#so the birds are all passed out and twitching in the yard

[unohanadaydreams]

As I’m planting my summer garden, I am filled with certainty that Mayuri would introduce GMOs beyond comprehension unto me.

[charliemwrites]

Part 2!

Finally finished moving house so hopefully I’ll be updating semi-regularly again.

Content: brief and non-descriptive explanation of Rasputin’s backstory (injury and illness)

Agatha is over again.

You don’t know why. She doesn’t like you, your cats, or anything as far as you can tell. It seems her primary motivation for talking to you at all is to exercise her role as neighborhood matriarch. She “keeps tabs” on everyone, but especially you - the unmarried woman living alone that keeps odd hours.

A rebellious part of you wants to roll your eyes and make snarky comments whenever she sniffs at your life choices. The same part of you that would make scenes at holiday dinners or slam doors when you were a teenager. That girl has long been smoothed and polished - or maybe just worn down. It’s so much effort to make rude, nosy, traditionalists clutch their pearls. Much easier to smile in their face and do what you want anyway.

Still, that part of you itches at the surface sometimes. Makes your eye twitch.

“I know your generation is different but that’s just not the type of neighborhood we live in,” she’s saying.

You’re a bit foggy from a late night patching plotholes and haven’t registered much of anything she’s said. You really just want to go inside and stare at the TV until words make sense again.

“What do you mean?” you ask, for once not feigning your confusion. But of course this is the one time she doesn’t buy it.

She looks down her frail little nose at you, cornflower blue eyes baleful. You don’t feel scolded, but you sense that you’re supposed to.

“Now you know just what I mean. People will talk.”

People always talk, it’s an unfortunate byproduct of the human condition. Like a deaf bird, you’ve never understood all the chatter.

“Talk about… the buttercups?” you wonder, pointing at the blossoms. You’re quite proud of them actually.

Agatha puffs up and hisses out a breath. “You ought to keep to this side of the street. Away from those men.”

You blink. Men…?

A bang comes from across the street, followed by rough German cursing. (At least you think it’s cursing.)

Ah. Those men.

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.”

It comes out of your mouth automatically, innocent excuses for something you remind yourself you don’t need to justify.

“I’d rather they didn’t feel welcome,” she snips. “Better they sell that awful house and go somewhere else.”

You flick your eyes over her bony shoulder. Konig passes by a window, massive biceps on display as he lifts something outside of view.

“They’re nice,” you say. Nice to look at. Krueger’s face alone quite makes up for his conversational shortcomings.

“The only reason men like that act nice is because they want something,” Agatha snaps. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

Yeah, soooo respectable when Bertram rifles through your mail or Lisa looks into your backyard.

“Well,” you muse, “better to be on good terms with them, I think. They're not the type you want to piss off.”

That defiant streak lights up at the way her face sours. If only she knew what sort of words you use when it’s just you and the cats.

“You’ve just proven my point. Those are not the type of men young ladies should associating themselves with.”

You have to try very hard not to scrunch up your face. One blessed day, people will stop referring to you as “young lady” in that insufferably condescending tone. You can’t wait for that day.

Some of your mounting irritation must show on your face because she takes on a sickly sweet “teaching” tone.

“Neighborhoods are like gardens. Everything grows best when the rows are kept separate. That’s why the farmers plant them that way.”

You glance pointedly at your own yard, where the flowers are blooming in haphazard sprigs wherever you tossed the seeds. Agatha’s lips get thin.

“Best that you stay on this side of the street, missy. That’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

She spins on her heel and stalks off like a particularly drab bird. You stand on your porch for a second longer, face contorted in annoyed confusion. You don’t even have strong feelings about the three men; the simple act of someone - Agatha of all people - labeling them as “Off Limits” makes them instantly more appealing.

Maybe you should see someone about that or something. Then the pathetic cries of Guy through the window lure you back inside.

It’s nearly sundown when there’s a knock at your door. Still agitated from your talk with Agatha, you puff up like Shithead when Rasputin sits on her favorite toy. March up to the door, fling it open - and come up short when you see the three men looming on your doorstep.

Before you can recover, a little gray blob scrambles past your ankles, crying like the sky is falling.

“Oh!” Konig gasps in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, Bubchen!”

And all 6-foot-plus of Austrian instantly folds to scoop Guy up. You’ve barely managed a now-useless shout of alarm when Shithead wedges her fat head between your calves. Behind you, Rasputin politely screeches his little chainsmoker call.

And somehow, in the chaos of fumbling for furballs, you end up with all three men in your foyer.

Guy is purring away in Konig’s thick arms. Shithead is attempting to scale Krueger’s tight cargo pants. And Rasputin is pawing the air at Nikto, visibly calculating the jump to his wide shoulders.

Which leaves you with the clean serving platter you dropped off just yesterday. You blink at it for a moment, then glance at them.

“So… the cookies were good then?”

“Very good!” Konig rushes to say. Krueger and Nikto each nod, almost comically solemn.

“We have no baking or cooking skills,” Krueger continues, “so tell us what needs fixing.”

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. The house. He wants to fix your house. It’s surprisingly sweet, and you laugh a bit, shaking your head. “You don’t need to do that, I was just-“

“Is custom,” Nikto interrupts.

Konig nods with all the enthusiasm of a bobblehead as Krueger crosses his arms. (Whatever effect he’s going for is ruined by Shithead clinging to his pocket and screaming.)

“In our country, we bring gifts as guests. Our gift is repairs,” he explains.

You arch your brows playfully. “I don’t remember inviting you to be guests.”

He arches his brows right back. “We did not invite you either.”

Well shit.

“Okay, okay. I guess there’s a couple things…”

Konig perks up. “We would be happy to help, Biene!”

It’s strange having men in the house. You think you should be more nervous about it, can’t remember the last non-family man allowed into your space. Especially alone.

There’s a sharp awareness, of course. Hard not to be aware of them. It’s not just that they’re big, dwarfing all of your you-sized furniture. There’s a presence to them, something felt but not seen by your untrained eye. Maybe it’s in the set of their shoulders, the way they stand with both boots firmly planted. Maybe it’s the precise way they speak and move, not just separately but as a unit. Acting more like a collective consciousness than as individuals.

Whatever it is, you couldn’t ignore them if you tried. And you’re definitely not trying.

You set Krueger to work on the kitchen cabinet you’ve been meaning to replace. He clicks his tongue at the tape-and-lean method you’ve been using to keep the old one in place. Shithead immediately sets to work helping by gnawing at his shoelaces.

Konig is stationed in the guest bathroom, where the sink doesn’t run right. Guy comes mewing into your arms when he’s set down, effectively tattling that his new friend is mean and awful for withholding affection for even a moment.

You try not to visibly hesitate when you corner yourself in your own laundry room. Nikto has followed you right in, seemingly unaware that he’s invading your personal space. He’s not even looking at you though, eyes zeroed in on the dryer you point to.

“It’s not heating up, so the clothes stay wet or take forever to dry,” you explain.

He grunts in acknowledgement, then nods to Rasputin, who has taken up residence on the washer. His one golden eye blinks slow and serene at the two of you.

“What happened?” he asks.

You hum, softening in pleasant surprise at the question.

“I’m not sure how he lost his eye. It was infected when I found him. But I know for sure the tail and leg are from getting hit by a car.”

You sigh, scratching at Rasputin’s chin. A rusty purr starts up as he tilts his head, revealing some nasty scars around his throat.

“The vet said that that’s probably from a fight with another cat,” you add.

Guy steps from your arms to cuddle up to Rasputin, shoving his face into his ragged ear. Grooming time, then. That’s as good an indication as any that Nikto’s probably safe enough.

“I ran down from an office building to save him.” You blink hard, eyes stinging just from the memory. “But anyway, he gets to rest and be pampered now.”

When you glance up from Rasputin’s happy little face, you almost startle at the sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. Your face feels warm, even though you’re not embarrassed.

“I’ll, um, get out of the way,” you say, clearing your throat. “Keep an eye on things, Ras.”

With the men occupied, you find yourself once again at loose ends. You drift towards the den, but it feels awkward to sit on your ass watching TV while your neighbors fix your house.

You check the time on your phone - ignoring the text from your mother - and figure it’s not too early to start dinner.

“Will I be in the way if I start cooking?” you ask Krueger.

He flicks you a dimissive glance. “A little thing like you?”

You scoff and cross to the fridge. “You could have just said no.”

“Nein,” he snorts.

Rude bastard, you think - though not without fondness, unfortunately. The surly attitude is already growing on you.

There’s meat and spare boxes of pasta and veggies - that’ll work. You start tugging out ingredients, mentally doubling portions for your guests. They look like they work out even beyond the construction labor, hopefully you’ll have enough to satisfy their appetites.

“So what’s the plan with the house?” you ask as you get to work. “Just fixing it up to sell or…?”

“We will live there, the three of us,” Krueger answers. He swipes a screwdriver from Shithead’s batting paws. “Somewhere to stay when we are not working.”

You hum, biting back the next obvious question, loathe to become as nosy as the rest of your neighbors. Still… getting to know people, right?

It sounds like they expect to travel a lot. You can’t imagine them as business types - not in the traditional sense anyway. Though the image of Konig sitting in a tiny cubicle does make you smile a bit. Between their statures, their clothes, their shoes, and the occasional nasty scar, you take a guess.

“Are you guys military?”

“Contractor,” Krueger corrects.

You perk up. “Wait, really?”

He scowls. “Does it sound like a joke?”

You huff and turn back to the veggies you’re cutting. “No, no. I just - you know about guns and knives and things, then?”

He pauses. You shoot him a curious glance, only to quickly look away at the intense scrutiny directed your way.

“Yes,” he answers slowly.

“Then… could you maybe answer some questions…?”

His eyes narrow. “Questions?”

You keep your gaze on the cutting board. “Okay, wait, it's not suspicious. I’m a writer and it’s hard to google very specific questions sometimes. It’s just easier to ask an expert in person.”

Never mind that majority of your readers would never know the difference. It bothers you when things aren’t accurate.

He makes a considering noise. “A writer?”

You flush. “That’s what I do. Why I’m always home? I publish fiction.”

He stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. You peek his way, shocked to see a task you’ve been putting off for weeks already done. Hell, it looks sturdier than the rest of the cabinet doors, too.

“And your fiction requires knowledge of guns and knives and ‘things’?” he asks.

