without combinations Virgil would need to be creative. 

When he got close enough the monster’s arm raised and swung down in a deadly arc towards him but rather than dodge out of the way Virgil forced his body to slide down underneath of it. On the other side he rolled up to his feet and gave it a slash from his dadao. He wanted to check to see the amount of damage he had done, but he couldn’t afford to let his attention waver. He slashed again and then dodged quickly as the monster turned- but it was then it gave a lurch forward and Virgil was able to see the arrow sticking from its neck. Dee had managed to hit his mark but the arrow hadn’t been deep enough. And now the yino knew where he was. 

The monster gave a roar shaking Virgil’s very being and it turned in the direction the arrow had come, seemingly no longer concerned with Virgil or the others fighting. But somehow they needed to keep it there. Virgil fell back slightly taking in the scene as he watched Logan, Remus, and Roman fight. To catch the attention they’d need to get up higher. To do something other than slow down it’s legs...

“Roman!” Virgil shouted, running forward once more and slashing at the monster’s back. 

“Kind of busy here!” Roman replied, rolling out of the way from the yino’s fist. 

“I need you to give me a boost!” Virgil shouted back as he slashed 

“What?”

“Your shield! I’m gonna jump, boost me.”

Roman’s eyes widened in understanding as he drew further back, “Remus! Take my spot with Logan!”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Remus replied coming closer to join Logan as the main tank. 

They were set. Virgil took a deep breath, before he charged Roman. He focused on his speed, and on his jump. He could sprint. He could jump, but it would be the switch between the two that would be crucial. And he didn’t really have another shot at this. Not with Remus ignoring every order Logan barked at him. Not with the yino getting closer. Not with Dee’s second arrow only hitting the raised paw given the monster had moved. This needed to work. 

Roman’s deer were planted and his shield raised so Virgil jumped toward him. And the moment his feet hit the shield- Roman was flinging him toward the yino. Virgil wanted to bask in the success of the moment- how it had actually gone right- that haphazard half concocted combination had gone right- but instead he readied his sword and aimed for the neck. He had a chance- he could do this. 

Until he was swiped out of the sky. 

Virgil barely had time to register the pain of his bones simultaneously being crushed as he suddenly sent flying backwards- and his body hit the cliff- and then the ground. 

His body was screaming in pain- more than he had ever felt. 

His vision flickering between darkness and the world around him, but even what he could see was blurry. The yino was still attacking, and judging from the blur of the color green Remus was holding it off. Someone was coming toward him a blur of yellow and- he just couldn’t breathe. He tried but just felt worse- felt a lack of air. 

He was drowning on land. 

A mix of feeling any and everything and absolutely nothing. 

Virgil wished there was a word he could use to describe what the strange feeling was. Experiencing the landscape around him was more intense than his wildest dreams. In the past he had dreamed of days he could lie in Lirya’s grass and take in everything he could- but now that his dream had become a nightmare he couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy it. And yet at the same time the weight of the sword strapped against his back- or when it was transformed in his hand it just felt overwhelming right. When he would swing it it felt perfect like he had been born to do just that. But every time he felt momentarily happy in this world- he’d remember the truth. He was stuck here. His favorite dream intermingled with a nightmare, was there a word for that?