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Sometimes…”

“Fine. I will answer your questions,” he allows.

You beam. “Thank you!”

He grunts, snatches a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth.

“What else needs doing?”

Dinner ends up much more pleasant than expected. Nikto abstains from eating, you assume because he doesn’t feel comfortable removing his ever-present mask, but he sits at the table with Rasputin in his lap. He speaks little, and has that intense gaze that prickles at your freeze instinct, but you grow used to it as the meal progresses.

Konig, however, becomes chattier with food in his belly. He’s much more forthcoming when he answers your polite and totally casual questions - though you notice Krueger kick him under the table once or twice.

You suppose he gets you back by effectively announcing to the others what your career is. Which just kicks off the usual line of questioning about how and why you got into writing. Still, there’s no judgment from these men that make their living in labors of blood and sacrifice, where you expected censure. You only find genuine curiosity and intrigue, good-natured questions. Not even Krueger makes backhanded comments about it not being a “real” job.

Before you know it, the moon is high and you’re sending the three of them off, bellies full and a little friendlier than before. Nikto nods to you (and Rasputin) as he leaves, a big Tupperware of his dinner portion in hand.

You tell yourself it’s not anticipation that goes through you, knowing they’ll be back with it soon.

Previous | Next

Masterlist

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt5 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

On the way home from Price and the beach you recollect an old story...

Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Masterlist

Warnings: None!

The road home was filled with music, a light heart, and the cleansing of rain. The storm rolled over you, rumbling with flashes of lightning sporadically lighting up the night. Lumbering hills with peaks and festering marshlands spanned alongside. One step off of the lonely road would take you to a world unlike your own. You thought deeply as you drove. Of things gone by, as the ocean disappeared, you missed home. 

You were 13 when your parents became too busy, and left alone to your own devices you stumbled upon sanctuary. In the woods, you found a fox's den, now empty of its inhabitants. But there you found a new life. A fallen log your seat, you brought your typewriter out and started recording. The breaking of sticks down your trodden path, wisps of clouds on clear days. The sounds of birds, swooping swallows with dart-like precision. The growing flora and fungi in the damp woods.

Every day you would return, after school chasing the familiar shadows of your imagination. They kept you close comfort. One day, years later, however as you approached you found the glint of orange, and to your surprise, there was a fox asleep in the den. As you turned past the corner you ended up unintentionally waking the creature, its head popping up with ears like radars. Amber eyes met yours and you both just watched each other. However the creature did not startle, so you slowly approached yards away. Setting down your jacket you sit on it and slowly open the case of your typewriter. While its ears twitch, the fox shows no motion of moving, instead content with watching you. 

Your hours were lost in the lone fox. And to your pleasure, it was there the next day, then the next week. You made it a habit to go to the den with your new acquaintance. As you met your first partner you would just talk in a soft voice to the fox, As junior college passed and your heart had been broken the fox had become something more in your brain. It was a symbol of the resilience of nature, of making the space you find yourself in yours. You finished your undergrad with the first drafts of your first book.

And as for the fox? One day you returned, set on your plan to move for your masters you had brought some meat out for the fox. Yet as you crossed the path you found the den empty for once after about two years. You frowned but left the meat anyway, vowing to return once before you left. But life got busy, saying goodbye and closing up loose ends. You vetted your life and your writing career. Stories covered your room walls, old and new. You were leaving everything you knew. A few days before you left on a brisk moment of free time you went on a whim to the den. 

As you walk you reminisce on the years spent on this path. The turned stones, the old tree house, the creek the elements of your stories light up your vision. You can hear the howling of wolves under the wind, the creaking of moving trees, the ringing of fairy voices. And yet as fantasy swirls with reality you turn the bend to find not only your friend but a few fox kits as well. You stared in all as the fox watched you with bright eyes.

“You did good.” It's a whisper not only to the fox but to yourself as all of the elements of your growing stories fade back into reality. 

A flash of lightning brought you back to reality as you parked the car in your building’s lot and prepared to face the onslaught of London rain. You sling your backpack on awkwardly in the tight space of the car and throw on your jacket over it. Street lamps flickered in wind and rain as you rushed out of the car and to the cover of the parking area. There was some wild feeling in you being exposed to the elements, just like at the ocean and when you were a kid. As you made it under cover you tilted your drenched head back and laughed into the evening. The florescent hum, there is something intently human in your heart. 

You see movement and jump. Leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette is Simon. He watches you a smile playing on his lips.

“Happy Dove?” 

The nickname has you blushing and you shove off your wet coat.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You chuckle. Simon raises a brow at your form before he puts out his cigarette. He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out for you.

“Come on I'll walk you home.” He looks at you expectantly, his body taking up a lot of the space in the hall. But as you move forward he steps aside to allow you next to him.

“Here,” He offers and you hand him your bag, he shoulders it and hands you his jacket. Slipping it on you are met with the smell of smoke and cologne. You relax into it as it engulfs you, something in SImon’s eye shining. You begin the walk under the awning together in comfortable silence. Simon cuts his stride short for you, and you give him an appreciative smile. 

His hair is slightly damp you realize then, it gives him a bit of a boyish look, water-darkened hair complementing his eyes. He looks forward, scanning the path then turning back to you.

“Were you outside long?” You ask, the cold bristling you despite your borrowed jacket.

“No. I was watching out for you.” He offers it honestly. You hum, then you set a hand on his arm without thinking too much. Simon’s eyes widen a fraction and turn down to the contact. You realize then and move to pull away with an apology but Simon offers you his elbow. You pause but you take his arm in yours. Despite only being in a long-sleeved black shirt, Simon radiates warmth and you find yourself leaning into him. He glances at you through his peripheral vision.

“Are you not cold Simon?” You ask concerned. He shakes his head, putting on your backpack fully,

“‘M fine, thanks love.” Is all he offers, seeming content with silence, but he tucks his hand into his pocket, thus pulling you closer and you find yourself silently swooning. A few more minutes pass when you reach the main street, rain still pouring but the bookstore is in sight. 

“Hold on, I've got an umbrella somewhere. I don't want you to get soaked.” 

You pull on your arm and Simon begrudgingly releases you. You dig in your backpack producing a bright orange, fox-patterned umbrella. The sight is a bit bright and contrasts with his aesthetic but Simon opens it and holds it anyway, a brow raised that makes you giggle.  Once you reach the cover of the book store you find the door unlocked so you enter followed by Simon into the warmth of the store. Simon does his best to avoid getting water everywhere but you take the bright umbrella from him with a thankful smile. 

Having heard the door Sam rounds the corner.

“You found her then huh.” Sam notices you in Simon’s jacket and his grin widens and you give him a look.

“Sammy, not a word.”

“I said nothing!” He raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“Thanks for walking her.” He adds and approaches you. Before you can escape you are locked in a headlock as Sam ruffles your hair.

“Sammy! Stop!” You push at his arms laughing. You both spend a fond moment roughhousing before you remember Simon.

“Simon at least stay for dinner till this storm lets up!” You insist, finally tapping out with Sam, he finally releases you with a kiss on your head. The older man stands on the cusp of the affection, watching. You spin back to him staring up with a pretty smile, expectant.

“Alright,” He says it intensely. It makes you pause, he sees this and shifts his weight, then nods an affirmation just as a large crash of thunder startles all of you. 

“We have a spare bedroom if you need it,” Sam checks his phone, “the rain isn’t supposed to let up until tomorrow. You best stay the night.”

The thought doesn't seem to trouble Simon too much,

“If it's not a bother.”

You clap your hands together, 

“I did owe you dinner didn’t I huh? And a sleepover is just like college Sam!” 

Your best friend looks from his painted nails to Simon, the idea seems to crack him up. Simon glowers at him. You chuckle and set a hand on Simon’s arm. 

“I met Captain Price today.”

This catches his attention, turning down to regard you as he speaks.

“He gone fishin’?”

The dry humor catches you off guard but you smile and reply,

“Something like that. He and I talked about stuff. He’s a good man Simon.”

At that Simon nods eye still tracing your hand, He raises his own to it to see your reaction. Your eyes widened at the direct contact, but you had been feeling comfortable with the man. You shoot him a shy smile and he returns it.

“It's a date then?” He asks.

Sam looks up from behind the counter eyes sharp. He meets eyes with Simon and the ex-lieutenant finds his equal in ferocity. Simon takes your hand and shares a look with Sam, a quiet conversation between them before Sam nods and starts to head upstairs, one final glance behind him at you and Simon.

“Can you lock up Buttercup?” He pauses in question.

You can only nod with an embarrassed blush on your face. Sam heads upstairs leaving you and Simon together. He seems content just holding your hand. He takes it, lifting your palm from his arm and simply grasping it in his dropping your hands down to hang. Your heart beats a little faster but you take the next step to interlace your fingers. 

“I gotta lock up Simon.” You say it with a grin but he doesn't move his hand instead gesturing to the door.

“Ill follow.” His mumbles.

You give him a humored look, swinging your hand in his. He waits a moment, releasing your hand as you step to the door, Simon following like a shadow. He reminded you of Nebula, your childhood cat. A cat of few meows but much affection and he would follow you around the house. 

You flip off the switch for the lights and the neon leaving you and Simon basked in darkness. His pale skin is illuminated by the light from the stairway behind the counter. You turn around to meet him and are caught by the glow of him with the back light. He stands like some bygone god, ever vigilant, but his eyes and hair are soft. He carries your bag looking down at you with curiosity. 

“What is it, Dove?” 

He asks you but your mind is drawn back to the wildness of the sea earlier. You liken it to Simon in your mind. Something beautiful but with the wilderness within, a man of scars and hewn edges. Someone with a stormy past. Your mind swirls with storm clouds, yet here is this man who has taken a step to attach himself to you. 

You want to reach up and touch him, like some modern adonis with honey for eyes and a deep voice. But something caught in your throat, there was so much untold in this story, this connection that it made you stumble. Who was he to step into your dreams? Instead, you step forward to meet him. You raise a hand in question, He steps forwards and meets your palm. His large hands engulf yours.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

Taglist!

@ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost

End Chapter 5

Note: This was shorter than I really wanted it to be so expect 6 to be longer!

[xayasmrxsoftlyx]

Imagine...one night, everyone gets thrown a curve ball.

New character intro; MDNI, nsft. TW: blood and blood drinking mentions, sexual tension, once again yandere themes, stalking, voyeurism

You can't sleep, like at all. Your room is too hot with the blanket on, too cold with them off- you stripped completely and it hasn't done a thing for you. The fan doesn't help you so you open your window. It changes nothing and you can't stop tossing and turning completely and utterly wide awake. It's around 2 in the morning when you hear buzzing. It's so comforting, so familiar, so painstakingly welcomed. It sounds like your favorite new bird friend and your confusion (and disbelief) doesn't stop you from jumping out of bed to check whatever it is making that noise. You tiptoe to your window and peek out of your sheer curtains. It's not quite a full moon so your eyes take a moment to adjust and that's when you see them.

You knew the forests had many creatures, magickal and non alike, but you never even thought of an insect hybrid; let alone one quite like them. You open the curtain a smidge more and peer at them closer. You notice them beginning to pace. They're so tall and skinny, clear thin wings beating yet they're not flying- it seems they're wanting to fly but restraining themself for some reason. It's clear to you that despite your lack of knowledge on them, that this is a mosquito hybrid.

He's got to be at least 7 feet tall and lanky as hell, he's got a little wiry hair along his chest, too, and he meanders amongst your flowers. He's agitated it seems, by something as he's looking around and his antennas twitching erratically with his wings rapidly flapping. Despite clear frustration, even to you, he's calm in his gate, gentle in his pass over the petals of your flowers, and taking deep enough breaths you could follow along if you wanted to. Equal parts fascination and concern well within your stomach as you observe the scene for only a more moments before ultimately deciding enough was enough. Slipping on your night robe, you sneak outside.

However, you can't exactly sneak when he whips around to face you the moment you open the door. (SO sweet, smell so good, needs to taste, needs to feed, needs to taste that sweet, intoxicating scent-) Despite the surprise to both of you, you don't hesitate to walk out to begin to meet him. He doesn't hesitate to stop in his place and freeze. He's staring at your soft, supple flesh peeking from the length of your robe, can't stop his eyes from flicking up and down your enchanting round curves and full gorgeous face. You're the sweet scent he came in search of- not your well cared for flowers.

Imagine you both seem to realize just what kind of situation this is when the wind shifts and the rather short skirt of your robe blows to reveal more than you thought it might; your embarrassment at just barely stopping it in time to conceal almost all of your chubby, wet sex. That doesn't stop the spike of sweat and arousal that comes from you catching on the wind and giving him full body shivers. You're painfully aware that unlike with your hummingbird hybrid- you're the prey. He can feed on your blood- may even want to! (God does he want to, he wants to so badly he's nearly drooling; especially if you stay this wet with sweat and sex the whole time- fuck he'd die and go to heaven for that shit right there.)

This time, the roles are reversed. You freeze, finally having thought about the consequences of coming outside scantily clad for a stranger. (Despite freezing, you're finding that you don't much mind these particular circumstances and consequences so far, you just hope it stays that way.) You swallow, palms growing sweaty and thick thighs becoming so wet and slick you don't even realize how much you're squeezing them together. You watch this handsome, devilish bug man stalk across your yard towards you, calm and confident and fucking sexy.

He's even taller than you gave him credit, leaner muscles than lanky, you realize. As he draws close you can hear his labored breathing, can feel the hunger in his eyes, and can't stop the whine that bubbles in the back of your throat. It doesn't quite leave your clenched jaw but he seems to have heard it nonetheless when he groans in response; finally close enough to properly smell you, properly see you (properly take you).

Your plush flesh smells even more delectable so close and you actually whine aloud when his nose comes down close enough to your neck you can feel his breath and he deeply inhales. (You smell so good, fuck, so delicious, can't wait to sink his teeth into you and then his cock- or maybe it should be the other way around? Shit, it doesn't matter as long as he can gorge himself on your sweet blood and juicy cunt.) "Smell like a real meal, doll." He gruffs, voice like melted butter on a hot pan to your already wet, hot pussy. He seems to smell your reaction if his gravelly buzz and grunt were anything to go by in immediate response. You don't even think when you suck in a small gasp of air and crane your neck to the side for him, dizzy on lust.

"Then eat." You truly have no idea what comes over you. (You know Calypte will be livid in possessive jealousy. Maybe that encourages you to continue instead of stop. Maybe you want to be that desired object of affection others fight over. Maybe you're just a slut. None of it matters because none of it stops you.) It honestly takes longer than you expected for him to move, longer than you wanted. It's when you're about to move, about to tease him about getting cold feet or having eyes bigger than his stomach when he's grabbing your fat curves and hauling your soft, malleable frame up into the air and into his impressively strong embrace. "Too small down there, shortcake." Adrenaline rockets through you and before you can orient yourself, his teeth are sinking into the soft, delicious warmth of your neck.

The sting is the first sensation you notice as the adrenaline begins to settle slightly. Then, it's the realization that you're in the air- like, as in flying. That sends your stomach somersaulting and pussy fluttering in arousal. It takes a few more seconds to feel his tongue(s!?) flicking at the wound to collect your blood or his soft antennas tickling along your feverish collarbones and chubby chin. You're starting to feel tingly and enjoyably hazy between the minor blood loss and all your budding sexual tension (and maybe a bit of sleep deprivation was helping).

Imagine it's so hard to put you down after he's had his fill. (He could use more, certainly wants more, and you definitely seem like you're more than enjoying it. You taste like Heaven- like true ambrosia and he's sure the only better taste on the planet comes from your dripping, pudgy pussy and he really wants to taste that from you. In order to do that, though, he needs to stock licking and sucking and kissing your supple neck and shoulders.) He's still cheeky about it as he does it, too. He slowly comes back to the ground and instead of settling you right down on your feet, he lets you slide down his chest and catch on his thigh, rubbing up against him as you do so. You can't stop the loud, keening whine and fervently grind down into him. You can feel your bare clit rubbing against his hairy thigh, can feel how wet you're making his own hot, sweaty skin, and you don't want it to stop but you can feel the moment is over- or paused at least.

"Helped?" you squeak, adorably hopeful and longing, softly and dream like as it settles in the night air. You're finally starting to feel tired, despite the scorching heat and arousal thrumming and rolling like waves through your veins. He snorts and realizes you're more out of it than he could have expected. Cute.

"Yuh, sweetheart, naw let's get you tuh bed; we can talk about it in the mornin." He sweeps you into his arms again and leads you inside when he realizes how tired you are. Eyes peer from the forest, narrowed and frustrated- this was NOT part of the plan. Good thing nature is oh-so adaptable.

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xxix // Returning

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The further out of the city they get, the more Conrad’s anxiety grows, like a pit in his stomach expanding for each block passed, threatening to press against his diaphragm to interfere with his breathing. By the time they reach the suburbs, he’s crying.

It's a form of torture in and of itself, to be so close to freedom, so close he could almost reach out and grasp it. To watch people mill about their daily lives with zero clue as to their proximity to his situation. But Davin gave him another ultimatum. Either he followed along willingly, sitting quietly in the back seat of Renee’s car, on his best behavior – or, at the first sign of trouble, they’d bind and gag him and transport him in the trunk again.

And it’s not that he doesn’t understand that he very well could cause a scene that would catch the attention of other drivers – even with Renee sitting beside him in the back seat, he might have a feeble shot at doing something. And maybe if he wasn’t still sick, he’d have the energy to try. Conrad is just sick and tired. Tired of suffocating. Tired of desperation, of terror, of the persistent threat of violence.

He complies.

Is he supposed to feel ashamed about that?

Beside him, Renee sits silently, gaze fixed out the window on his side. After their conversation, he’s been reserved around Conrad, not interacting with him more than strictly necessary, and then doing so dispassionately, short of words. Conrad doesn’t want to dig around in it. That’s something else he’s tired of – the constant fight to convince his captors to have a shed of humanity. Maybe it just can’t be taught, or shown, or learned. He’s tried of failing.

They’re on the highway for about half an hour, and Conrad, still fighting the urge to cry, tries to at least enjoy the scenery a bit. It feels like it’s been years since he saw a field, and even if it is barren and bleak this time of year.

He watches flocks of migrating birds pass above, headed south for the winter. Watches clusters of cows or sheep grazing on misty fields. As they drive though a wooded area, he spots a herd of wild deer hopping through the underbrush at least a hundred and fifty yards out.

Maybe it does give him some peace. The fact that life goes on. That it doesn’t stop, even for what he’s been through. That beauty can still manifest in small ways here and there.

He tries to bottle that peace down as something he can take with him going forward, as something worth fighting for. If not for Howard or his dad, if not for the people who took time out of their day to search for him, or whoever else might have been affected by all this – at least for the mere continuation of life, to be an observer to growth and death and rebirth. Isn’t that enough?  

They reach the summer home neighborhood around noon. Conrad almost forgot what Renee’s parents house looked like from the outside – he wasn’t exactly paying attention the last time he was out here. The chalked white façade stands out among the other houses, contrasted by black frames around the windows and doors. It looks recently built, or at least freshly renovated, with dozens and dozens of pots scattered throughout the property, flowers wilted and dead.

Davin pulls the keys out of the ignition, and is quick to get out of the car before Conrad has so much as clicked off his seatbelt. Conrad looks up at the second story window, boarded up on the off chance a curious passer-by should see what happens inside. His stomach churns, but then Davin opens his door and gestures for him to get out.

Conrad hesitates.

Beside him, Renee lets out a breath through his nose. “If you so much as twitch in the wrong direction, I’m gonna beat you so bad you won’t be able to lie down afterwards. Follow Davin.”

The way he says it, monotonous compared to his usually near-manic flair, makes Conrad wince. When he gets out of the car, Davin gives him an apologetic smile, but nonetheless gently takes him by the arm.

Conrad feels like a man headed for the gallows as he is lead to the front door, and although he wishes he could bear that feeling with his head still held high, he can’t help himself from shutting down, feels his gaze come out of focus and drift to the ground. With Renee at his back and Davin to his side, he patiently waits for the latter to unlock the door. His feet drag over the threshold, and Davin locks the door behind him.

And just like that, he’s back in the form of captivity that’s so well known to him by now, it has a strange familial tint to it.

This house, these walls.

💵

Time passes silently, right up until the moment it suddenly doesn’t anymore. It shifts the second they come for him again, like a record getting stuck on the needle; Conrad feels as though the vinyl shatters into a million fragments.