Probably not, but someone should make one. If they did Virgil would find it useful in the future, if someone ever asked him how dying felt.

~~~~

Level Two - Level Three - Level Four

[nadiawrites14]

i LIVED BITCH. with an overly detailed backstory under the cut

the presidential race — well, if you could even call it such — in 2030 was clean cut and dry. everyone in macedonia was certain that the previous president, pavle bozinovski, would find himself swiftly reelected by his constituents. of course, nothing ever goes correctly here, and 2 months before the ballot, bozinovski’s secretary entered his office to find the sitting president’s blood and brains splattered from the ceiling to the floor.

this, of course, complicated things.

bozinovski’s legislative cabinet pair were opponents of his leftist party — stark conservatives. prime minister stamen mladenov was too busy soothing the legislature to undertake a presidential seat, and the deputy was unfit and unloved by the people. for 2 months, the country was stagnant, as people looked to the two opponents of bozinovski to figure out who would reclaim the title. on one side was a level-headed conservative, a bit overzealous and years older than the second contestant, one laszlo mincef.

mincef, born lupcho mincefski to a romani-hungarian father and a macedonian mother, was the opposite of the stagnating set of beliefs at hand. a self proclaimed socialist who debated eagerly and ran on an independent platform. a platform grown mostly from his large and attractive social media presence, mind you.

the race seemed a bit muddled, sure, and political analysts had their hands full trying to check and recheck voting behaviors, figuring out whether a radical leftist would trump a safe conservative. the latter seemed like the most comfortable choice after a brutal assassination and spiraling political scene, and as april neared, it the verdict was almost certain. laszlo would lose in a devastating defeat to his opponent.

that is, until april 20th, whereafter 5 days of counting and recounting beneath the watchful gazes of ben hunter and gustava nielsen, laszlo mincef secured a presidential seat by a generous margin.

despite an outpouring of support that came with the election, many were displeased. the political crop of the legislative and judicial branches especially so, unwilling to bend to the will of someone perceived as so radical. mladenov and the rest of his parliament were quick to discount and crush any attempt laslzo made at passing legislation or building a cabinet on his own terms, and he was soon surrounded on all sides by enemies, domestic and abroad. the west was politically closing in on the east, and the east was burdened with burgeoning unrest. laszlo could do nothing, even after all the hope of change and progress with a fresh set of young eyes in office. the pressure grew, and as laszlo was immolated in his own political tomb, prime minister stamen mladenov hatched a plot.

they needed a functional president. not some sitting socialist duck who was the west’s own personal court jester — a real politician (whatever that is) to pass real legislation. the plan was foolproof. with support of laszlo’s cabinet, in some caesar-like plot, mladenov was to stage a military coup who would promptly dispatch the sitting duck and leave a vacancy in the seat. a seat that was ready for mladenov, or whomever, to reclaim it. bozinovski would cry tears of joy up from the politician’s special hell. midway through laszlo’s term, in december 2032, a date is decided on — february 12th.

enter, on january 11th, to a cabinet meeting: bulgarian president fedya vranchev, with a metal baseball bat and a presidential level bounty.

exit, on january 11th, surrounded by paramedics and gaping reporters from across europe: three survivors — laszlo lupcho mincefski with blood still running down his face, and two sycophants, relieved of their duties by a blubbering laszlo.

miraculously, he survives. physically, there’s a concussion, and his left arm has been twisted to a degree that he must wear it in a splint. his paraplegic lower half is mostly untouched. his wheelchair is replaced with a newer model. mentally, his amnesia reaches back to the day of his election. the last 2 years are a mystery. emotionally, he can no longer bring himself to feel sadness or fear. he cannot remember his own trauma, but he knows how it lingers. he can only cover it up by relearning his allies and his enemies, staring blankly at the diaries and proposed legislation made by his hand, and watching the news reports that posthumously expose the planned coup.

he pieces together his presidency from his own writings, an erray of wikipedia articles and newspapers, and all that he can withdraw from his mind. he learns that his best friend and closest ally is miss komnena gecaj, president of albania, who holds his hand in the hospital bed and tells him jokes. he learns that the man who shattered his skull with a baseball bat drove himself off a cliff on january 12th, that they were not on good terms, and that, despite everything, it didn’t appear to be premeditated. a crime of passion, one article had said. arpad valentine visits him once with a snide smile, a bag of ramen noodle packets, and a scrapbook — a mishmash college photos and memories and presidential adventures. it begins to come back to him. slowly, gradually.

april is here. spring is emerging from its wintery shell. he isn’t the same person as he was before — that’s certain. he always seems slightly more cold to those who know him, and he stammers when he talks, and his light cynicism is infectious.

laszlo has a year left in office.

parliament is dissolved. the conspirators against him are (primarily) deceased. the others, deposed and haunted.

laszlo rebuilds. slowly, gradually, his efforts snowball. legislation is passed. from his hospital bed to the new office, across the street from the flattened ghost house, he manages to rejuvinate and empower his little slavic state in a year. he is beloved by his constituents, and he deserves to be so.

it is 2034. april draws near. laszlo mincef runs unopposed, the only box on the ticket. his enemies claim authoritarianism, some write it off as a mere pity vote.

laszlo mincef is reelected to another thunderous outpouring of support. vultures circle above him, parasites beneath, but he’s already prepared himself for the next four years. he’s ready as he’s ever been.

[horrible-on-main]

He picks up the pen with apprehension. He knows, somehow, before he tries, that this is something he cannot do. Something that has been taken from him. Grief is deep and hollow and nauseating. So many long hours spent writing for a living, drawing freehand with easy certainty, taking pride in how the neat letters flowed, having fun with the flourishes and the ornaments.... So many hand-written letters composed to friends sectors away, pen to parchment to produce something for the astropaths to transmit, his lifeline to socialisation during the long, lonely months at Warp...

Memory fills his eyes with tears. He avoided this while sent out on mission, in the illusion of freedom. Almost without letting himself think about it, he stuck to dataslate and dictation. At first they were amongst the poor who couldn’t write at all, and then they had enough prestige that he could have a minion do it, or requisition a scribe-skull, or otherwise not have to think about it.

But now he has to face it.

Just holding the pen is tricky. Anxiety conspires to worsen the tremor in his hands. The tip jitters almost comedically. It seems implausible that such violent motions could be anything but deliberate. And ridiculous that he should try and write with an implement that jumps in his hand so. But he was too afraid to tell her that he couldn’t. And now she is gone, and he can imagine the consequences of not doing the work he has been set.

Predictably, the first touch of nib to paper leaves a juddering line almost an inch long. He lifts the pen in a hurry, wincing. But he’s going to have to get used to this being a messy process. How humiliating. Tears continue to track down his cheeks. He ignores them, and tries again. Just trying to keep the pen still against the page, he draws a sprawling inelegant spider of a scribble as he relearns how to make his fingers apply the right pressure.

In his mind’s eye, she looks at the mess he has made of the page and tsks her tongue and takes his hand and hurts him and - no, no, focus. He has to focus. He can’t help but make a mess of this, the best he can hope for is to get some work done as well. So he tries to swallow back sobs and devotes the top of the page to practice - “straight” lines first, then clumsy letter forms. His writing is worse than a child’s. An illegible, distorted, jittery mess. Still, the thought of her coming back to find that he has not even tried... He practices until he feels that he has the measure of his extensive limitations. And then he gets to work.

He has to rework almost every letter to make it legible. And as often as not the corrections make things worse rather than better. Only one word in perhaps five does not end as a crossed-out mess. He can’t stop crying, knowing that this is unacceptable but unable to do better.

Within an hour, his hand is aching. Within two, it is cramping badly enough that he has to stop every few words to force the screaming muscles back into compliance. He tries writing with his left instead, but it’s even worse. He can’t form anything that looks even remotely like a letter. He tries writing with the pen gripped in a fist. With both hands locked together. Even, in a fit of desperation, with it in his teeth. He cycles between clumsy methods, getting an appalling line or two down with each before it becomes untenable. His fingers spasm for minutes at a time while he tries to force them to hold the pen to no avail.

He fills two pages with a bare handful of comprehensible words each. On the third, he runs out of space before he has managed to write a single word successfully. Despair wins out over fear and he puts his head down on the table and sobs. It’s just for a little while, he tells himself. Just to give his hands a chance to recover before he starts over. He isn’t giving up, isn’t slacking off. It’s just for a few minutes.

The door opens and he squeaks with fear, jumping half out of his skin. He freezes up - a shaking, sobbing wreck, terrified of the punishment he is sure is incoming. Too paralysed even to get on his knees like he suspects he should.

She walks over to inspect the mess that he has made with critical eyes. Her frown sets him crying harder, hiding his face. “Eyes up,” she reminds him, so he unwillingly watches her look over the paper he has ruined in his futile attempts at writing.

She doesn’t ask him for his hands, but just picks his right up by the wrist. He offers no resistance. She inspects the shaking, ink-stained fingers, then runs her free hand over the cramping muscles of his forearm. He wants to beg for mercy, but he remembers acutely the lessons in Don’t speak until spoken to. It’s almost like his time outside never existed, like he never left.

“You’ve spent a long time on this,” she remarks. There’s something unexpected in her voice, something unfamiliar. Distraught as he is, he can’t start to decipher it. But he dares to hope it might be good for him. “Yes Interrogator.” “You aren’t getting anywhere.” “No Interrogator.” His head dips in shame, but he remembers to keep his eyes on hers. “But you kept trying.” “Yes Interrogator. I... I wasn’t s-stopping,” he half-lies, “I was just w-waiting for my f-fingers to s-stop twitching so I c-c-could try ag-gain...” Her fingers are digging into the pained muscles. It hurts, but it’s also a profoundly good kind of pain. He can feel the cramps easing slowly under her touch. “Good,” she says. His heart leaps. “Well done. Stay there. Put your head down, sleep if you want.”

He is grateful. Too sore and too miserable to sleep, even once she leaves. But grateful. And even more so when a guard comes to swap the writing supplies for a dataslate. He can use one of those. A little clumsily, but he can do it. He’s almost eager to get back to work.

[the-cookie-of-doom]

I’m not sure where this is going. It was supposed to be Stitch but it’s turning into Pitch instead, I guess?? Inspired by my love for the Hales having a wolf sanctuary, 100% best trope. Also practicing writing in present tense.

-

Peter is the one who finds the wolf out in the woods. It's big and black, with matted fur and dry white teeth that are bared in a snarl. He's dehydrated and starved, frighteningly thin. Unable to hunt with the beartrap around his hind leg. The blood saturating his fur is congealed and layered, and old wound. The wolf could have been trapped there for week, for all Peter knew.

He puts up a fight when Peter creeps closer, snarling and growling. A low rumble that would be a lot more intimidating if the wolf could lift his head off the ground.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Peter says, holding his hand out for the wolf to sniff. It almost bites him, but he's quick enough to jerk away. He smiles at the beast. "Looks like you've still got some life in you after all." Still, he won't be able to help the poor creature if it's going to try and gnaw his arm off, so Peter crouches down and flashes his eyes. They widen when the wolf's eyes glow an iridescent blue.

-

Peter frees the werewolf and carries him back to the house. Talia meets him outside, able to smell the blood before he even breaks through the tree line.

"What happened?" she asks, arms crossed over her shirt.

"I found him in a bear trap on my patrol. He's a werewolf." Talia inhales sharply,  looking at the wolf - a omega - in a new light. She leads Peter around the house to the infirmary, taking out her phone to call Deaton while Peter lays the wolf on a metal table. It's so weak it hardly reacts, giving a pitiful whine. Peter strokes the wolf's flank, trying to soothe him and draw out the pain. There is so much to take, it's no wonder the were hasn't shifted back; eve werewolves can get to a point of exhuastion where the shift is unattainable, where healing is impossible.

-

Deaton gets to the house in record time once he hears that there is a werewolf in need. Apart from the dehydration and malnourishment, and the wounds cause by the beartrap, the werewolf has several broken ribs perforating his lungs, and 3 bullets embedded between his shoulder blades. Peter holds him down while Deaton digs them out, not that his presence is really needed. The wolf is too weak to fight. Mostly Peter is just there to keep him calm and take his pain while Deaton works.

-

They're all expecting the wolf to shift back a day or two after that, but he never does. A few days turns into a week, into two weeks, into a month. Slowly the wolf is nursed back to health. His black hair gets thick and glossy, he fills out so that his ribs aren't so prominent. He heals, but he never shifts.

"Are you certain he's a werewolf?" Talia asks two months later, watching the wolf - Sirius, they've named him - pace along the edge of the enclosure. They haven't yet introduced him to the other wolves, unsure how he will react. He's still so aggressive, the last thing any of them want is one of the wolves in their sanctuary to get hurt.

"Positive. I saw his eyes, Talia."

"Then why won't he shift?"

-

"Trauma," Deaton tells them. "I'm assuming he was on the run, perhaps for so long that he forgot he was human to begin with. It may take some time for the man to regain control of his more primal instincts, so to speak. I have a feeling that the wolf became a survival mechanism; the more he relied on it, the more it took control."