They always bring him back to square one. Always back to that scared, bewildered state. Always back to realizing whatever progress he thought he’d made was for nothing. He starts shaking, and the words get stuck in his throat, and the amalgamated memory of all the previous streams comes flooding back into his head.

Conrad is frozen on the bed as they both enter his room.

Renee’s expression lack that sadistic, giddy spark today – more than anything, he just looks like a man set on completing a job. They’ve cut his cast off for the occasion, but he still keeps his arm at a right angle by stuffing his hand in the pocket of the black jacket he usually wears on the streams. In his other gloved hand, he’s dangling a set of handcuffs, which he throws on the bed next to Conrad.

“Hands in front this time around,” he says.

Conrad blinks at the cuffs, a feeling of nausea in his throat. “You want me to…?”

“I do, smartass. Cuff yourself.”

For a while, Conrad just stares at the cuffs like they’re a foreign object, as if they’re incomprehensibly complex. Slowly, he reaches out and loops his finger around the cold metal, pulling the handcuffs closer.

Renee lets out a groan. “Get a fucking move on.”

Wincing, Conrad bites down his nausea as he clicks one cuff over the abrasions on his left wrist, and then over the ones on his right. He looks up, seeking the gaze of Davin, only to be met by that detached seriousness that usually surrounds him on streams. He shouldn’t expect more from the man, he knows, and yet he always does.

Renee grabs him by the arm with his good hand, hauling him to his feet. “C’mon,” he says. Conrad stumbles along, walking backwards for a while to look Renee in the eyes, a plea stuck in his throat, but before he can say it out loud, Renee just grabs him by the shoulder to spin him back around, pushing him ahead of himself.

“I’m still sick,” Conrad says hoarsely in the hallway.

“Good for you,” Renee mutters, and doesn’t let him slow down his pace.

“Please, just, just give me a break from this,” Conrad whispers, and there’s tears in his eyes now. “Just this one time…”

The hand on his arm hauling him up the stairs doesn’t seem to care how wobbly his knees feel. His cuffed hands cling feebly to the railing, feet dragging up each step.

“You don’t have to do this, you know you don’t have to—”

On the plateau at the end of the stairs, the hand on his arm shifts to grab him by the front of his shirt, pushing him back-first into the wall. Renee’s sneer is unmistakable. “Are you gonna shut up on your own, or do I have to make you?”

Conrad lets out a whine, not meeting his eyes.

“Look at me, you fucking coward,” Renee growls low. The hand in his shirt pushes him further into the wall, he can feel knuckles brush ominously against his Adam’s apple.

Conrad reluctantly does.

Renee’s gaze is pitch black, piercing, and full of disgust. “Are you going to shut up?” he says. “Hm?”

Conrad nods.

“Say it.”

“I’m… I’m going to, to shut up.”

Renee doesn’t smile, even though Conrad is pretty sure he normally would in a moment like this. Instead his sneer fades a bit, and he nods to himself. “About time you fucking did.”

And he pulls Conrad along into the second story room.

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[narrans]

The Orion's Daughter : To Lands Beyond | Chapter Nine : Days Gone By

**~~~~~**

Chapter Nine | Days Gone By

**~~~~~**

Sun began cresting over the edge of the horizon, appearing as though it was erupting out of the ocean’s cresting waves. Fingers of light stretched far beyond the clouds, creating a soft pink haze in the clouds high above the ground. Birds just now began to stretch and unfurl their wings, taking flight on the slightest breeze, drifting lazily through the wind, in search of their first meal of the day.

While many of nature’s beasts only now started waking, I had been up for hours already. Actually, the only reason I was awake was because I never really went to sleep.

Was it morning already?

There was no way it could be morning– and yet it was.

I glanced out the window and watched as little rabbits and other woodland creatures scurried in the tall grass in our back yard. The wildflowers twitched and danced in the morning breeze, tousling harder when an animal brushed by the stems of the undergrowth.

The oil in my lamp was barely flickering, showing me that I definitely stayed awake for too long. Curses! I meant to go to sleep at a decent hour last night, but how could I do that when I was so entrenched in my current book?

I stretched on my spot on the top of one of the corner chests by the window that I had made into my personal reading nook in the corner of the kitchen and sitting room area. I felt like my spine had tried to fuse with the furniture piece at some point, all of the vertebrae aching and creaking as I swung my legs off of the corner chest and stretched.

The morning already smelled of warm heather on the breeze. I knew today was going to be a warm one, but that was expected in the summer moons. Today was undoubtedly going to be a long one.

I had my morning training with Steele, hunting for flowers and stones in the woods with momma, and, finally, town visit for errands. What was really exciting was that the caravans were coming into town, which meant there was a chance for me to add some new books to my collections and an opportunity to trade directly with others instead of going through the local shops. Perhaps I would get a chance to get in a nap by the stream after lunch, but that was going to have to wait.

I hoisted myself up off of the chest, standing and stretching once again, and quietly tiptoed across the wooden floor to the wash basin and the chest where I kept my training clothes. As I passed by the kitchen, I glimpsed my reflection in the glass of the window.

Heavens above, I looked like a mess.

Perhaps a bath later tonight or in the creek was in order as well.

I made a mental note to make sure to comb my hair today before I left for town; but, for now, it would have to do.

I glanced over and saw my momma’s mess of bright red hair poking out from under the light sheet she had draped over her body. Her features were so relaxed and peaceful. She was so beautiful and strong. I hoped I could be half the woman she was.

Not wanting to wake her, I made sure to avoid the squeaky floorboards and fished out a shirt and pants as well as a wrap to go around the whole ensemble in case I began to get overheated. It was also good for training. I needed to be ready for anything, just like Steele taught me, and some of that was maneuvering in a collection of clothing.

I carefully dipped some water into the wash basin and splashed it over my cheeks, which instantly washed away the tiredness lingering in my eyes. I knew the moment I started moving, I would wake fully. The refreshing water dripped over my eyes and down my cheeks. Using the cloth by the basin, I dabbed my eyes and face.

It was only now that I looked up and really caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I saw a part of me in the reflection of the glass on the window, but I don’t remember the last time I really looked at myself in the mirror – and I felt shocked.

It was still me, but I didn’t realize how much I had changed. My face seemed a little fuller while drawing in on my jaw. My eyes were bright, and my lashes longer. My hair was longer too. Shirts didn’t quite fit the same way they did before, pulling in the front when it didn’t have to before. I had to wrap my chest for my training to make sure I was comfortable. Corsets only tried to eat me alive and were stiff. I needed to be flexible.

I was also taller now. Before, I needed to stand on the tips of my toes in order to see myself in the mirror. Now, I could stand straight backed and be perfectly framed in the center of the mirror, almost like my momma.

How long had it been since I saw myself in the mirror? Had I really changed so much from being that little girl? How old was I turning this year?

I had to think about it for a moment before the number came to me.

Seventeen.

That was how old I was turning this year.

Seventeen.

Where had the time gone?

I couldn’t believe how much time had passed. It felt like no time at all. From different tasks I did from day to day to the seasons that changed in their constant dance, I didn’t realize how quickly it would all go.

As I pulled the clothes off of my frame, wrapped my chest for morning exercises, and changed, the idea of how much I had changed continued to invade my mind regardless of how much I tried to push it away. I wondered what else had changed about me, as well as what else would change as I aged.

Once ready, there was no time to waist. The outdoors was calling, and Steele was already waiting in his meditative stance. He was sitting, straight backed and facing the sunrise. His violet eyes were closed, and a gentle breeze ruffled his lengthening hair.

It occurred to me only now that Steele looked the same as he always did. A little older, yes. There was a little more gray in his hair along the sides of his head and smattered in his goatee.

He had managed to fashion a blade long enough to trim up his face and his hair. He also managed to fashion himself a small collection of clothes and his house was finally in order. Steele had a home now, not just a shelter carved out of stone.

Really and truly, he has made this land part of himself, seemingly pulling something from nothing in a world he was not from. He was such an inspiration to me, and I was honored to call him my dad.

Wordlessly, I walked up to him, his shadow eclipsing me, and sat down beside him. I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the early morning sun wash over me. Breath after breath, focus seeped into my mind and the troubles of the day and curiosity of how I have changed washed away.

Without speaking, we moved together into different positions, stretching and maneuvering from standing on two feet, to one foot, into deep set squats, and opening our bodies and minds to the energy of the day.

Immediately after, Steele walked me through a new set of positions and maneuvers, but I was using more than just my fists now. Last year, for my birthday, Steele presented me with two very beautiful gifts – a matching sword and dagger. Now, when I worked on my positions, I was able to use blades unlike when I was young.

One breath after the next, I twisted through the air, tucking and rolling as I let my muscles act out of sheer memory. From time to time, Steele’s eyes would light up with pride as I managed a difficult maneuver.

I loved that feeling.

I loved making him smile with pride like that.

Once we finished up our morning exercises, I darted inside and grabbed my bag and sat with my momma for a cup of morning tea before going outside where Steele was waiting for us. He carried us to a new patch of forest where we hadn’t explored very much where momma and I found a whole new collection of herbs, spices, and stones that would be worth trading in the town.

We even found a small, bubbling brook where we splashed around and rested by, letting the cool water run over our feet and refresh our bodies. We filled our canteens and slipped some herbs inside to purify the water before heading back to our home. When Steele returned, he had several handfuls of sand which we sifted through. I was pleasantly surprised when I found a few dozen teeth, three large shells, and a dozen or so broken shells and bits of bone.

We made our way back home, talking to Steele about all of the things we found and showing him the plants. From the inside of my bag, I fished out my journal that Kendel gave to me so long ago as well as the book of herbs I purchased. Of all the books I collected, this was still the most valuable to me. My original vow of keeping this book pristine was a dream I couldn’t hope to maintain.

While I kept the book in the best condition I could, many of the pages were stained slightly on the sides, the edges of the book were no longer crisp, and it smelled of herbs and the earth. The spine had definitely cracked in a few different places, and some of the pages threatened to slip out every time I cracked open the book.

It was the perfect combination for a book of this type.

The afternoon hours seemed to fly by with unbelievable speed. Momma and I were able to make a quick lunch from vegetables from our garden before we packed up everything and headed into town. Even as we approached the cobbled stone streets, I could smell the foreign herbs and spices on the wind.

We entered the town and immediately saw the banners spreading from all different sides of the streets as well as the horse drawn caravans just outside in the fields. Their booths were extraordinary, filled with countless treasures from different districts and counties across the continent.

I had to force myself to not spend all of my earned coin and tradeable items in one place or another, but it was so tempting. There were teas I wanted to try. Books I wanted to read. Maps I wanted to collect. Weapons I wanted to practice with and master.

All had to be paced.

Everything I had in my bag was exchanged for one thing or another. I came with treasures and left with treasures, making for a valuable and productive day. I even left with something that Steele would be very pleased with – a new rapier. As we were on our way back, something caught my attention that I couldn’t quite shake.

As I moved from booth to booth, I felt eyes on me. I have been used to the feeling all of my life. From the way I dress now in my pants and skirt combination to the way I now carry my dagger and sword at my hips, so many have always been looking and whispering about me being one way or another.

Like my momma’s phrase said, water on stone. Beat me to the bone. Your words run right over me. I didn’t care what they thought about me. I didn’t care what they said. I knew who I was. I didn’t need them to tell me.

Time hasn’t changed the number of whispers, but it seems like some of their whispers have changed their tunes. When I was out among the caravans, I noticed the eyes of certain people on me, particularly the sons of many of the traders and nomads. They smiled and waved at me. They offered me deals that would not be profitable for their business.

I noticed that, on the way home, momma mentioned that some of the caravan vendors asked about me. They were curious about me and who I was. They wanted to know my interests and, across the board, if I was promised to anyone.

I laughed when momma brought it up, but it wasn’t until I was sitting on the roof delving into my new book that the statement really hit me.

Were… they interested? In me?

Why?

“Terrilyn?”

The sound of my name startled me out of my thoughts as I looked over at Steele, who sat down beside the house and was staring at me curiously. I gazed into the giant features of my adoptive Orion dad. His curious brow drew me in, willing the words out of me with the slightest provocation.

“Is everything alright?” asked Steele. “Did you find any treasures?”

I nodded and smiled up at him, showing off the rapier. He nodded his approval after taking the blade in his thumb and index finger, examining it with his immense violet eyes. I watched how he studied the blade, measuring the balance as he taught me how to do and testing the durability of the blade.

“This is a good sword,” he said softly. I felt my heart flutter in my chest, a swelling of pride rising up inside of me. “You chose well, though I think there may be something else on your mind?”

I don’t know how he managed to do it, but Steele, like my mother, has some strange ability to see right through me. I do want to talk about this thought about boys being interested in me, but how do I even start? After all of these years and through all of our conversations, one thing we never talked about was boys.

I wasn’t sure why I was nervous about talking about it. It wasn’t like it actually mattered; did it?

“Well… yes,” I muttered. “It was something momma said.” My cheeks suddenly felt warm, and something stirred in my chest. Awkwardness? Anxiousness?

Steele sat and waited patiently, unblinking and not pressuring me to speak. I liked that about him. When I thought I had my thoughts together, I sighed and finally managed to speak.

“Well, while we were in town, momma said that there were some boys asking after me. They asked if I was promised and such. I guess… I don’t know how I feel about that,” I muttered. I saw Steele’s eyes gaze at me pensively before a smile curled onto his face.

“You can feel however you would like about it; however, if it were me, I would feel… eh… koonyardo vi… special,” stated Steele. It made sense in its own way. Still, it didn’t make sense to me.

“But why though?” I asked, genuinely confused. “I mean. No one other than you and momma have really cared about me. And what if I don’t have those same feelings? Is that… wrong?” Steele shook his head, his hair swaying like branches in the wind. His hand came up and rested near me as I sat there on the roof gazing up at him, the new book I purchased pinched between my fingers.

“Terrilyn, you are so very special and unique. No one I know is like you, and they are starting to see it now. If you do not feel that way, then that is okay. You do not have to feel that way until you are ready,” stated Steele. I couldn’t help but smile as I leaned forward and touched his finger, tracing the ridges of his fingerprint with my hand. I felt ease come over me, but it was sadly short lived when a new question infected my mind.

“What if I don’t feel that way ever?” I asked. Steele chuckled and pressed his fingertip into my leg ever so slightly.

“Then you do not have to. You have to ask yourself, Terrilyn, what you want out of life?”

Steele’s question loomed in the air like a continuous cloud. It stayed in the air and clung to my mind, settling into the deepest parts of me.

What did I want?

Not just today, but out of my life?

I thought about the people in the town living their lives and the adventure the caravans and nomads promised. I thought about the lands I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t learned. So much of me felt torn about everything I wanted to do that, suddenly, one thing caught my attention.

Just as I felt the confusion filling me like an overpoured cup, a warm summer gust swept over me. The wind came from the land and blew the lose strands of auburn hair into my face. Instinctually, I turned my head away and found my eyes fixated on the horizon where the ocean and lands beyond waited.

All at once, the answer became apparent.

“I want to learn,” I said softly. “I want to see what’s beyond the horizon. I want to study and learn everything I can, and I want you and momma there with me.”

Indescribable feelings swirled in my mind, but a quick glance at Steele’s smile over my shoulder gave me all of the reassurance I needed. It wasn’t that there was a wrong answer, but it was the fact I was able to give an answer was what really mattered.

“Terrilyn,” said Steele with a fatherly smile on his lips. “Kootha sapien tralu yoo’cur inna.” It was a phrase I knew well after spending so much time with Steele. He said it so often and me knowing his language gave such a positive feeling to his words.

It meant, “You’re wise beyond your years.”

It was his way of giving his blessing to me, and it would be well spent.

“Now, would you like to read aloud? Or spend time alone?” asked Steele, giving me a playful nudge as I kept my balance on the roof top. The feelings of anxiousness vaporized in an instant and the playfulness returned.

“Absolutely,” I said. I pocketed the book and secured the rapier. I knew he would offer his hand, but I had something else I wanted to try – something I needed to try.

I turned quickly on my feet and, before he could draw away or offer his hand, I stepped up on top of his hand and darted up his arm, clutching onto the fabric constructing his shirt and making it all the way up to his shoulder on my own strength.

His eyes widened, impressed by my speed and strength, as I secured myself onto his shoulder.

“You’ve been practicing,” said Steele, his deep, thunderous voice reverberating with resounding amazement.

“I learned from the best,” I said. “Now, let’s get started. Just… start walking. That way!” I pointed toward the coastline, hoping to gaze at the ocean as I read aloud to Steele. The Orion nodded and, standing carefully, made sure to wave good-bye to my mother before he began walking in my nondescript direction.

Like how I pointed in a random direction, I wasn’t sure where my life was going. What I did know was that I had Steele and my momma behind me, supporting and loving me. Really, what more did I need?

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Book One: The Orion’s Factotum

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Thieving Flowers

Summary: you find out whose been taking your flowers.

Warnings: fluff

You hummed to yourself as you poured your morning coffee. Slipping your fingers between the mug and the handle, you hummed at the warmth in your hands. It was a lazy for you, on of those rare occassions that you had off from your job. You looked out itno your backyard, smiling as you noticed a cardinal sitting on the widowsill. You turned around and grabbed a small bag of trail mix that you loved to snack on during work befor you made your way out to the yard.

The moment you had sat in a lawn chair, the cardinal that was perched on the sill flew down to you and twitched its head. You smiled and poured a few pieces of trail mix into the palm of your hand before hoding it to the small bird. The pecking tickled you and you waited utnil the bird had its’ fill before walking over t oexamine your garden. You had noticed several plucked flowers missing in spaces and frowned.

You assumed the children down the street couldn’t be taking your flowers but shrugged ti off, thinking perhaps, that it had been a hungry squirrel looking for a new diet.

Again, the next week, flowers were missing from your garden. And you had remembered planting them, you weren’t going insane. You had decided to set up a camera, just to make sure you weren’t going insane. Of course, setting up a camera to begin with was perhaps insane.

Three nights passed without incident. Until Thursday had come. You were concentrating on the camera screen when a motorcycle had pulled up. The man had taken off the helmet and quickly checked his surroundings before siddling up to your gate and strolling over to your garden. He knelt down by a flowerbed of lilacs and daises beofre plucking a few of them and then walking back out of your yard.

You frowned at the incident, but you decided not to press charges. Afetr all, they were only flowers and they would grow back, it wasn’t too much of a big deal to you. But now that you had a face to the criminal, you decided to wait outside next time for him. You had noticed a patterns over the last few weeks, he’d come every Thursday and Saturday morning. He’d plcuk different flowers, but it was always in three’s.

Early one morning, you had deicded to wake up and try and catch the culprit face to face. He seemed to arrive right after the early mornign rush hour and never too late in the afternoon. So you’d wait patiently.

Once you heard the sound of the motorcycle blasting down the street, you cautiously stepped up the your back door, waiting for the man to step into your yard.

“Excuse me?” you called, opening the door as the man had entered your yard and plucked three flowers. He halted in his step for a moment before turning to face you, a guilty expression falling onto his face. “Those are my flowers you’re taking.”

He opened his mouth several times before licking his lips and dropping his shoulders. “I’ll pay the money to get them planted again, ma’am.”

“Why steal them to begin with?” you asked, folding your arms across your chest. “There are flower shops all over the city.”

He closed his eyes tightly and let out a deep breath. “I have this friend in this hospital.” He reopened his eyes, looking guilty as ever. “He might not have long to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” you frowned. “But that’s no excuse to be stealing from someone’s property. I could have you arrested for this.”

“Please don’t.” he shifted nervously on his feet. “LIke I said, I’ll pay for the gardening and everything.”

“That wasn’t until I came and confronted you.” You accused.

“Look, my friend Bucky is in the hospital.” the man said. “He might be dying and he used to live around here before he was deployed.”

“Bucky?” your eyes grew wide. “What do you... Oh fuck me.” you blow out air before scrubbing a hand down your face. “You must be Sam Wilson?” you blinked. “He spoke highly about you in his letters to me when he was abroad.”

“He never told me about you.” He smirked.

“My name is Y/N.” you smiled. “Care to come in?”

“I’m late for seeing him, actually.” He smiled apologettically. “He’s going to murder me if he knows I got caught. Maybe that’s why he told me specifically about this garden.”

“He knew I would catch on to his damn schemes.” You swore with a grin on your face. “Damn, that man is slick.”