"There's nothing we can do for him, then."

"Aside from showing him that he is in a safe enough environment to relearn how to be human, I'm afraid not."

-

Sirius becomes a fixture amongst the pack. They keep him isolated, after an attempt to socialize him ends with one of the wolves badly injured. Isolated, but not alone. Peter spends much of his time shifted into his wolf form and in the enclosure. Sirius chases him and fights with him, suspicious and wary. Peter doesn't mind. It alleviates his conscience and gets him out of his chores. The wolf sanctuary was Talia's idea after all, let her do the menial tasks he wants nothing to do with.

-

The children are curious about him. The lone werewolf who won't shift. Laura, ever the serious one, taking after her mother, keeps her distance. She listens to her alpha. Derek avoids Sirius as well, not so much because he was told to, but because he has nothing better to do. But Cora, sweet girl that she is, never had a taste for the rules. She takes after Peter in that way. Normally he adores her for it, right up until he sees her out of the corner of his eye, sneaking into Sirius' enclosure. Everything stop.

Then, Peter is running for the back door.

"Cora!"

The little girl is oblivious to the danger, or perhaps fearless in the face of it. She is five years old and all of four feet tall, but she walks proudly into a den that is not hers, her big round eyes glowing preternatural gold.

Sirius growls, stalking towards her, belly low to the ground and ready to strike.

Peter runs, Talia and her husband following after hearing his shout.

Sirius gets to Cora first.

Remarkably, the wolf sits down in front of her, easily as tall as the little girl. She smile a big gap-toothed gran and wraps her arms around his neck, grubby little hands buried in his ruff, and the feral wolf lets her. Sniffs her hair and licks her cheek, making her giggle. None of the adults know what to do, whether to approach and risk angering him, or stay where they are.

"Cora, honey, come here," Talia calls. Peter can hear her heart rabbiting in her chest, can smell her fear. Possibly for the first time, he muses.

"No!" Cora shouts back. Peter could swear the wolf grins, pulling his teeth back in a gruesome smile. Sirius looks right at him over the top of Cora's head, and Peter thinks he can see an intelligence that wasn't there before. As though, slowly, the man behind the wolf is regaining control. Little by little.

[maeve5259223-blog]

Week 7- Sketching Exercises

I loved this week’s exercise, and to be honest I found it particularly motivating creatively.

First, we ‘learnt’ to draw straight lines across A3 bond paper, going as slowly or as quickly as we wanted in order to understand how we use the pencil, and to assist us in almost relearning how to draw, especially in terms of perspective and technique. I experimented with different sizes of paper (A4 and A3), changed axis (vertical to horizontal), and also line thicknesses, as you can see in some examples below:

The second exercise involved drawing 20 dots on a page and connecting them by firstly watching the lines as I drew them(first attempt), and secondly watching the point I was trying to reach with the pencil as I drew the lines (second attempt). I found this quite ‘guerilla’ compared to the other exercises, but still enjoyed it.

(first attempt)

(second attempt)

Next, we practiced drawing 4cm wide circles- which I wasn’t particularly good at- and filling the gaps between them with smaller circles. This was fun after I got the hang of it, and I found that practicing imaginary circles before drawing them, particularly in the initial grid style, helped. I also enjoyed drawing perspective lines over the top of the circles. This helped me understand perspective in later exercises also.

After drawing the circles and their perspective lines, we imagined a coin and drew what it would look like if we viewed it from different perspectives on the y axis. I found this enjoyable, and helpful for later exercises as we imagined objects at different points in space.

The fifth exercise involved drawing cubes in perspective. I found that after learning and developing my cube drawing skills last week in the chair exercise helped me with this task, as I was able to fit three cubes rather nicely in the frame of the page, along with a reference square and circle to make sure my circle drawings on the cubes were in perspective.

After learning to draw cubes in perspective, I attempted to draw multiple rectangular prisms in different points in ‘space’ and connected them through pipes and lines that we were given the chance to shade by choosing a point that would act as a light source. I chose the top right of the page. I found that shading the 3D design just gave it another level of detail that I feel really helped in communicating the sizes and shapes of what I was trying to convey.

Finally, we were given 3 minutes to sketch a bottle along with communicative aspects such as a ‘twist’ label and rectangle to add depth to the drawing. I added shading to the design, but this time I chose the left of the page as a light source. This was probably my favourite exercise of the day, as we got to come up with a product and design it on the spot based on what the knowledge we’d accumulated that lesson.

[fidgemimic]

Anyway Beau fucking hates the new wizards for like the first month or two. Also this gets rambly and fic-layout-y as hell. i am very tired and have a headache so bls forgive me

Beau hates both of these new Zemnian assholes to be entirely honest, but she’s willing to give them an iota of a chance after everything finally goes down and the immediate ramifications of turning the Empire’s greatest war mages/archmages into traitors are done with.

She’s absolutely not the only one that doesn’t trust them - fuck not even Caleb trusts them completely and he’s the reason they even bothered to defect in the first place. But the gang at this point is willing to put enough trust into them that they won’t just straight up slaughter them all in a heartbeat.

It doesn’t help that they’re both disgustingly proper.

Backs still ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in their lap or attentively behind their backs. They make eye contact with anyone who dares to speak no matter who it’s too. They’re attentive and quiet - and the nein can see them calculating scenarios and escape routes and weaknesses in their heads any time someone dares to move.

Eodwulf, to everyone’s benefit, seems to easily swap between the cold persona into one that’s a little too competent socially to not be forced and practiced to perfection over the years. He can easily hold a conversation with Fjord and Clay, even drawing laughter from Jester at his quips and playing along with her strange stories; Though not the ones about the Traveller. 

(The first time she mentions him, things suddenly go horribly, terribly wrong. He doesn’t hurt her, of course, but they can feel the air change. He snaps into another personality entirely - disgusted and enraged at the concept that he’s sitting with a heretic of all people. It’s like something cruel has taken over him, drawing curses and cruelty from his lips that bring Jester to tears before anyone even fully realizes the situation. It’s not the first time it happens, but it startles everyone - Eodwulf included. Jester doesn’t receive an apology until much later, once Caleb pulls him away from the group and speaks to him quietly. No one cares to ask what was said - not until Jester grows curious a few days later and asks Wulf. Beauregard only barely overhears it - glaring daggers at the half elf all the same. 

“He said that it was.... it was hard to relearn what should be - what is - acceptable. Hard to relearn what it is normal people see as being non-issues. It’s no excuse for my horrid behavior, but it is... difficult... to know after so long.”

Beauregard.... hates him a little less for that. He’s dangerous, and she keeps an eye on him, but it’s easier to remember that he’s not the first or only person who’s had these issues before. If she speaks to Caleb later about what to expect, it’s for the safety of the group - obviously. She needs to know what she needs to look out for so that she can swoop in and roundhouse kick a bitch in the throat if push comes to shove. But if she manages to catch the hints - the sudden stillness, the tightening of his jaw, the impulsive twitch of fingers as if readying a spell - she jumps in and distracts him with a flourish and desperate ease that would’ve made Molly proud. Eodwulf is easy to decipher once you know what the signs are.

Astrid, however, is not.

She radiates an air of authority that would make Beau sick if it wasn’t from a woman that was just so fucking hot. Where Eodwulf finds a place to integrate himself socially, Astrid sits back and watches from just far enough away that it’s obvious she’s not really part of the team.

It’s intentional - and she’s said as much to the rest when they ask her about it.

“I have little reason to trust that the lot of you won’t kill me tonight. I am fine here. Thank you.”

Beau can tell that Caleb is torn with this information. He’s been torn since the two of them arrived - all three of them have been desperately trying to figure out where they stand with each other in a way that The Nein would find hilarious if it wasn’t a rom-com script stitched together with trauma and guilt and all of the disgusting waste the empire had tried to shove down their throats.

Caleb and Eodwulf are the only two willing to approach her for conversation with positive results. Fjord had tried and given up after two weeks of clipped answers and obvious disinterest. Clay wanders over from time to time with his teapot and empty stories to try and ensure she doesn’t feel left out. She never drinks his tea - not even pretending to in the way that Clay often pretends to drink liquor - but he hardly seems to mind.

No one knows what it is that causes the outburst. One moment, they’re surrounding the fire, chatting aimlessly while Clay’s slow drawl acts as white noise in the background. Then the loud crash of ceramic shattering against the ground bring everyone to silence. Their eyes are drawn to the duo behind them, where Clay sits as calm as ever - his eyes only marginally wider to indicate the barest hint of shock. His teapot lay in pieces on the ground between them.

Astrid raises from her spot, cup still cradled in her hands before she deliberately allows that to slip and shatter on the ground as well.

“Oh, how unfortunate. Clumsy me.” 

When she wanders off, it’s Eodwulf that followers behind her, with Caleb nervously trailing close behind.

Beauregard approaches Clay as he works from his place on the ground, carefully picking up shards of what used to be beautifully painted ceramic.

“It’s no issue, Ms Beauregard. Simply an oversight on my part - I must have upset her and not noticed. It can be fixed easily, no harm done.”

The three wizards return not 10 minutes later. Astrid is silent, as are Eodwulf and Caleb. There is no apology, no attempt to speak to her, only the same carefully blank expression that’s been on her face since the day they found her. Something about the simple lack of remorse or empathy makes Beau’s skin crawl.

Beauregard hates Astrid.

And she makes damn sure that she shows it. 

Beauregard grants this woman none of the ‘pleasantries’ she gives her friends - drudging up every ounce of malice that she has and directing it solely towards this woman. Astrid is everything she hates wrapped into a package in just the right manner that she doesn’t want to tear her limb from limb immediately. She’s the embodiment of the empire, of everything wrong with it and what it does to people. She’s cruel and calculating and Beau can’t help but imagine how quickly and easily this woman could end all of their lives. Poison their food stores while she keeps a small sachel of her own rations close.How easy it would be for her to slip close enough to Caleb to slit his throat with a hiss of ‘traitor’ on her lips even after all he’s done to get them to safety.

She feels predictable and not all at once. It throws Beau for a loop when Astrid finally - finally - responds to her constsant prodding. Not with anger, but with a smile.

The woman is quick-witted and cold. Her words are like daggers being driven into every weak spot Beauregard has and it’s a show of power that drives her fucking insane with how easily the quips come to her. The only thing keeping The Mighty Nein from tearing them apart is the reactions that the fight seems to garner from Eodwulf and Caleb of all people. 

The two of them are huddled together, muttering and chuckling in Zemnian. They commentate with small gasps and giggles and muttered ‘oh, sheisse’s that - through the anger and annoyance - remind Beau of the catty assholes she used to go to school with as a young girl. It doesn’t help that Astrid seems to feed off of their strange new relationship, and in the midst of it all Beauregard realizes something:

This, the woman that’s tearing into her with abandon and thriving off of the attention of her two best friends, the woman who’s catty and self-assured - not because she knows she has power and statusadn training - but because she knows she’s clever enough to out-shittalk someone, is the closest they’ve gotten to seeing who she is.

She’s not sure why she decided to keep it going after that. She found what she was looking for - a small note that Astrid wasn’t just some hollowed out war machine. Something that showed her that there was still a person in there. Hell, she found the tattered remains of Something in all three of them that she hardly expected. 

But Astrid was quick to leave them again - back ramrod straight and shoulder squared. Face carefully neutral. Beau, in all of her horrible terrible no good very bad wisdom, continued the fight for as long as she could, as often as she could.

It was slow going, and every so often Astrid would fall completely silent and unresponsive to Beauregard’s jabs in a way that was uncomfortably familiar, but over time it didn’t even take Beau’s stupid attempts at fighting for Astrid to make quips and clever comments to other members of the team.

It felt like a miracle at that point.

As much as Beau wanted to continue hating Astrid after that point - as much as she wanted to still hold that bone-deep distrust that made sure she had a hand around her staff any time either of those fuckers get closer to one of her friends, she found that she couldn’t. Not really. They were doing better, and if she ever admitted to the fact that she was a little bit proud and a little bit protective of them at this point, she would have to throw herself off a cliff or something.

They were the ghosts of people, slowly but surely remembering who they could have been if everything hadn’t gone so fucking horribly. If she noticed the way that Caleb’s nervous half-smiles turned into stupid childish grins any time Eodwulf or Astrid said anything in Zemnian, or if she noticed how they slowly started to lay their bedrolls out next to each other with less and less space between them each night - that’s not her fuckin problem. That’s not her bullshit garbage ‘friends-to-lovers’ ‘hurt/comfort’ drama novel plot, and she could frankly care less so long as it was a decision that they got to make themselves.

[stimtoybox]