“Come join me in a ride to the hospital?” Sam smiled, holding out the helmet to you.

Looking between the garden and Sam, you smiled and took the helmet from his hands and strapped it to your head before climbing in behind him

[werezmastarbucks]

silver

part one - Golden

part three - Black

part four - Green

As the time passes, and weeks turn into months, Orlaith feels that even the Dumbledores don't much care about finding and helping Credence.

credence barebone x fem!OC

warnings: Credence is dying, cursing, violence, Hogwarts legacy spoilers

fantastic beasts x hogwarts legacy crossover

word count: 8980

author's note: I decided to butcher the timeline. Heck, Orlaith's supposed to be looking for Credence for six years? And everybody's just sitting, doing nothing meanwhile? Plus, I am ready to fight filmmakers on the plotholes they created, so I don't care. That boy didn't have six years, no matter how strong he was.

music: my sweet prince by placebo, various storms and saints by florence+the machine, wer bin ich by lafee, alleine zu zweit by lacrimosa, woods by askii

He landed in the freezing yard, his palms stung with the snowflakes thrown forth by the ferocious wind. The fortress looked like a ship behind the sea mist. It was hard to keep his face up, but the snow was at least making it numb. He heard himself breathe, with a little bit of wheez. His back ached, and something was crawling on the inside of his spine; Credence felt tired. He leaned against the ice-cold stone of the gate, lifted his collar against the wind, and listened a little.

He knew that there, deep in the forest below the castle that stood on the edge of the mountain, huge spiders cracked their dry legs while climbing the rocks; snow horses ran through the moors, and meak, black birds snuggled in tight flocks, trying to withstand the neverending winter. It always snowed. It was always black.

He entered the gate and walked towards the small opening which he usually got into the castle through. Nurmengard was a grim but imposing place, reeking of old. Its square towers constantly faced the northern winds that sometimes flew with the power of furious gods. Nothing could break through; magic buckled in each corner, each little window, cloaked it tight, like desperate mothers roll their newborn babies into the blankets.

He walked these hallways, bleak and slightly bronze in the light of the evening, and cold, blue during the day, with his head down. Very often he didn't wish to see Vinda, peeking out from around the corners, following him. Other times, he would just close his eyes and wish everything away, wish the time ran faster, to the inevitable end.

He would go up into his room in one of the towers, where the entrance gave uncomfortable view of the bed, so everyone who came to see him could catch him off guard.

He now wore a long black coat that hid his crooking body. The spasms and pains came ever more often now, when the winter night never ended and kept curling behind the window with thick, ornamented glass. Credence thought that sometimes he saw some prophecies, some silhouettes in the dancing snow, but could never make them speak to him.

What spoke to him was the mirror.

One of those evenings a message had been waiting for him, which he wiped away, furious. Rather, it wasn't a message, but a name, his name, as though his father was trying desperately to get him to talk.

He constantly was thinking about the castle and why the mirror in his room connected to mirror his father had. Grindelwald didn't like talking of Dumbledore; when he did, his face took on that disgusting expression, as if it hurt him. Credence knew it was an act. He saw the wizard through and through; all his pretence, and quiet rage, the way he was trying to make all of his scheming work. How the vein under his left eye twitched every time somebody spoke to him at the wrong time. The little snaking smile Gellert had for him, like the superficial warm greeting, made him want to turn and break himself apart.

But he still kept the mirror. Or did he forget about its existence? Did all the mirrors connect to Hogsmeade or one of Dumbledores? Was he reading the messages his father has been sending him, and what he was replying?

Credence used this mirror to look at himself past the foggy words. His skin was getting paler, especially in contrast with the long black hair. He thought, this couldn't be good. The way his black inner was now almost shining through his skin. His eyelids heavy all the time. Very often he felt no strength in his hands, and only when it was time to kill, a surge of anger was articulating his limbs. And he killed. To kill, was the only thing Grindelwald wanted him to do. Of course, it would be silly even to think that the madman would notice Credence whither away right in front of him. When he took his shoulder, with his dry and cool hand, he never wished him to be better, but reminded him to stay alive just long enough to be able to kill his uncle. Credence imagined that afterwards, freedom was awaiting, and maybe he could see the golden witch once again. Right before he would die.

Grindelwald asked about her once. It was lucky that there were other things on his mind at the time; he was looking for a Qilin, working with Vogel, building a plan. More than anything, he was preoccupied with the Deathly Hallows, a symbol of which Credence still had. Mystical, mythological, far-fetching legend for those who seek immortality. Why one would want to be immortal, Credence didn't know. One short life was unbearable enough. He thought of her golden earrings and purple sparkles of her magic under her skin. There were now such distances between them that, when Gellert asked him, pretending to be indifferent, just curious, just to upheave a conversation, Credence managed to stay calm.

"Remember the girl who was with you last year, when I picked you up? Who was she?"

"I told you she was a freak from the circus", Credence was looking at the swirling, dark-purple liquid in his cup. It smelt of black current and cholocate and was steaming.

"Yes, but see, I don't think you've told me the truth. The chains on her, I thought they looked familiar..."

Credence looked at him. Between 'Credence' and 'Aurelius', Grindelwald decided not to choose, and didn't call him anything anymore.

"I don't know what they were. She'd been brought to the circus and never performed. The owner couldn't get her to do any tricks. Eventually, two weeks in, we just escaped together, but I never got the chance to ask her why she was there".

Grindelwald hummed in agreement, looking above his shoulder. At any given time in Nurmengard, Queenie was somewhere not far away from him, just lingering, like a ghost. Like he used to be. Credence turned around and gave her a stern look. Queenie always held onto the doorframes or the backs of the chairs for support.

"He's telling the truth. He remembers her golden earrings, and..." she broke off, seeing his eyes. Somehow she betrayed Orlaith, mentioning it.

"Oh", said Grindelwald quietly.

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In the summerland, where the warmth was, opposite to the weather in the mountains of Austria, the air was flickering with the tiny bodies of flying bugs. Orlaith put a bandlet in her hair to get the locks away from her face, as she fished. She didn't fish in the normal sense, but for the research. The Bluetails were extremely rare. She's been hearing about them for years, and they were even mentioned in Newt's fantastic book. Even there - only once; for he hadn't encountered them very often. The beauty of those little fishes was all in their long, birdlike tails, that glowed when in the water, therefore, always. During the day, they just seemed to gleam a little, but at night, sensing the blue light of the moon, Bluetails made the whole pond glow with all shades from turquoise to deep marine blue. During her search of Grindelwald, she found herself in Northern Ireland, where the whole little town of Helen's Bay was humming with the talk of Bluetails. They have had these stories for ages now, the magic folk, of course, and Orlaith, frustrated and tired, decided to go check and bring her mind in order. The wood anemones and bluebells were scattered around the deep and hidden forest pool, and the small butterflies fluttered around her head, seeing the bright guilded decoration on her hair.

Orlaith released a Bluetail back into the water and looked at the faded, pale powder left on her palms. The burnscars have almost gone, but the skin wasn't smooth anymore. It's been almost exactly a year since Grindelwald has taken away Credence, and she was afraid he'd regretted going instead of her. There were probably very few places in the magical world now sadder than wherever Grindelwald was; the worry about obscurial slowly killing him constantly made her fidget with impatience. She had been all throughout Europe and found nothing, but then again, she had no help, and didn't really know how to search for them properly. Many times she thought to herself that she had enough power to just raze whatever hiding place the mage chose to, the ground. She had enough fury for that. The thought that, of all people, Credence Barebone, whether he felt like Aurelius or not, had to go through that, made her blood boil.

What a beautiful place this was; well-hidden deep in the woods, where any person, even very quick-footed, would have to search for a whole day. Passages were tangled with cobwebs and old, strong branches and new, stubborn saplings; throns, briar, and tall elder bushes were barricading the way. And here, in the circle of ancient trees, this small pond was protected with everything nature had, just to admire at these little fishes, giving the night its ethereal glowing. Now it was about to be protected by Orlaith's magic, too, so that no one would ever discover Bluetails. Let them be the stuff of tales.

She decided to rest just a little more, drowning in lush moss, her head heavy, but it was not to be. She could hear the flapping of the ghostly wings. She put her hand to her forehead to protect eyes from the sun; a barely visible patronus flew up and was floating three steps away, right above the water. The sunrays of the evening were shooting through it, making parts of its body invisible. It was a phoenix.

"Professor?" she said.

The non-verbal message in her head sounded like Dumbledore's voice.

it's time to come back home.

Even is she hadn't lost guidance and wasn't out of ideas, she wouldn't have been able to disobey. The message was just a tiny bit concerned. As the phoenix threw its silvery wings and flew up, disappearing in the evening light, she clutched on the moss. Just five more minutes here, in her dreams, with the sound and smell of the forest. Then she started making the protective spells.

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August at Hogwarts was one of the best months; to say nothing about the cheerful and warm view of the castle, strong, huge and greyish-pale in the orange sun, the animals and insects - insects most of all - were doing the last summer dances. The squid was a frequent guest at the picnics near the lake, and Hogsmeade was already full of people. The dread with which the vendors and the house elves were expecting students every year, was endearingly comical. First rogue leaves left their trees and now were making their great travel across the huge territory, flying all the way from the Quidditch field to the forest in the northern side. Across there, the big lake laid glistening, bubbling, ringing with life underneath water. The almost dissipating waterfalls were being filled again with the rains, running happily and with noise; only May could be better. When Dumbledore called it home, it wasn't only for Orlaith, but for many other people who clung on to it.

She came back on the last day of August, while the castle was all but vibrating with preparations. As usual, rare early students who had some extra cause were already there, wandering aimlessly across the green and stone yards. The Headmaster Dippet was at all the places at once. The air of the castle, by the way, with its green hallways, and very strictly ornated Big Hall, still had a very faded feeling of Black being there. As she returned to Hogwarts, every time, because she couldn't stay away, she contemplated on the repetitiveness of time, and thought of other Blacks that were to come, and the one Black she wanted to save very much, in fact. But the future was so dim, so uneven now.

A year was the longest she's been away, in all her time in the wizarding world.

"Peverell!" was the first thing she heard as she entered the huge doors of the castle. Her light, happy pondering was smashed with a ball of water immediately, shaking her awake at once.

"Pevees!" she yelled, then took out her wand.

"Where have you been!"