Hi!I'm 22 years old and have had my aspie diagnosis for 6 years now.I'm a university student,and always masking my autism related behaviors.Any tips and advice on how to stop doing that and start stimming proudly in public when I need to? Also when I blurt out stupid things because of autism my mom tells me to stop and think about what I'm saying.What to do when the thinking goes off in my head in the wrong direction or otherwise doesn't help?I want to stop masking my autism behaviors.

Unfortunately, I am so much less good on the art of thinking before speaking–oh, if it were only that easy. I can usually manage when not upset or distressed, simply because Not Saying What I Am Thinking is a survival tactic in my family, usually resulting in Not Saying Anything At All. (For obvious reasons, this isn’t something I’d encourage in anyone else, because it’s born of a toxic dynamic.) When upset, though, there is no filter between my mouth and my brain–and often limited ability to even get words out–and it’s something I’ve never been able to improve myself. Perhaps other autistics have some ideas, or posting in the #actuallyautistic tag?This is one subject where I really don’t have advice to give and I fear anything I’d say would be spectacularly less than helpful.

As someone who has had to relearn/reclaiming stimming as an adult after my diagnosis and who had fairly successfully lost the ability, though, this part of your ask is comfortable territory for me. So I will talk your ear off about this! For context, I went from being afraid to pace in a therapy session with an allistic psychologist who knew about my diagnosis and was supportive of it to being someone who can obviously stim in a department store without caring. It took me about three years, but it can be done!

Please recognise that you’ve spent so long suppressing your need to stim from the world and from yourself, so this relearning will take a while and that’s okay. I mean, you’ve spent more than a decade without a diagnosis or perhaps even context for how you behave and move, engaging in the suppression of what is natural to you. That’s so much training about allistic-appropriate movement and behaviour you have to undo and unravel, and it’s not going to happen overnight, as much as we wish it. It’ll take time.

The first step, if you haven’t already, is exploring and developing your stim kit and your bodily stims. Figure out the toys and stims you like and how you like to use them. Make sure your kit includes toys that are quiet, don’t contain flickering lights, are low-odor and won’t draw too much attention–toys, in other words, ideal for public stimming. Consider mermaid sequin bags/pencil cases, fidget jewellery pieces like necklace pendants and spinner rings, keychain fidgets that can be attached to your bag, etc. You might also wish to consider toys that have become popular, like squishies, as they’ll draw less negative attention through their normalised use. Have more standard toys too, like Fidget Cubes and spinners and Tangles, but make sure you have a selection of stealth toys ready to go for your first ventures into public stimming.

Beginning with toys where I less feared any kind of reaction from others helped a lot in reducing my anxiety that people would say something about my stimming. In all honesty, few people say anything if I fidget with a necklace pendant or a bracelet. Neurotypical people do this sort of thing all the time.

The next step is to work on being comfortable with stimming in private–really comfortable. If you’re in your room with the door closed, stim. If you’re in bed at night in the dark, stim (with toys safe for this purpose). First thing in the morning after waking up, before you’ve interacted with anyone–stim. Make stimming part of your private life, a daily habit, part of your routine. Stim in the shower or bath–plastic toys like Tangles or hedge balls are fine for bathroom use and nobody else will see you do it! Keep toys on your desk and in your pockets so they’re right there, and when you’re alone and you see them, use them, even if only for a moment or two. The more you stim generally, even when you don’t need it, the more unconscious it will become and the easier it will be to stim when you do.

More steps under the cut because long post is long:

This step is not easy. Even with my door closed, at times I felt so desperately uncomfortable (and afraid of people barging in, because that happens at my house). Start with the most subtle/unobtrusive toys even in private, if you’re anxious about this. Just spin a spinner ring while watching TV or stroke a textured pendant. Do these smaller stims until you’re comfortable with them. I will say that keeping other toys within reach made it easy for me to progress from more subtle toys to less subtle ones, so I’d recommend that–starting with a spinner ring but having a Tangle within sight and reach. You might find, as I did, that you reach for the toy before you recognise that you’re ready for it, so have it there, waiting.

Stimming in private is for experimenting--for trying toys out, for trying movements out, for letting yourself move and sway without caring about other people. The more you can do this, and the more you can gain confidence to further experiment with bodily stims and toys, the more you can grow the habit of stimming generally, so I do recommend looking at every opportunity you can find for even short stim sessions.

Third, once you’re starting to feel comfortable with private stimming, look at what situations relating to public stimming might cause more anxiety or discomfort. There’s stimming on a bus, where people look more at their phones than at other people, versus stimming in a shopping centre or on the street. There’s stimming in front of strangers versus stimming in front of friends and family. Stimming in the library might be easier for you than stimming in the classroom during a tutorial–and stimming inside a lecture theatre, with nobody paying attention to you, might be easier than both. Figure out what seems hardest and what seems easiest, even if only in theory, and then write out a list of those situations from easiest to hardest. Take the easiest five from the top, tear them off and throw away the rest of the list, because it’ll feel overwhelming now and you don’t need it. Just keep the five easiest ones and put it aside.

Fourth, make another list with circumstances, right now, in which you think you can easily and safely stim outside the house/bedroom. The cinema was one of mine, so dark nobody can see my hands move, and it’s easy to shove my toy in a bag or pocket when the lights come up. This is just to get you thinking about circumstances where you can, with no risk of anxiety or ableism, stim, to continue the habit-building of your private stimming. If you don’t think about it, you won’t know that you can try it, so I do recommend making this list. You won’t always remember to stim in these situations when you’re in them, and that’s fine and normal, but if you think of it once or twice, it’s worth the effort.

While doing all this, keep stimming in private! Keep cultivating an interest in stimming and stim toys! Add to your kit so you don’t get bored of one toy; get your favourite toy in a couple of different colours; talk to other stimmers; admire toy collection posts, enjoy bodily stimming GIFs--do whatever you can to connect to your stims so stimming has a positive association for you. You don’t have to stim all day long, just make it a habit to pick up a toy or perform a bodily stim once or twice a day, for a little a while, and over time you’ll unconsciously do this more often and for longer. Let your body point you towards where it wants to go and roll with it, because your body does know–you’ve just got to get used to understanding and allowing it again.

Once you are comfortable with both stimming in private and stimming in situations that are theoretically public but are safe (like said cinema), pull out your list of five. You may have written it months ago by now, but see if you still feel like you want to attempt these or if–now you are more used to thinking about stimming and places in which you can stim–you can think of easier ones. Pick the easiest one, with your most subtle toys, and start to make a habit of stimming there, too. When that space becomes comfortable, look at other locations. By this stage, stimming should be becoming more of a habit that it becomes natural to start unconsciously reaching for a fidget pendant. I know that you can’t imagine it now, and neither could I when I began, but it will happen.

In the meantime, in private, introduce less-subtle toys into your stimming, and begin to get comfortable with these where nobody can observe you.

Slowly, over time, you introduce subtle stims into more and more locations/situations, and then you start to introduce less-subtle stims into these locations. You’ll build up both the habit and the confidence over time--and then one day you’ll find yourself rocking on your feet in front of your aunt and don’t realise until later that you were being so damn autistic in front of your most ableist of relatives and you don’t even care. It took me three years to get there, but I did, and you will too.

(I will say, that for me, using stim toys gradually brought me more comfort with unconscious bodily stims, too. I do still stim more with toys, but I’ve regained a lot of natural movement in all sorts of ways through my toys.)

Just be patient and slowly, gradually work your way up from safe/private spaces with subtle toys wherever possible for you. Take your time, don’t push yourself into anything scary until you feel ready for it and just quietly build up the habit, and before you quite know it you will be stimming when you need to. You just have to get your body used to looking toward stimming as the answer.

[roseymoseyberry]

Answers To Questions

Annnnnnd the third fic in the Wanna Be Missed series! Aka a continuation of Used To It! Back to sexy sexy basics.

Also a heads up that if you haven’t figured it out yet, this series is just me letting myself writing endless dialogue. It’s a power I should have never given myself.

Franchise: TFIDW/MTMTE

Ship: Ratchet/Rodimus, discussion of past Ratchet/Optimus

Rating/warnings: E for sticky interfacing, casual interfacing, friends with benefits, talking about past interfacing, and just a hell of a lot of talking when they should be focused on fragging. And as always, Sexy Prime Powers

Summary:

“Is Optimus a better frag than me?”

You can find the rest of the Wanna Be Missed series on AO3 or each individual fic on tumblr below:

| Used To It | Hashing It Out | Answers To Questions |

“Ratchet?”

One of Ratchet’s optics onlined to peer at where Rodimus was curled up against his side, vents still open but cooling fans only lazily whirling to whisk away the last of his body heat. The servo stroking between the Prime’s spoilers kept the same steading rhythm.

“Something on your processor?”

Rodimus lightly sucked on his bottom lip before, predictably, shaking his helm. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

Ratchet’s optic offlined again as he sighed. His servo continued to stroke comfortingly.

“It’s clearly something since this is the third time tonight you’ve done this.”

With a noncommittal grunt, Rodimus shifted and rolled out of Ratchet’s hold, insisting, “It’s dumb so don’t worry about it, ok? We should recharge anyway--”

“Oh no you don’t,” Ratchet interrupted as he reached out with his free servo to catch Rodimus’s shoulder, tugging it back towards him. Rodimus squirmed, putting up a half-afted attempt to escape, but by the time Ratchet had him on his back and trapped under the medic’s bulk, Rodimus relaxed.

“Come on, Ratch, that’s not fair.” Rodimus’s lips curled into a sly grin as his knee came up to rasp against Ratchet’s crotch. “You know I can’t say no to you when you have me pinned down.”

“Nice try, but I’ve fragged you enough times tonight that that won’t distract me,” Ratchet insisted. The sultry façade fell away with a huff of Rodimus’s vents.

“Now that’s definitely not fair.”

“I don’t play fair. Now come on, spit it out.”

Rodimus’s spoilers gave a brief nervous flutter against the berth as he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment.

“Ok, fine, but you can’t judge me for it since you’re the one insisting I say it outloud.”

Ratchet gave him a disbelieving look in response, and with an exasperated sigh Rodimus looked up at the ceiling as he steeled himself like a mech facing his impending doom.

“Is Optimus a better frag than me?”

Ratchet blinked, his audials resetting, waiting for the punchline. But none came as Rodimus gave another half-sparked squirm.

“Seriously?”

“I told you it was dumb,” Rodimus muttered, optics only briefly flitting to Ratchet’s face before they moved away.

“But it bothers you enough that you kept almost asking,” Ratchet pointed out, almost more to himself as his processor got to work trying to piece out the bewildering puzzle in front of him. “You looking for a ranked list, kid?”

Rodimus rolled his optics, as if it was Ratchet being the ridiculous one here, and said, “No, it’s not—well, yes, that would be kind of hilarious, but no. I know that the whole sexy Prime power thing would muddle the criteria involved.”

That got an amused chuckle out of Ratchet.

“Primus forbid a ranked list of mechs I’ve fragged have unfair criteria,” Ratchet teased, but he kept it soft since Rodimus’s frame still held tension. He couldn’t help shifting his weight to one arm so he could reach up to run his knuckles along Rodimus’s cheek, bringing the Prime’s gaze back to him. “But that’s not what this is about.”

Rodimus frowned and, slowly, shook his helm.

“Guess not, no.”

It seemed so wrong to see the usually boisterous and confident captain look so cowed, so—so unsure. Self-conscious even. Self-doubting.

It only took a moment to imagine sharing a title with Optimus to guess where that might be coming from.

Ratchet’s spark ached in a way he couldn’t rightly label as being due to the Prime beneath him, or due to the Rodimus beneath him.

After a moment, Ratchet sighed as he pushed up onto his knees where he straddled Rodimus’s waist and sat back on his heels, watching the way that Rodimus stared up at him. “Listen,” Ratchet started, his digits smoothing across Rodimus’s abdomen, “if I could just give you a straight forward answer, I would. But you’ve fragged mechs before me, haven’t you?”

“Obviously” Rodimus agreed, not embarrassed by the admission despite the way his servos were tentative as they settled on Ratchet’s knees. “Maybe not as many as you, old mech, but more than enough.”

“Then you know it’s not as clean cut as better or worse. If I just said sure, you’re better than Optimus, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

Rodimus’s lips pressed together before nodding.

“Yeah, I know. Again, I already told you it was a dumb question.”

Ratchet’s servos strayed to Rodimus’s chest, aware of all the mechanics that lay beneath it between him and the Prime’s spark.

“Course it is. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need an answer.” Ratchet took a moment to consider his next words carefully, aware of the thin ice they were walking on and the spark beneath his palm. “The aura – the draw to you because you’re a Prime is the same, certainly. I won’t deny that.” Rodimus nodded slightly, optics zeroed in on Ratchet, as if waiting for a striking blow. With another in-vent, Ratchet continued, “But beyond that, it’s not really a matter of being ‘better’ because interfacing with Optimus was completely different.”

Rodimus’s lips pursed as he parroted back, “‘Different,’” looking utterly unimpressed.

And Ratchet couldn’t help the slight curling of his mouth.

“Don’t you give me attitude. You wanted the truth, and that’s the truth.”

“Just seems like the easy way out.”

Ratchet shrugged as he let his digits stray, trailing them down the emblem on Rodimus’s chest to trace the midline of his abdominal plating.

“It does sound cliché, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”

Rodimus’s servos squeezed Ratchet’s knees as his plating shuddered ever so slightly under Ratchet’s digit tips.

“Fine, guess I’ll have to just ask more specific questions then,” Rodimus said, acting put-upon about the whole thing, and already that shade of theatrics was an improvement in Ratchet’s optics. The sly look pulling at his expression was endearing as he asked, “Tell me something that’s better about fragging with me than with Optimus.”

There was no possible way for Ratchet to keep from snorting, bowing his helm to try to stifle it only to have it break free when Rodimus smacked his knee.

“What?” Rodimus demanded. Ratchet shook his helm as he bent forward, moving his servo from Rodimus’s middle to his collar.

“Nothing. Just should have known,” Ratchet said as he grasped the edge of Rodimus’s collar tightly to yank him up, pulling him into a kiss that Rodimus was quick to melt into. Not that Ratchet lingered for long, pulling away as he purred teasingly, “You’re a glutton for praise, after all.”

Ratchet deserved the dentae sinking into his bottom lip for the comment.

“Jerk.”

After running his glossa along his lip to soothe the slight ache from Rodimus’s retaliation, Ratchet pushed back up to peer down at his berthmate. It was only because Ratchet knew he had burned through the divinely inspired desire earlier that he could deduce the warming of his spark had nothing to do with Primehood.

“Optimus and I only interfaced a couple dozen times.”

Rodimus blinked up at him. And then continued to blink at him before finally managing to say, “What?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, a Prime’s aura doesn’t work on himself. While he riled all of us up, Optimus only ever had his naturally forged interface drive,” Ratchet explained. His digits went back to work, tracing the edges of Rodimus’s plating along his sides. However, the smile on his face slowly faded as he continued, “And he wasn’t much in the mood, what with leading an army at war. So it was a rare that he would come to me for something like this.”

The younger Prime’s expression softened.

“I guess the circumstances weren’t great.”

“Not particularly.” Ratchet’s servo drifted to Rodimus’s hips to find the seams of his interface panels. “I still welcomed those moments, but ultimately there’s something lost when you have to relearn your partner’s frame every time you come together. Considering how often he got slagged and rebuilt, that was usually literally.”

It only took a couple taps for Rodimus to open for Ratchet. While the conversation surely wasn’t particularly stimulating for the Prime’s array, his valve was still wet from their earlier couplings.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“I’m just proving a point,” Ratchet insisted as he swirled his digits in the mess of Rodimus’s valve. “We’ve already fragged more times that Optimus and I did over the span of the entire war, which means you’ve gotten a pretty good feel for my frame and what gets me off.” Ratchet’s tone was casual, as if his digits weren’t pressing into Rodimus’s well-used valve with ease, slicked by the mixture of lubricant and transfluid. Rodimus’s mouth gaped open as Ratchet curled his digits and on his first try found the hypersensitive bundle of receptors at the front of his valve wall, a weak gasp tumbling from kiss-bruised lips. There was no hiding the self-satisfied grin from Ratchet’s face. “And vice versa. I’ve fragged you enough now that I could find your hot spots while I was in recharge.”

Rodimus’s optics brightened and he grinned.

“Frag yeah. Pretty sure I could get you off faster though.”

Ratchet chuckled as he let his digits massage the bundle and watched Rodimus’s frame arch away from the berth and down against his servo.

“Than I could get you off? Or than Optimus could get me off?”

Rodimus hummed as his optics offlined, though it was unclear if it was due to being lost in pleasure or thought. Ultimately though, after groaning softly, he managed, “Both. Definitely both.”

His whole frame jerked when Ratchet’s free servo moved to press his thumb into Rodimus’s spike sheath, teasing the spike tip that had yet to fully emerge.

“Well, you’re right about one of those things.”

One of Rodimus’s optics onlined, and his grin was frankly goofy looking as he said victoriously, “You think I can get you off faster than Optimus can.”

With a small shrug, Ratchet continued his ministrations, quietly enjoying the way he could toy with Rodimus’s frame with such ease, knowing it – knowing him – so intimately.

He did notice though how Rodimus’s valve clenched around him with the revelation though, and how his spike finally pressurized free of his sheath.

“Is his spike bigger than mine?”

That caught Ratchet off guard, ripping a full-frame laugh from him. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not asking you to draw me a picture,” Rodimus insisted as his hips started to pump on Ratchet’s digits, seeking even more stimulation. The grin on his face gave away his own humor. “Just want to know if, you know. He’s proportional down there.”

Ratchet flicked his gaze down to Rodimus’s spike – still garishly painted, but it was endearing to him now in how very Rodimus it was, and the ridges and texture were at least tasteful and felt incredible in his valve – before looking back up at Rodimus’s face.

“He’s bigger than you.”

Rodimus groaned a very unsexy groan as he flopped onto the berth, grousing, “Come on, Ratchet, you can’t just say that!”

“You asked,” Ratchet pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but that’s something you lie about,” Rodimus insisted, pouting, and Ratchet had to resist the urge to lean down and either kiss the Prime or bite at his chin in chastisement.

“Should have known better than to think I’d lie.” Despite Rodimus’s grumbling, his spike pulsed under the brush of Ratchet’s knuckles, twitching when he thumbed the sensitive sensors just under the head. “Besides, I usually prefer spikes like yours anyway.”

Rodimus’s valve clenched around his digits again and his spike fully pressurized with a throb.

“Yeah?” Rodimus prompted and Ratchet chuckled as he grasped Rodimus’s spike.

“Glutton.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rodimus managed as his cooling fans kicked up another gear. “I’m a glutton for praise and you like using it against me, so just tell me how much you like my spike so we can both get what we want, would you?”

“You make a strong argument.” Ratchet took one more moment to just enjoy the Prime’s frame pressing into his servos, seeking out the pleasure he provided, before explaining, “If Optimus was spiking then I had to be loosened up beforehand. There was simply no getting around it, no matter how much I might want it hard and fast. But with a spike like yours?” Ratchet gave said spike a couple good pulls as Rodimus gazed up at him expectantly. Ratchet gave him a lecherous grin. “We can skip the niceties and get the damn thing done and done right.”

Transfluid beaded at the tip of Rodimus’s spike as he groaned and his optics flared.

“Primus, Ratch,” Rodimus managed. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“It’s a gift.”

“And mechs call me intolerable.”

Ratchet chuckled as he leaned in close again, but just enough to brush his nose with Rodimus’s, making sure to pull away before the Prime could steal a breathless kiss.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to insult me.”

The servo snapping up to drag Ratchet down had been unexpected and there was no denying Rodimus when their lips met. But even when the Prime tipped his helm back to try to suck down more cool air, his servo held firm, keeping Ratchet close as his optics cycled, staring up at the medic.

“What’s different about this?” Rodimus asked, voice still strained from arousal but softer now, his optics discerning. His servo tightened on the back of Ratchet’s neck, holding him close. “Not better, just – just different.”

Ratchet’s spark thudded in his chest.

“I found comfort with Optimus,” Ratchet admitted, sure that the humor was softening, and with its waning went what little youth his face still held. “We came from a similar time and place, and we’ve grown and aged together, seen many of the same horrible things together. So it was comforting with him. It was safe. We knew each other too well to hide anything.”

Ratchet’s servos had slowed their attentions, but Rodimus didn’t seem to mind or even notice. Not with the intensity of his focus on Ratchet.

“And with me?”

“And with you, well—Primus strike me where I stand, but I actually have fun with you.” Ratchet’s chuckle rang with self-deprecation when Rodimus’s optics widened at that. “I realize that sounds small in comparison, but it’s easy to forget sometimes that just because my youth is long gone doesn’t mean that brat I used to be isn’t still kicking around in this old spark of mine desperate to have some fun.”

Rodimus still stared up at him with wide, over-bright optics.

And then he was pushing up from the berth, shoving Ratchet up and over, ignoring Ratchet’s startled complaints until Rodimus had fully turned the tables, sprawling Ratchet on his back and straddling his broad hips and pinning his servos next to his helm.

“What’s gotten into you--?!”

“Open up,” Rodimus insisted as his valve dragged across the panel separating it from Ratchet’s spike. “I need to ride you so fragging hard, Ratch.”

The quiet rumble of lust that Ratchet had harbored while teasing Rodimus’s frame roared to life all at once, as if it was just another flame under Rodimus’s command, burning Ratchet up from the inside out. There was simply no way to deny Rodimus. Ratchet’s spike barely had a moment to start pressurizing before Rodimus settled his valve over it, giving Ratchet nowhere to pressurize but directly into soft wet heat.

“By the Unmaker,” Ratchet ex-vented as his helm fell back against the berth, optics offlining for that moment as pleasure assaulted his frame so suddenly. Rodimus’s digits entangled with his own where they were pinned. “You have to tell me what I said so I can use it again.”

Rodimus’s laugh was light and beautiful and his hips began to lift and fall.

“It’s like you said before,” Rodimus said as his servos squeezed and pressed against Ratchet’s. He was already setting a quick pace, panting and groaning as he followed through on his word and rode Ratchet in earnest. “I’m a sucker for your praise.”

Even as Ratchet was finding his frame being pulled into Rodimus’s passion, the Prime’s valve working hard to drag an overload from him and winning the fight, he managed to say, “Wasn’t praise, just an answer to your question.”

Rodimus’s lips pulled up into a wide and easy grin and his optics were bright with emotions that Ratchet couldn’t rightly pinpoint.

“Oh, believe me, Ratchet, it was praise. If I can make a bucket of bolts like you feel young, I have to be doing something right.”

Ratchet let out a noise halfway between a grunt and a startled laugh. “Braggart,” he managed as his servos tugged where Rodimus held them, hoping to reach down and grasp the Prime by the hips. But Rodimus’s hold stayed firm and Ratchet easily relented to the casual show of control.

“Now that one I don’t hear as often,” Rodimus teased. His frame moved fluidly, rolling into each grind of his valve meeting Ratchet’s plating, his spike engulfed in glorious silken protomesh before Rodimus would lift away for another roll of his hips. The low whine that caught in Rodimus’s vocalizer had Ratchet’s hips jerking up to meet that next roll. “Fraaaag. Honestly, I dunno how you do it, but you manage to make me feel young again.”

“Oh? Are you actually acknowledging your age for once?”

Dentae found Ratchet’s bottom lip yet again and, truthfully, the brief, sharp pain only had him groaning against Rodimus’s mouth.

“Shut up.”

“Captains first.”

There was nothing quite like the rumbling of Rodimus’s frame when he laughed and how it transferred through his valve, calipers rippling around Ratchet.

“Primus, neither of us is ever going to shut up then.”

“Let go of my servos and I’ll see if I can’t at least keep your mouth busy with just my name.”

Rodimus’s helm bumped against Ratchet’s as he heaved with giggles, optics shut tight and the protomesh wrinkling at the corners of them from his overwhelming glee, pausing in his ride while his valve fluttered with the rest of his frame.

And Ratchet’s spark felt lighter than it had in literal ages.

[achilleid]

-- Orpheus’ Epilogue--

EISLIE

The iron gates were shut, words emblazoned on the sigil at its center reading bold and clear:

SALUS IN ARDUIS

It was the same words that had been written in neat, capitalized font on the single website Eislie had found for the college that claimed to lie within. From the bars, she could just barely make out the shape of buildings over the crest of a hill and down a dusty dirt road.

What she could not make out though, was a call box or any other means to let someone know she was here.

Which was typical. Any college that couldn’t even bother to update its website probably didn’t think much about simple, practical things like gate accessibility. The entire website, still up in a tab on Eislie’s phone, looked like something a middle schooler from 1997 would slap together on Geosites. Its background was a tiled with watermarked symbols of the school's emblem, a typically greek-esque laurel wreath around a barely discernible shield containing more symbols. Other than a brief box of text detailing the schools foundation date and location, Eislie had not found one contact number or email address. So it was safe to say the administration was stuck in the 90s too... or long gone.

A quick search however showed the school’s doors were still open and with a humble, yet respectable enrollment count of roughly 143 students and a staff of roughly eleven professors, not counting any assistants. There was even an on campus dormitory, a track and a respectable sports field, though the grainy photos on the website were from the early 1900s or perhaps even later.

A breeze cut the heat from the tendrils of August that clung still to the early September air, churning the otherwise stifling warmth into something tolerable. Eislie frowned, blowing a strand of brown hair from her face and turning back to look at her Uber driver, who was waiting patiently in the front seat of their sedan. 

That she had even been able to find an Uber driver was a miracle in itself, the small town of Kilead the only sign of life within a several mile radius. That Eislie had never heard of it before, despite having lived barely an hour out of the way, was another peculiarity. It was as if, without even actively trying, both Kilead and Anthea College were absent from the notice of the rest of the world. Content to ignore and be ignored.

Even her driver had been perplexed at her directions, having to search his GPS numerous times for the town and eventually having to settle with dropping a pin in the nearest vicinity. What had started as a quaint ride however, Eislie could tell was quickly becoming a troublesome one. The driver poked his head out of his rolled down window, floppy blond hair carried up in a gust of wind.

“Yo— so you good? You want me to stick ‘round?”