Another water bomb flew past her as she ducked in time.

"Away!"

She pointed her wand at the poltergeist.

"I'm all wet now, Peeves!"

He laughed with the most disgusting laughter.

"That's for leaving me alone for a year!"

"I'm not your nanny, Peeves", she grumbled, shaking her hair and unbraiding it. The water started dripping down her collar. But she removed the wand.

Poltergeist let her be somewhere on the fourth floor already. She headed for the DADA class, sensing no presence of Dumbledore anywhere else.

Orlaith knocked like she used to, and pushed the door open. The light class, complete with empty (for now) aquariums, iron traps on the walls as if it was an exhibition of torture; and rows of empty decanters, bottles and viles; the pictures, although it looked like some of them haven't been buttoned to the wall properly, of various creatures and wizards, looking very threatening, with their teeth bare, wands pointed. And her favorite: the golden ornament on the wall, giving the class a feeling of never-setting sun.

The little door at the top of the stairs opened, and Albus stood there for a second. She smiled and almost ran to him;

"Come up!" he called, "I have guests".

He was waiting for her at the top of the stairs; bright blue eyes smiling, and the golden chain on his pocket. Always with a straight back, soft in his movements, welcoming. He laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Orlaith would hug him but she was almost dripping with water; the water balls Peeves has been shooting at people weren't fist-sized.

"Has Peeves proclaimed his undying love for you?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Oh, as usual. Nothing changed at all".

"How did you travel?" he asked, as they entered the inner office.

"Okay, apparating here and there, then I took a train for a little, because I don't know inner Ireland too well. Quite comfortably".

At Dumbeldore's office, a boyish man with his ravaged ginger hair, in his unchanging blue coat, was sitting at the table, bowing his head above something. As he turned, Orlaith threw her hands open.

"Orlaith!"

"Newt!"

They almost hugged.

"Ow. Why are you wet?"

Dumbledore sent a drying spell from behind her back, and she felt warm again.

"Tea?" Professor asked after they all greeted each other, and hugged, and shook hands.

"I would prefer coffee, actually", Orlaith nodded with gratitude. She liked Professor's office, because it was spacious and very cosy at all times. It was a Dumbledore thing, she thought. Of course, it was extremely interesting to look at all the curious mechanisms and instruments that were hung under the ceiling or laid on the shelves behind his desk; she always tried to riddle herself with various strange symbols and undecipherable writings on the little chalkboard he had at the door, a twin of one in the main class. Why was the blue globe constantly spinning by itself? And why did the windows in his office glimmer with some pearl shining in the evening, and the glass appeared to become soft? There were a lot of curious things in Dumbledore's office, but the best part was himself. Always welcoming, with a secret smile in his eyes. For now, he was still young, she thought, very handsome. His sleeves always rolled up to his elbows, and a grin hidden in his beard, he looked at people with a kind tilt of the head. After she's been thrown into this world, she's been waiting for Dumbledore to come to Hogwarts; it's been some time ago. The first nine years she wasn't adjusted, hadn't had anybody to rely on, except for Fig. Sebastian? Sebastian was a cunning bastard, that's who he was.

She sat comfortably in one of the tall chairs draped with red (the colour of her house) together with Newt as Dumbledore brought her steaming coffee in a little blue porcelain cup. It smelt like black current.

"Well, you must be wondering why we've summoned you", he said, getting into his place across the desk.

"Because I couldn't find anything and you wanted me to stop running myself into a grave?" she asked.

"Oh. That, as well, of course, but, also", Dumbledore gestured towards Newt, who was, as usual, clutching on his magical suitcase. Pick was sitting on the desk in front of him, she noticed, and stared at her intently.

"What is it, Pickett?"

"Don't mind him", Newt mumbled, as he stood up to let himself open the case on the floor, "this morning, he fell into a pot of Scheming potion. He's been plotting against everybody the whole day today. Attacked Dumbledore already".

She raised her eyebrows. Dumbledore demonstrated a missing button on his sleeve.

"Vile", she laughed. Pick narrowed his tiny, tiny eyes.

"Doesn't it bother you, Newt, that when he falls into a Scheming potion, he's not overcome with the plans on world peace, but with murderous intent?"

"Oh, no", he giggled, "he's always been a vindictive little fellow".

Finally, the case snapped, and Newt recovered an animal from it. For several seconds there was silence and the zoologist held the little deer-like creature with scaly skin in his hands. Dumbledore was thinking about something.

"What is it?" she asked. "It looks familiar".

Newt let it on the floor, and the creature trotted towards her carefully. Orlaith gave her hand out of habit, and felt the wet little nose touching the tips of her fingers.

"Extremely rare, almost extinct. It's a baby Qilin, Orlaith".

She slid down from the chair and sat on the floor as the little Qilin sniffed and examined her. It let her hand caress it on its head.

"Wonderful", Dumbledore mumbled. It felt like he had been holding his breath. "She likes you".

"Why wouldn't she?" Orlaith wondered.

Newt shrugged,

"Well, Qilins are very gentle creatures, very sensitive. They prefer pure and soft people, and you're... not to be mistaken, you're very kind, but you're just so, so angry most of the time".

She scoffed. The Qilin baby was scuttling around her in circles.

"We are going to need you to take care of her", Dumbledore said. Orlaith looked up. From where he sat, only a part of her face, forehead and her two eyes were seen.

"I need to go back to Europe, you know that. I'm searching for him".

"Orlaith", Newt said quietly, his face already sorry. He always looked like he was about to cry, it was just his eyes, surrounded by freckles, but now he really did look very sad.

"Credence killed her mother. I only managed to save one of the two babies".

She took the baby into her arms, and it folded its thin legs, cooeing softly. For several seconds the two men were watching her intently.

She turned to Dumbledore again.

"And now what, we give up on him? Because Grindelwald has him in the iron clutch?"

"We don't", Albus replied carefully, "can you get up? I can't see you".

She sat back on the chair, with Qilin in her arms. The little weight of her small body, the feeling of her breathing, soft, warm scales on the sides of her tiny body, made her feel almost like a mother. But the thought of Credence, his name said aloud, stung her temples like a needle.

"He's in too deep, and he's with Grindelwald, you're right. And we won't give up on him".

"Strange, all this past year I was the only one looking for him".

"Because I've been preoccupied with other matters", Dumbledore retorted calmly. "And now I need you to join me".

"Is this a part of a plan?" she meant the Qilin.

Newt swayed uncertainly.

"How long am I supposed to stay here then?"

Albus frowned.

"I don't know, Orlaith".

"He's there because of me. He has only joined him to save me, and now he's killing rare animals? Grindelwald has done something to him".

"Credence has had a very tough upbringing. I don't think a lot was needed to harden him".

"I don't care".

Newt caressed Qilin's head carefully.

"Orlaith, I think that this baby now is your best chance at saving him", he said, peacefully.

"I know you want to find them", Dumbledore added, "and turn the ground upside down, and strike them with lightnings. But remember what happened the last time you underestimated your enemies".

Nasty, smart Dumbledore, she wanted to say. You always know better, and you always will, but it's so exasperating. She gave the Professor a long look, then, Newt.

"You don't trust me?"

"I trust you, Professor. But I know you're always calculating. Don't think I don't suspect there's more to this favour than what meets the eye".

Dumbledore shrugged helplessly.

"Orlaith, it's instrumental that this baby is undiscovered and unharmed", Newt pointed. "She is absolutely the most important thing we have against Grindelwald".

Picket jumped at her, launching himself into her hair, and started jabbing at her head. It felt like light scratching on her scalp because he was, after all, a very good-natured bowtruckle. Newt rushed to pick him up, trying not to tear too much of her hair, awkwardly. She tilted her head, paying no attention to the attempt of assassination.

"Why me, exactly? To keep me from looking for Credence?"

"Orlaith", Dumbledore uttered, used to her complaining.

Newt smiled knowingly. He sat back, keeping the Pickett in his hand firmly.

"Oh, no, because, I think, you will protect her with your life, because you will love her very much".

She finished her coffee, silent, as the two men discussed the matters. She watched the light dying above the castle, as the golden rays started shooting on the walls through the windows. What's the use of this ancient magic, she thought, if she couldn't destroy people like Grindelwald with it? If she wasn't able to save people she loved? It felt like her battling days were now behind, and nowadays she's been sitting, gathering flies, and watching the seasons. There were no poachers nearby anymore.

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She had the Cloak of Invisibility that Dumbledore discovered in the empty Peverell manison in the Godric's Hollow. She thought it funny how the artefact travelled from Dumbledores to Potters, and back again. She did not disclose to him just yet the nature of the cloak, but kept an eye on it so that it would make it to James eventually. Now, it was exceptionally useful because she could hide the Qilin under it in the evening as she travelled to the castle. Together, the two of them, occupied a little house in the eastern part of Hogsmeade, with the windows looking out on the Potions and Lotions shop and the field beyond it. But the baby had to move a lot, so, in the evenings, Orlaith would take her with, and, invisible, go to the castle to the Room of Requirement where she released the little young beast to run around in the vivarium. Otherwise it was empty, save for little bugs; so the Qilin was in no danger. She decided not to give her any name because Orlaith didn't know what was bound to happen. So, she just called her 'baby'.

At night, she would return home with the tired baby in her arms, and the youngster slept in her bedroom on the second floor. For many months, it was a nice, quiet, exhausting life of obscurity, until commotion finally began.

There were spiders again, and dugbogs started appearing along the rivers in the Forest. It's been twenty years since she last saw any of them; the spiders were now cast out into the deepest caves only, and the dugbogs, she personally saw to them.

But that autumn, there was talk of them again, and several teachers had to inspect the Forest. Orlaith was agitated to spring into action again. She hoped, just a little bit, that poachers would return. Not that she wished any animals harmed, but she missed the practice, and the clean sweep of offensive magic as it made the forest glow in the dead on winter night; the perfectionistic feeling of cleaning the woods of them, seeing hares, owls and mooncalves return again to the places that had been scorched of life because of those killers. She was a killer, herself, she had no delusions of that. That was one thing Dumbledore and her never spoke about. He seemed to be unsure about her lust for destruction when she came upon those criminals.