He was no doubt, fresh outta high school, spending his last summer making a few quick bucks before starting his own college career. Decidedly not here by the way he wrinkled his nose at the uniforms and old-fashioned looking brick buildings on the website Eislie showed him at the beginning of the trip.

Eislie had hoped for a short visit, a quick stop and drop-- Hey you guys sent me a schedule and an alarmingly expensive bill, but I’m pretty sure I have never gone here so check your files. Please and thanks.

The letter and its envelope were tucked into her book bag, slung over both shoulders to keep from putting too much weight on either side and worsening her limp. That limp was also the reason for the Uber driver to begin with.

“No… I’ll be okay. I think I saw a local cab company when I was searching things out, so you can uh— go.”

Eislie had a feeling she’d regret this decision, even as the driver beamed, happy to be released. He gave her a short wave and rolled up his window, backing out from the shaded drive at breakneck speed. The sound of the revving engine sent a shudder down Eislie’s back. It had only been three years since her own accident, the one that had left her with a limp, a head full of fractured and faded memories and massive, sudden migraines. 

The doctors had said she was a marvel, recovering her facilities and basic functions the fastest they had seen in an auto-related head injury. Eislie had long since grown past being self-conscious of the small burst of scar tissue on her left temple, receding her hairline right along the puffy skin. It was more annoying now than anything to have to recount the story of how she got it.

Long legging or jeans kept wandering eyes from the surgical scars on her leg where they had put her right shinbone back together and from the rather ugly and impressive one where the compound fracture had originated.

Eislie was grateful for the head injury for taking the memories of the impact and the pain with it.

The drive up to the buildings did not look overly long and she had a collapsible cane prepared should her leg start giving her trouble. The problem was, and remained, the gate.

Frowning, Eislie stepped forward, drawing her palm over the latin motto, running her thumb over the edge of the metal and noting the green smudge of barely-there moss on her skin.

This was a bad idea. Maybe if she acted quick she could get the Uber back and just go home. Send a strongly worded letter again and hope this time they stop sending her past-due notices and speeding her anxiety into hyperdrive. 

Granted, how many Eislie Bishop’s were there in the world? It was entirely possible she had applied for classes at Anthea once, back in the dark space where her memories were fuzzy and faded like an under-exposed photograph. When she asked her mother on the subject, she’d brushed off her concern with stilted, clipped words. Not her usual response to Eislie’s attempts to get reassurance. 

Leave it alone. Just ignore it. Miranda had said.

Eislie sighed and turned from the gate. Her foot caught her ankle, shorting the distance needed to lift passed. In an instant, her right leg fluttered and gave out, a swear managing to spit from her lips before she toppled backwards. Eislie twisted to grab onto the bars of the gate for support, another shocked shriek coming from her throat as the gates swung open, dragging her through the dirt.

Eislie blinked, pushing up onto her hands and knees and glaring down the open iron gate with a withering stare.

“No witnesses...” she murmured to herself, taking the opportunity to slip off her bag and take her cane out. Clearly she had misjudged her own clumsiness level for the day, a mistake she would not be making again.

Eislie brushed the dirt from her jeans and used her cane for support to rise back up to her feet. Turning one last time, she looked at the open gate and the road out from it. She shrugged and left it, minding her footing as she began the slow trek down the path and towards the college.

--

By the time she reached the crest of the hill, coming down onto the beautifully tended grounds of Anthea College, it had become obvious to Eislie that either the college boasted the most unfriendly assortment of students she had ever seen-- or she was genuinely not meant to be here.

The students were of a variety of ages, looking anywhere from late teens to late twenties, all wearing the same smart looking dark blazers and either slacks or a skirt in matching shades. Each jacket bore the same heraldry she had seen crowned in a laurel from the website, embroidered in gold, blue and red. 

Each student also bore the same slack jawed expression at the sight of her, voices erupting into hushed whispers, eyes widened and some faces even paling. Eislie had never had such a welcome in her entire life, even when her scars were new and ugly and standing out red and angry across her skin. Not even when she was in her wheelchair, not even when she was relearning how to drink without a straw and constantly dribbling on her clothes.

Eislie, at first, did her best to keep her head high, eyes ahead, but after a constant stream of students taking wide steps from her approach and chatter breaking out the moment she passed she found it harder and harder to keep her eyes from her feet instead.

The buildings looked to all have been built around the same period, sturdy and well-made with rough, brown bricks. Ivy dominated the side of one building, it’s double doors were dated but handsome, the dark wood contrasting against its own bright brass hinges. A small plated sign left of the door read in plain lettering-- Administrative Building. If that wasn’t the office she needed, Eislie knew someone could probably point her in the right direction… and anything was preferable than continuing to be among so many gawking expressions.

Eislie carefully made her way up the small set of stairs, a slight ache making her lean a bit more onto her cane. The walk had not been unpleasant, but it had been quite a ways further than she had thought it would be.

Strangely, all feeling of exhaustion left her as she came to stand fully in front of the arched doorway. Eislie all at once felt something warm in her chest, a feeling of contentment, of comfort. It was as if, all at once, this was no stranger, but a familiar face. A peaceful place. A home. Eislie reached out and touched the curved handle and jumped when static sparked from her fingertips.

The air was not dry.

Eislie slowly reached for the door again, settling her palm onto the handle and her thumb upon the latch and found her thoughts forming together into a single phrase—

Welcome home...

But the voice was not of her own mind. It was softer, indiscernible in its gender or age. Eislie felt her eyelids droop and her body lighten as she pressed down the latch and pushed forward.

The door did not budge.

Before Eislie could even think to pull instead, the door abruptly opened outward, the heavy wood edge hitting into her and knocking her backwards.

Her reflexes had been enough to avoid injury, but not to avoid stumbling. Eislie dropped her cane, ready to try and break her fall backwards unto her bum and hoping to all the stars above that she did not topple right down the stairs.

But the impact never came. An arm roped around her waist and with it’s owners assistance, she righted herself within the circle of their grip.

The young man had held tightly to the opposite door handle to leverage them both, hoisting her hard against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry!” Eislie burst out, desperately avoiding eye contact as she looked around for her dropped cane.

“I wasn’t paying attention, I apologize. I—” 

The young man stopped, his own gaze taking in her appearance with quick successive glances. He had sharp grey eyes, framed by dark brows, both of which were slowly rising in the same look of bewilderment his fellow students had shared. In the grapple, a few strands of his smoothly gelled back hair had fallen into his face. He was handsome, that much went without saying, with a sharp nose that curved downward slightly and high cheekbones. Very Glory Days Gregory Peck, if Gregory’s Peck’s mother had been from Asia. The man he would become had not quite yet completely overtaken the boyish looks of his face.

In short, Eislie had no issue with his close proximity. A smile spread over her lips, rude manners of these Anthea kids be damned.

“Mutual apologies?” Eislie prompted when the young man did not speak again. He released her quickly, his expression not one of confusion anymore, but certainly not one of friendliness. Despite that, he picked up her cane and handed it back to her.

“Thanks! I’m actually looking for the enrollment office, I think I’ve been receiving someone else's mail and wow. They were not kidding when they called this place exclusive. Like, ‘could you add a couple more zero’s to the end of that balance’ right?”

“It’s inside.” the young man said curtly, stepping out of the way and holding the door open for her. He would not look at her, in fact, Eislie noted, his eyes were fixed on her cane. She could hardly blame him, it was a flashy design and had coloring as shiny and luminescent as an oil spill. 

“Style and function, right?” Eislie said, trying to break the tension as she gave the cane a little wiggle. The young man looked at her then, something pained in the way he turned his lips down into a frown.

Yikes. Not her best material, she guessed. Eislie stepped through the doorway and turned back,

“Do you—”

But before she could get the question out, the young man had released the heavy door and it fell shut.

So much for hospitality.

[choochoomotherslagger]

((also if yall wanna know what train got in the Deck of Bad Decisions (while i figure out what specifically to lose) here u go:

Throne: Your character now owns of a decent patch of unclaimed land with a good supply of energon and a fancy, functional building (castle, mansion, fortress, whatever) somewhere on their Cybertron. Unfortunately, that land and that building are full of monsters. They’ll have to clear the area out before they can lay claim to it. Keep in mind that they’ll be the leading mech in that area and can no longer depend on higher authority figures for assistance. Attempting to abdicate or transfer rule for any reason except their own death will result in nature slowly taking over and destroying the space they once ruled. Leadership is a heavy burden to bear. 

Euryale (x2): For the next real-life month (or longer), your character has the reflexes and willpower of an abandoned puppet. Any time they are about to get hit, need to react in a timely manner to a moving object, or want to resist a suggestion they don’t like, roll 1d6. Unless you roll a 1 or a 6, they take the full force of the impact, fail to appropriately handle the moving item, or are successfully persuaded. (Note: Not applicable to interface-related situations.)

(we’re not sure if this means 2 months or twice as shitty willpower)

Idiot: Permanently forget how to do something your character could and often did do well, no matter what they do to relearn it. Forget how to read music, use a phase shifter, handle a sword in combat, etc. Time to learn a new and possibly compensatory replacement skill! Draw an additional card if you want. 

Fool: Your character instantaneously loses one very important memory and cannot recover it without outside information and assistance. The memory can’t be recovered via mnemosurgery, telepathy, use of a cortical psychic patch, or similar activities. On the plus side, you get to draw another card. 

Moon: The greyfaces feel generous today! Uh, maybe. You will receive one to three wishes, depending on what I roll when you draw the card, and must make them all in as many IC minutes. Beware: I will be performing additional rolls to determine whether the wish goes well, goes bad, or fails. The more complex or potentially damaging the wish is, the higher the chance of snapback… 

Gem: A sizable loose pile of whatever your timeline considers currency suddenly appears at their feet. 50,000 shanix or credits, or 50 high quality energon cubes, or goods equaling that value in their barter society. Packaging, transportation, and storage is all your problem. ))

[thelastpitchbender]

Memory | Chapter 3

Summary: Link must relearn how to be a Champion before he defeats Calamity Ganon – but first, he needs to stop setting fires and backflipping off of cliffs. It’s too bad that his attempts to be a responsible hero keep getting interrupted by dumb things like owing people money, remembering hardly anything about who he is, and Yiga Clan assassins trying to kill him.

Rating: T for language, violence, dark stuff, and dumb, bad humor.

Read on: FanFiction | AO3

Chapter index here.

Chapter 3

This Is Bananas!

“Knew what?” Molo hissed, staring wide-eyed at the Yiga.

Link frowned. “Um…” Well, he was right about the presence of enemies. But he hadn’t suspected the Yiga Clan. This behavior was totally out of the ordinary for them –

“Get down!” Link yelled as twin arrows came flying at him. He twisted out of the way. Not fast enough – he registered a sting in his right arm as an arrowhead grazed him.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he fired a shot at the Yiga archer that was hanging in midair. The arrow flew through empty space; the archer had teleported somewhere out of his line of sight, cackling maniacally.

Goddess cursed duplex bows. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on one of those –

Link blocked a slash from a demon carver with his bow. He blinked, and he was face-to-face with the Yiga who had attacked him. Link snarled and kicked his assailant back. The Yiga crouched and vanished in a puff of orange smoke, a blood-red rune burning in the space where the mask had been. The impassiveness of the masks unnerved him, and he swore to not let himself be taken by surprise again.

Link ran to where Breen, Kish, and Ashe were tied up. Breen was saying something, her face twisted up in fear. Link couldn’t hear her over the blood thrumming in his ears. He fumbled at the knots one-handed until he could finally pull the rope free and help Breen and Ashe to their feet. He was about to push them into the stable when the crunch of dirt sounded behind him.

Link whipped around, once again face-to-face with the Yiga footsoldier. He stepped back, stowing his bow and drawing his claymore into a threatening slash. Steel met steel in an ear-splitting clang, and before he knew it, Link was staring at a broken, jagged piece of metal on the ground.

He stumbled back on reflex. The lethal spikes of the demon carver sliced through the air where his throat had been not a second ago. Link threw the now-useless claymore handle at the Yiga’s mask, causing the assassin to shriek a curse and teleport away.

Link caught his breath and assessed the situation. All of the Yiga had vanished. Except over by the patio – some dumb footsoldier had gotten his weapon stuck in the fence. With a wordless shout of frustration, Link raised his bow. He pulled the string back –

And the top arm snapped clean off of the rest of the bow where the other footsoldier had hit it.

It was a miracle it hadn’t smacked him in the face, Link reflected in a daze. Then he squinted at the air above the Yiga. Was that – ?

An octo balloon popped, and a wooden crate came crashing down onto the Yiga’s head. The footsoldier screamed in pain, then teleported away, leaving the demon carver stuck in the fence.

Shamae emerged from behind a tree. “Thank you for the balloons, mister!” she shrieked.

Link allowed himself a few seconds to rake his hands down his face, letting the scream pent up inside him dissipate. Thank the Goddess. She was safe. They were all safe. Right?

Molo. And Breen, and Kish, and Ashe.

He turned around, seeing with no small measure of relief that they were all fine. Molo’s broadsword was bloodied once again, but they had all taken hits.

Upon noticing the cuts and bruises on the stable dwellers, Link felt sick, his relief fading like the light of the sun was now. Dusk was quickly sweeping over the woodlands, but he could still see there was blood soaking into the dirt. He doubted if much of it was Yiga blood. If only he’d gotten to the stable sooner, been able to protect them better –

Shamae tugged at the hem of his tunic. “Thanks for saving us, Mister Link.”

Link gave her a tired smile, neck aching as he craned it down. “Hey, you helped. I knew those balloons would come in handy.”

Shamae beamed. If only she could learn to control the volume of her voice as well as she could defend her stable.

Link shook off the darkness clouding his thoughts and went to go help the others. Breen was sweeping up shattered remnants of what looked like a fancy plate, while Kish was helping Ashe over to a stool by the stable’s cooking pot out front. It took Link a while to find Molo, who was leaning against a crate at the other side of the stable. Probably to avoid getting roped into cleaning, he thought with some amusement.

Although it was still warm outside, the temperature was starting to dip along with the setting sun. Link crouched by the cooking pot and pulled out a piece of flint to light the wood underneath it. He hesitated when he realized that he didn’t have a metal weapon to strike against it anymore. What to do, what to do? He cast his gaze around, until he saw a discarded duplex bow sitting in the dust about ten feet away from him.

Link brightened. He pushed himself to his feet and snatched up the bow, briefly admiring its unorthodox curves and ribbons fluttering off of it. Maybe he wasn’t supposedto be on the side of the Yiga, but their bows were cool, if a little fragile.

He rolled a chunk of red chuchu jelly over to where the flint was, then nocked an arrow and took aim. As he let the arrow fly, it somehow split in two, both new arrows striking the jelly, which burst into flame and lit the pot. He didn’t know how the bow did that, and he wasn’t about to go questioning it. Sheikah magic, probably.

“Young man!” Ashe shouted, almost startled off his stool. “There is no need to be a showoff!”

Oh. Link had forgotten he was there. He winced. “Sorry.”

Breen had just finished sweeping up the broken crockery and wandered over to the cooking pot when Link’s stomach let out a huge grumble. “But I just ate,” he muttered to himself, a little embarrassed. It wasn’t like that fight with the Yiga had really been long enough to work up an appetite…

Too late, Link noticed the amused glimmer in Breen’s eyes. She still looked pale and shaken and she had a shallow cut high on her forehead, but a smile pulled at her lips when she said, “I’ve got some fresh ingredients in the stable if you want to make something.”

“Um, sure,” said Link. He scratched the back of his head. “I’ll make some for everyone, how’s that?”

Breen grinned. “Wait here.”

Link sighed as she dashed inside. Why did he volunteer for things?

Breen emerged with some choice cuts of meat, bottles of milk, and bundles of wheat. Well, this was better than expected. Link usually settled for roasting whatever he could forage from the woods, and while that worked out fine, he was getting pretty tired of mushrooms. He rarely took the time to buy wheat or milk.

Link cooked the meat for a bit before adding the milk, wheat, and some seasonings he’d wheedled out of Breen to the pot. He stirred the soup, whistling some vague tune from the edge of his memory. Cooking was something familiar to him. Like everything else, it had taken him a while to get the hang of it after first waking up, but he knew what he was doing. It was comforting to know that somewhere, somehow, someone had taught him how to cook.

The denizens of the stable started to gather around the cooking pot as the evening’s gentle breeze wafted the soup’s aroma around. Kish clapped Link on the back in thanks, startling him into almost dropping the ladle into the pot.

Before long, they were all gathered around the pot, silently eating. The atmosphere had slowly grown tense once they were all sitting still. Breen made a few attempts at lightening the mood by making vague comments about the weather and the quality of the meal, but they all fizzled out like embers in rain.

He knew that they were all scared. The Yiga Clan were nothing but a scary myth to most people of Hyrule, single-mindedly bent on Link’s destruction. Innocents were rarely collateral. But the Yiga taking his friends and associates hostage, that struck a nerve with him.

A sudden cold fear sank into his bones, and his gaze darted between Kish and Ashe. He knew Breen liked him, and Molo didn’t live here, but he wasn’t so sure about the other two. Would they find out? Anxiety clenched his gut, and it was all he could do to not run away right that second.

Would they ever know that Link was the reason they were attacked?

And what would they do if they found out? Would they cast him out? In this vast, empty land, the people who liked him were all he had left. He couldn’t wander the wilds alone forever. But he couldn’t let them pay the price for his failure to take out the Calamity.

Feeling about ready to scream, Link breathlessly excused himself from the silent, tense dinner.

Link stomped over to the shore of the pond, pulling off all his gear and tossing it to the side. After having raked a hand through his hair many times over the last few hours, he had determined that he really, really needed a bath. It had been a few days, at least. Or more. More? Link searched back in his recent memory. By Hylia, had it been fivedays since he’d found a stream or pond to bathe in? He shuddered.

He peeled off his tunic and inspected it for any tears. He didn’t think there would be any, most of the monsters he had fought recently had used blunt weapons… He scowled as he spotted a small rip at the bottom hem. Link sighed, absently folding the tunic. He would get to mending it later.

The ancient greaves had come off next. He had put his life on the line so many times to gather enough parts to manufacture the armor. When he had hauled the sack of gears and screws and other dumb parts into the Akkala Ancient Tech Lab, he’d been aching all over from where Guardian beams had grazed him. “This armor had better look as cool as you say it will,” he’d shouted at Robbie, who had only shrugged.

The greaves hadn’t disappointed. They were made of a strange, light yet strong metal that Link only knew was the same material the gears and screws were made of. Whorled designs that called to mind the walls of shrines glowed faintly orange, and try as he might, he could never figure out why or how they lit up.

Link hauled his armor into the pond with him, then sat and relaxed for a bit. The air had gained a chilly evening bite, but the water hadn’t lost its warmth from earlier in the day yet.

After washing himself off and giving his clothes a cursory scrub (he would get to actually cleaning them later, he promised) he sat on the shore of the pond and pulled out his tiny kit of needle and thread from his belt. With adept movements, he threaded the needle and began to mend the tear in his tunic.

It was odd because Link had never thought that a knight would know how to sew. Maybe he was wrong, because he couldn’t exactly remember that much about being a knight, but there was something strange about a needle feeling more or less as comfortable in his hands as a spear did. He hadn’t even known he could sew until a bokoblin had gotten lucky and cut a big slash in the back of his tunic. Mending it was a no-brainer for Link; he hadn’t even thought about what he was doing. Princess Zelda had made him the tunic, and Impa had held onto it for a century. Of course he had to repair it.

Link suddenly sighed. He knew why he was getting so absorbed in the events of the recent past. Knowing that someone had taught him mundane tasks such as cooking and sewing was comforting, until he thought about it too hard. One hundred years ago, there had been someone, someone who probably loved him or who he loved, who had taught him these things. And now their name and face had been lost to history.

Link tied off the thread with more force than was necessary. It wasn’t his best work, but it couldn’t be helped. Link had decided to throw himself a pity party, and he would be damned if he let the mending distract him from feeling sorry for himself.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he jerked his head to look over his shoulder out of reflex. He relaxed when he saw Breen, but faint nerves started buzzing in his stomach when he caught the worry and concern in her expression.

Breen chewed on her lip for a second before speaking. “Um…we’re discussing what to do next, you know, because of the Yiga, and…we thought that because of your experience…you should be there.”

She was avoiding looking at the scars on his chest, he realized. At the same time, he also realized that he was still wearing nothing but his shorts.

“Uh, right,” he said lamely. Goddess, this was mortifying.

“I recommend putting some pants on first,” said Breen, faint humor evident in the quirk of her lips. Well, that made one of them who was attempting to cope with the situation in a healthy manner. She turned around and walked back to the cooking pot, leaving Link to stumble around while trying to pull his greaves and tunic back on and rake his damp hair into a presentable state.

Leaving the rest of his gear by the pond, he went to rejoin the stable-dwellers, who were engaged in a quiet, serious conversation. Kish glanced up at his and Breen’s approach. “Link. Good of you to join us.”

Link cast around for something to say. Given that he knew he was the reason they were even having this discussion, everything he could think of sounded insincere. He settled for nodding.

“To sum up what we’ve discussed so far,” Molo drawled from across the fire, “we have no idea why the Yiga attacked us. And we have no idea how to defend ourselves.”

Kish shot Molo an annoyed glare, doubtlessly about to tell him that he wasn’t a resident of the stable.

“You have weapons, and that’s a start,” said Link, cutting Kish off before he could say anything. “A few axes, a bunch of torches, and…a spear.” He felt a twinge of guilt, remembering that he had taken the spear earlier in the day and had no intentions of returning it. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, he reasoned before he let his guilt spiral out of control.

“But how are we supposed to defend ourselves against an enemy who can appear wherever they want?” Kish muttered in frustration. He was propping his forehead on his hand, and Link was privately glad he couldn’t see the expression on Kish’s face.

I know how, Link thought, bitterness almost like a bad taste in his mouth. I leave and never come back.

But how could he possibly convince them of that? How could he get them to believe that he was the Hylian Champion? It wasn’t like he could whip out the sword that seals the darkness as proof that he was over one hundred years old. He wouldn’t believe himself either. Things were just not going his way, were they?

He was startled out of his internal grumbling when he felt Breen whack him on the shoulder. “Link,” she was saying, her voice gently scolding. “I said, can you help us collect weapons from nearby monster camps?”

Link sighed. This was uncharted territory, as far as Yiga tactics went. For all he knew, they could come back tomorrow and this time do much more damage to him and the rest of the stable. His vague discomfort was growing into a sick certainty that he had to leave. Tomorrow, probably.

But, Goddess curse him, what could he say?

“I…probably shouldn’t,” Link managed lamely.

Kish fixed him with a sharp gaze, displeasure evident in the crease between his eyebrows. “And why not? You haven’t had a problem crashing here for the last few weeks.”

Link winced. Ouch. That was uncalled for. Well…maybe it was a little bit called for. But still. Molo was wearing his usual annoyed expression, and while Breen was altogether too nice to ever look angry, there was deep concern in her eyes. There was no way of worming out of this one.

“I might have,” Link began, cautiously gauging the others’ expressions, “made the Yiga Clan angry.”

“Like how angry?” Molo asked. Link shot a glare at him. They all knew how angry, given that they’d shown up to try to kill them.

“Like pretty angry,” said Link. Upon seeing the skeptical looks directed at him, he amended his statement with a sigh. “Okay, fine. Really angry.”

Kish’s face was darkening by the second, like a thundercloud of fury was casting his shadow on him. “And you didn’t think to mention that the entire time you were here?”

A retort was on the tip of his tongue, but not one Kish would like or even believe. Yeah, I thought you were safe because they just want to kill me because I’m the Hylian Champion that’s been dead for a hundred years.

But as Kish muttered under his breath, Link’s combative mood faded. “Reckless,” he was saying. “Endangering my family like that.”

Burning shame sat like a hot coal in Link’s stomach. It was one thing failing all of Hyrule as an abstract concept, but he’d forgotten what it felt like to fail someone you considered a friend. Not since he had fallen at Fort Hateno…

He had to do something. He had to stop the Yiga.

And the only way to do that, he knew with sinking certainty, was to stop the Calamity. To return to that cold, crumbling castle and face the beast.

Baby steps, Link,he scolded himself as anxiety clawed at his insides. “I’ll leave for Gerudo Town tomorrow,” he muttered. It was the logical choice. Riju would know more about what was going on with the Yiga.

“Good,” Kish said darkly, standing up and storming to the stable without so much as a backwards glance. Link looked down at his feet, unable to bear the inevitable expressions of betrayal, judgement, and fear on the faces of his friends.

“Don’t mind my son,” Ashe chuckled. “He thinks he’s so high and mighty.”

Link’s attention snapped to the old man, startled by the faint amusement in his eyes. “But…I led the Yiga right to your stable – “

“Oh, don’t think so highly of yourself,” Ashe scoffed. Link almost grinned despite himself at the irony of his statement. “The Yiga are probably strapped for resources, trapped in a valley in the wasteland like they are. I am sure they wanted us as hostages to get their greedy hands on the raw materials passing through here.”

He knew it wasn’t the reason, but it made a certain amount of sense, he had to admit. “There’s that much stuff that comes through the stable?” Link asked with genuine curiosity. He’d always wondered what were in the crates stacked everywhere at every stable.

Ashe snorted. “Son, a hundred years ago the stables were the richest places in Hyrule, barring the castle itself. They connected raw materials to the fine artisans all over the kingdom. They were home to transport guilds, courier networks, sometimes full regiments of soldiers…” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, maybe lost in recollection. “I believe that this stable in particular was always a popular resting place for pilgrims appealing to the Great Deku Tree.”

Ashe’s words were deeply familiar to Link. He was sure that he’d known this stuff personally at some point. The recollection was hanging at the fuzzy edges of his consciousness, at the tip of his tongue. It was maddening. Had his father been stationed near a stable at one point? Had Link himself worked to guard a merchant traveling with his very expensive wares?

For once, the possibilities afforded him by his missing memories were less scary and more an exercise for his imagination. Transfixed, he prodded Ashe for what came next. “What about after Hyrule’s fall?”

He wasn’t sure what sort of morbid fascination drove him to ask the question, but Ashe gave it serious thought regardless, his hand coming up to stroke his chin. “After the royal family was presumed missing and the Divine Beasts stopped working, the last remnants of the central government operated from Akkala Citadel, I believe.”

Akkala Citadel. In a flash of insight, he vaguely remembered Daruk helping to patch up a cracked wall in the fortress when the Champions had made a brief stop there. Only Daruk and Link had felt comfortable within the stone walls. Mipha had been uncharacteristically antsy, Revali’s feathers had been bristling, and Urbosa had made some comment about how unwelcoming the Citadel was compared to Gerudo Town with a slight sneer in her voice. Creatures of the water, sky, and desert, the lot of them. And Princess Zelda…she never seemed comfortable anywhere, except while researching.

“ – and the stables were the only way for Hyrule’s last general to communicate with the rest of the kingdom,” Ashe was saying. He suddenly stopped and peered closely at Link. “Are you alright?”

Link nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was strange to mourn people you barely remembered, but their absence weighed on him anyway, grief pulling at him like the tides.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about the Yiga so much,” the old man said. “They’re cowards, easily scared off by flashing around a nice sword. And us stable folk can defend ourselves. We always have and we always will.”

Almost against his will, a small smile pulled at his lips at the unexpectedly comforting words. “Thank you, Ashe,” he finally said, surprised at the sincerity he felt. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Ashe smiled a kind, grandfatherly smile that sparked a strange, deep longing within Link. How he wished he could remember his own father or grandfather. He got up and walked over to where his weapons still lay by the pond before he could do anything to embarrass himself. Like cry, maybe.

He hesitated once he picked up the soldier’s spear. The weight of it was familiar in his hands, but his fingers still itched for a broadsword of a very particular weight and balance, and he knew he would never quite be satisfied until he regained the sword he had in his memories.

This time, he didn’t notice Breen approach until she appeared in his peripheral vision. She hesitated, wringing her hands, before asking, “Exactly how did you make the Yiga Clan so angry?”

Link huffed out a breath that could have been a faint laugh, if he were in a better mood. He didn’t have a good lie for this. Great.

“My very existence seems to offend them,” he said mournfully. And that’s the real, honest-to-Goddess truth.

Breen almost looked like she wasn’t going to press the issue, then her lips twisted like she was trying and failing to hold in a smile. “I think your table manners made them angry.”

“My table manners?” Link cried, deeply offended. He was a knight! Surely he hadn’t forgotten everythingabout protocol and courtesy? “All they eat are bananas! What do they need table manners for?”

“You’re changing the subject,” Breen informed him. “I was talking about your table manners and yours alone.”

Link tried to wave her off with a huff, but apparently, he always ate like he hadn’t seen food in weeks. The good-natured argument eventually faded, but the silence that remained was a much more comfortable one than earlier. He watched the weak moonlight flicker across the surface of Pico Pond with the breeze, content to stay silent and avoid dredging up painful memories and starting painful conversations.

But Breen couldn’t stay silent forever. She turned to him, and in a small voice, asked, “Do you think we’ll be okay?”

Link knew he was not included in that group, and the thought pulled at him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you everything that happened,” he said. “But believe me when I say that leaving is the best thing I could do to help.”

Breen sighed, a quiet, defeated sound, and Link made a decision. He picked up the soldier’s spear from his gear at his feet and turned to her. “Take it,” he said, holding it out to her.

Breen’s eyes were wide. “I couldn’t possibly…I don’t know how to – “

Link cut her off firmly. “It’s not hard. Keep a firm grip on it and stab. It has a long enough reach that you can keep any enemies well away from you.” He felt an inkling of frustration when she still didn’t take it. It was herspear in the first place. He couldn’t just walk off with it and keep a clean conscience. He sighed and switched tactics. “You need a weapon to defend yourself and your family. This is the best one you’ve got. Take it.”

He felt immeasurably guilty for taking advantage of her anxiety in that way, but he wanted to be done with this. He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to carry the weights of their lives on his shoulders.

Breen took the spear, an unreadable emotion swimming in her eyes. “Thank you for everything, Link,” she said quietly. Then she walked back toward the stable.

Link looked up at the sky, toward the sliver of a crescent moon rising over the treeline. Then he walked into the stable and collapsed on a bed, not even bothering to remove his greaves. Sleep called out to him like a siren song.

He fell asleep, but his sleep was troubled by nightmares. The red eye of the Yiga Clan, the red eye of Calamity Ganon, the red eye of the blood moon. His ears were full of horrific roaring and the screeching of gears, and his hands were covered in blood.

He’d been a fool, he realized bitterly at some point in the early morning, the third time he’d woken up. He’d been so sure that he would find some peace and solace in the Hebra Mountains, in the badlands, in shirking his duties.

But there would be no peace for him until he defeated the Calamity once and for all.

[stydiasecretsanta]

Faded Into You

Merry Christmas, @stilesssolo!

“Dad, this is the third chipotle you’ve passed!” Stiles yelps, smacking his hand against the window of the cruiser. His father ignores his bleat of protest with a mere glance in Stiles’ direction, speeding past the restaurant and towards Beacon Hills. Stiles sighs, slumping against his seat dejectedly.

“And I told you the first time,” his father replies patiently, “that I have dinner for us at home.”

“But I haven’t had chipotle since August!” protests Stiles in a last ditch attempt to convince his dad to turn around.

“I know for a fact they have Chipotle in D.C., kiddo,” says the sheriff. “You’re gonna have to try another tactic.”

“Were you this stubborn when I left for college?”

“Yes,” his dad says firmly.

Stiles grumbles under his breath, finally giving up in favor of staring at the palm trees outside his window. The flight from D.C. to California always feels much longer than it is, probably because he’s so desperate to get off the plane. Beacon Hills is by no means his favorite town in the world, but it’s still his favorite place to be. It’s where his real bed is, where Scott is, and it’s the place where he knows the streets so well, it’s almost like he’d paved them himself.

Plus, it’s Christmas, and while Stiles hates the fact that California doesn’t have snow, he much prefers their weather to the cold. The further away he is from freezing, the better.

They pass Scott’s street, and Stiles looks wistfully down the road to where he knows his best friend is. Scott’s been back for a week, and Stiles itches to drive over and hunker down in their favorite bean bag chairs, play video games, and talk about nothing. They’re nineteen-years-old, but some things never change, and Stiles knows that for him and Scott, stuffing their faces with cheese puffs is going to be one of those things.

But moments later, they’re turning down Woodbine Lane, and then they’re in front  of the house and suddenly Stiles doesn’t miss Chipotle or Chick Fil A or In ‘N Out. Everything is exactly as it was when he left in August, but somehow, having been gone for so many months, he’s filled with a love for this house that he hadn’t felt since his mom died.

So much had happened in this house, and around this house, and because of this house. God, he’s glad to be home.

“Home sweet home,” Stiles says as his dad unlocks the door.

“Go put your suitcase down in your room,” his dad instructs. “I’ll call you when dinner’s warm, okay?”

“Sure,” Stiles says easily, and he only knocks into the wall a few times as he drags the suitcase to his room, which Stiles would consider to be a victory.

His room is exactly how he left it— bed unmade, desk a mess, sunglasses placed on the chair where he’d accidentally forgotten them when he’d left for school. Stiles leaves his suitcase by the door, kicking it to ensure that it knows his place, and then reaches into his messenger bag to pull out his phone charger.

That’s when he hears the small, emphatic coughing noise from his bed.

If he knew the voice any less intimately, maybe he would have jumped. But as it is, Stiles simply stills for a moment, testing his own mind, trying to figure out if he had imagined it. Finally deciding that it’s at least worth an investigation, Stiles turns around to see if maybe, just maybe, Lydia Martin is in his bed.

She stands up when he turns around, rising from the bed slowly, like she’s letting him adjust to the idea of her presence.

“Whoa,” he says, blinking three times. “Are you why my dad didn’t let me stop for Chipotle?”

Lydia rushes to him, wrapping her arms around her neck as she presses her mouth against his. He’d forgotten, Stiles thinks, how much he loves kissing her. He’d known, at least intellectually, that he loves kissing Lydia Martin. But the reality of it is flushed in color, in heartbeats, in the flutter of her tongue against his and the taste of remembering what she tastes like in the first place. He lifts her off the ground without thinking, hands on her ass as she winds her legs around his hips, and she groans into his mouth in response.

“I keep forgetting how strong you get during school,” Lydia sighs, tossing her hair over her shoulder so that it’s out of their way. “Remind me some more.”

Stiles chuckles, purposefully kissing the side of her mouth, getting half of her cheek. It’s goofy, and affectionate, and it makes her smirk, digging his fingers into his hair and wiggling herself over his cock.

“God, not fair,” he mutters hotly against her neck.

“‘Fair’ when out the window when you picked me up,” Lydia says, tilting her head for him. “That was not fair.”

The way she emphasizes her words makes her tongue linger on the roof of her mouth, and Stiles huffs low in his chest, knowing what it feels like to have that same tongue tracing his lips, the shell of his ear, his neck, his hip bones, his dick.

They fall onto the bed with a loud clamor and a surprised shriek from Lydia, who throws her head back and laughs. She winds her legs around him again, pulling him down on top of her, and Stiles can’t help but slide his hand up her sweater, feeling the warmth of her stomach against the palm of his hand.

Conveniently, there’s a suddenly loud clamor from the kitchen that causes both of them to startle. They pause, staring at each other in concern, waiting to see if Stiles’ dad enters the room. When he doesn’t, Lydia relaxes into the sheets, and Stiles lowers his lips to hers again, trying to keep the urgency out of his kisses.

“How’d your finals go?” he asked, mouth smushed against hers.

“Mmph, good, I—” She trails off when his hand finds the material of her bra, squeezing lightly, relearning what it feels like in his hand. “…what were we talking about?”

“Your classes,” says Stiles, scraping her neck with his teeth. “You were about to say a bunch of words I only half-understand.”

He shudders as he feels Lydia’s foot slide up the back of his leg, her hands sliding inside of his jeans and his boxers.

“We’ve been talking every night for the past two months,” she murmurs. “I’m momentarily sick of talking to my boyfriend. I think he’d better do something else with his mouth.”

Stiles moans, heart quickening at the idea of what he could do to her. He could suck on her tits; draw her nipples into his mouth and lave at them like he’s been wanting to do all semester. He could kiss her until they’re both weak in the knees. He could fuck his tongue into her and watch her melt against the sheets above him; fall apart on his tongue. Or he could—

“Dinner’s ready!” his dad yells, pulling him back to reality. “Get out here, kids!”’

“Oh.” Lydia’s disappointment is evident even in that one word.

“Yeah, my dad’s here.”

“You forgot too?” “We haven’t had sex in two months. Of course I forgot.”

She kisses him, chaste this time.

“After dinner, then?”

Stiles sighs in exaggerated dreaminess, flopping onto his back.

“I’m gonna give you the best one minute and forty seven seconds of your life, Lydia Martin.”

“A tall order,” she teases. “And oddly specific.”

“I’m a detail-oriented person,” he explains. “You may have heard that, once or twice.”

“It was on your resume when you applied for the position of ‘boyfriend.’”

He groans at the word ‘position.’

“Speaking of which—”

“We can spend those however you want to. But I have to warn you that I will probably need one minute and fifty two seconds, so you’d better work your ass off to make up for the disparity.”

“You know I’d do anything for you.” He grins, sweeping some hair away from her face. “God, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she replies serenely, eyes skidding back and forth across his face like she’s trying to take everything in.

“It didn’t occur to you to tell me that you’d be in my room when I got home when we were talking last night?”

“You were packing. And sleepy. I didn’t want you to get…. distracted.”

“I mean, that’s a cute thought, but you know you’re basically distracting me twenty-four hours of the day, seven days a week regardless. What was it really?”

Lydia shrugs, expression thoughtful as she gazes up at him.

“I don’t know. I guess maybe… I know it’s something you would do for me. So I wanted to do it for you too.”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly just as knocked-off balance as he was when she’d first shown up in his bedroom. Lydia doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him, and then he has to kiss her, he’s got no choice.

“STILES!” hollers his dad from the kitchen, sounding twice as irked as he had the first time, and the two of them part guiltily mid-kiss.

“The jeep. After dinner,” Lydia promises, with a seriousness that would imply they’re about to go on a secret mission.

“Okay.” He gets out of bed, then helps her up too, hand on her back as he guides her through the door frame. “But in the meantime, get ready for a round of under-the-table-footsies that’s gonna rock your world.”

[kasiopeiae]

Kiwi, Though.

A/N: this is a bit of an extension of the birthday bows/valentine woes world, but certainly functions as a stand alone piece.  thank you for the request*, nonny 😘

this is a very, very smutty, dirty piece about anal so if that’s not your thing, turn back now. there’s a lot of movement in this, so please offer me a bit of suspension of disbelief and just know that harry and his missus did everything they needed to in order to be clean and safe in this encounter.

*requests are currently closed