She didn't get out much, still, because she was keeping an eye on the baby. Sometimes she would go to the castle to hang around and be unhelpful at something; desperately strained in between the professors, the students and the bypassers. She had no job, she was not studying anymore. She was almost invisible, unapplied. The teachers brought news of the armies of dark creatures breeding in the forest, meaning some threat brewing. Orlaith sometimes went out at night. The house was protected by invisibility spells, and only her and Dumbledore had the special magic matches that allowed them to see it. While she was outside, no soul could penetrate the dwelling, it became unreachable. She would leave the baby sleeping, with the milk next to her bed, and the fire just slumbering downstairs, and go to the forest, in her old blue cloak she used to wear before.

She remembered the forest very well. As the winter drew nearer, and the first November snow made the old paths more visible again, she spent more time hunting the reasons for this insidious activities. She didn't like killing even the dark creatures; she never hunted Mongrels, actively avoiding them and launching them deeper into the forest, further from the castle. She searched for humans; those who could tell her what's going on, and maybe carry the word from Grindelwald himself.

They used to be washed up, untidy, careless, dirty poachers, easy to kill. They cursed, and scattered at the sight of her sky-blue cloak, they were disorganised and unskilled. The people she started meeting now, looked different. Those were dark acolytes of the wizard whose name it was still allowed to say out loud. And they were way more treacherous.

Now, Orlaith had to make sure none of them actually escaped, not to let Grindelwald hear even a whiff of her existence. Once or twice they managed to hurt her well, wounding her, but every time the instinct, and the force that supported her actually did the rest as she was bleeding. One of the nights in December she got caught up in a group way bigger that she'd anticipated. After a quick but exhausting fight, her wand jumped out of her hand with a snap, and she was blinded by a red flash. The well-frozen earth was hard beneath her, and the sky, uneven. The sky was still pregnant with real snowstorms and couldn't show the stars to navigate by. Higher, above the trees, the wind was moving the masses of snow chaotically. Orlaith took a deep breath, waiting until the pain in her chest would cease. She wasn't even thinking of the prospect of death; that would be stupid. She was way too proud to speculate on the possibility of being defeated by a gang of outlaws, be they even Grindelwald's slick dark wizards with style, somewhere in the Forest. Laughable. And, she had been in these circumstances before. She recalled that the first time she actually got scared, because a witch without a wand feels like a cook without their arms. Her fear surged out of her, as if the earth itself heard her cry for help, and she managed to attack them without it. The second time, centaurs saved her, by that time already aware what kind of activities she's been conducting in the woods. The third time was now.

"Zabini!" she heard, "tie her up. The Lord will want to hear about this. This is probably the..."

"Zabini?!" she raised her head from the ground, although the world was still spinning. Indignation pressed on her chest.

"How dare you, you absolute laughing stock! You're the dirtiest, the unfixable boar-"

The running steps lifted snow off the ground as she sat up. She put the cloak around her, because it was getting cold.

"Shut up!"

"No, you shut up!" she yelled. She didn't know Zabini's face or even whether this one was a man or a woman. But the familiar name was so funny, so absurd.

"Which one of you is Zabini?!"

One more spell landed almost next to her hand on the ground. Orlaith tried to stand up, but was still weak.

"She's moving", and arrogant female voice said, "get her, quicker".

She rolled over and stood on her fours, feeling for her wand. That is the only time I can stop thinking about Credence, she thought. The only time I'm having fun. The wand was somewhere out of reach while the feet of the... Grindelwalders? were approaching. Someone even kicked her on her ribs, and she nearly threw up.

"Okay, enough", she whispered, gatherting the focus in her hands. She could see her own fists glowing lightly, as the whirlwind of magic roared inside of her. I might be arrogant, of course, she was thinking. But I am so bloody strong.

The umbrella of power opened up above her, knocking the closest ones off their feet. Several of their curses flew up in the sky like fireworks. Night birds, bothered by the noise, took off and flew away.

"Where's my wand?!" she screamed. She stepped up to the nearest body and found their wand. One by one, with a little disobedient wand in her hand, she got rid of them. Her side was surely bleeding, she felt that, but for now, the adrenaline gave her energy, even zest. Finally, she found her own wand and changed them, approaching the last living witness.

He was crouching on the ground, with a bloody nose. She kicked his wand away.

"Which one are you?"

In the Lumos light his face looked completely white, like a square cube of ice, his eyes reflecting flashes.

"Za-Zabini".

"Oh, you're ugly", she lingered, "I don't recognize you. Where's Grindelwald?"

"I would rather die than tell you".

"Come on. Don't you want to satisfy the Cutter?"

His face frowned with confusion.

"Who?"

Orlaith was jabbed with the arrow of reality.

"Alright. Alright. Anyway, I need to know about Credence. The obscurial boy. Where is he? Is he with him?"

Zabini was dying. He sighed, weakly. She poked him with her wand.

"Tell me. Where are they? Why are you so close to Hogwarts?"

Zabini kicked on the ground because his body refused to die.

"Imperio".

The wizard stiffened up, looking in front of himself. His eyes were filled with fog.

"Where is the obscurial?"

"With Grindelwald".

"Where is it?"

"I don't know. They are on the move".

She shivered a bit with biting cold. She started jumping on one place.

"Alright, have you seen him?"

"Who?" he asked, dumbly.

"Obscurial! Obscurial!"

"Long ago".

"How was he?"

"Dark", Zabini whispered. "Like the death himself. Half-shadow and deadly. He doesn't speak much".

She let go of him, allowing him to die. She wished there was a hippogriff nearby that could carry her home.

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She usually sang while she walked outside Hogsmeade. The spring was drawing near, and the Qilin was growing. This little girl has grown no less than ten inches since August. She ran around on strong, sure legs now, and could jump almost the height of a human.

Orlaith sang to take her mind off things. She was picking the first flowers to make the vitamin potion for the baby. Lily of the valley, while it was very young, lacked any poison but was rich with the spring water that was instrumental for growth of even-toed animals; magical and non-magical alike.

Thawing made the world ring softly, along with her song. There was a lot of water closer to the east side of Hogsmeade; she was careful not to step into a deep puddle of grass and ice.

"Orlaith!" someone called her. From distance, she didn't even recognize him. Limping, grey, hurrying, it was Aberfort, but she only understood it when he was close. Orlaith avoided meeting him; she didn't know why. Perhaps she didn't want to see shadows on his already disappointed face. She felt uncomfortable in his presence; he was always grumpy, unfriendly and uneasy. This, now, was the fastest she'd ever seen him move.

"Albus, wants to talk to you".

"Why didn't he send an owl?" she asked, picking up the basket with flowers. Aberfort, without a warning, made the basket levitate and pushed it in front of him.

"He's in Berlin, would take too long. He's in the mirror. Let's go".

"In the mirro- oh, the mirrors" she gasped.

They ran down the slippery hill, their feet squishing the melted snow, wet through and through. Still violent, the air was swishing in her ears, but refreshing. Her mind wandered off to the baby as they passed the place where she knew her house was. Not even Aberfort knew where she lived and what she hid there.

They finally made it to the Hog's Head Inn, through the narrow, snaking streets of higher Hogsmeade. The basket landed on the table inside with a boom, and Aberfort showed her the way to the mirror that hung above the bar.

She saw the head and the shoulders of Albus. He was preoccupied, snow on the soles of his hat.

"Orlaith", he said, with relief, "how is the baby?"

"She's fine, she's growing really fast".

"Good". He looked somewhere beyond. Behind him, Orlaith saw the snowy alleyway, narrow and empty. It looked like Dumbledore was standing in a dead end and peeking to see if any people watched him.

"I saw Credence", he said quickly. Her heart boomed right into her head with a hammer.

"In Berlin?"

"Yes. Grindelwald sent him to kill me. I have to admit, he got to the task rather half-heartedly".

"And how is he?"

"Angry, and very strong. It looks like he's using the obscurial masterfully already. Listen, you need to be ready the next month with the baby".

"For what?"

Aberfort was busying himself behind her back, between the tables. He just walked there, from chair to chair, throwing looks at the window.

"Can't tell you. Grindelwald found a way to see the nearest future, and he's always one step ahead of us. We can't know what each of us is doing".

"But now he'll know what I'm doing".

"He won't", Dumbledore shook his head negatively. "You're protected. Just be ready and... are you practicing?"

She nodded.

"You tend to be very messy in the heat of fight, Orlaith. With Grindelwald, even if one spell hits you, you die", he warned.

She nodded, acknowledging his rightfulness in worrying.

"You can give Aberfort a match, how do you think?" he suggested. "Just in case?"

Aberfort, upon hearing his name, stopped fidgeting and listened. Orlaith looked in her pouch that she wore on her belt.

"I won't even ask what case it is, Professor", she sighed. Aberfort approached her and took the simple looking match from her.

"What's it for?" he asked, without much interest. It looked like everything his brother did, Aberfort met with incredulity.

"You won't find my house without it", she clarified. That didn't help him much as he gave her the same sceptical look.

"Do not lose it", she said, firmly.

"Orlaith", Albus called, after short silence, "you need to know two things. He asked about you".

She felt like crying. How did she go from 'I need to protect this boy' to feeling her heart long for him? She didn't even consider him at first, thinking that then, last year, she was enfatuated with his bravery, with his sudden appearance, a familiar face in dire need. He took her by surprise by being so fairytaleishly noble, and their meeting was so quick. Now, she felt his absence every day, and the guilt weighed on her.

"And he is dying". Albus was grave. His eyes switched to his brother.

"No", she said. No, I refuse that. "You said he was angry and strong".

"Not in a good way".

"You said he was using the obscurial masterfully, not the other way round..."

"Orlaith... it's agony".

She sniffed through her nose.

"I'm sorry, but he doesn't have long. He's thinning, the obscurial is eating him alive".

She clenched her fists.

"No".

Albus opened his mouth, closed it. Aberfort was silent next to her. She noticed that he looked at his brother with eyes full of disappointment.

How come, she wanted to say, that I am more upset with the death of your son? Ah yes, you didn't want him.

"You told me obscurials can be healed out", she muttered instead, "you told me that if there are people who'll care about him, we can do it".

Dumbledore sighed.

"He's been alone too long".

"That's because..." she stopped herself. "Dumbledore, I have ancient magic. I can help".

"Do not make the mistake Isidora Morganach made, thinking that this kind of magic can solve everything", he reminded.

She didn't know what to say. There were so many untapped opportunities. There were wizards from other countries, obscurial specialists, there was Newt, after all. Albus could almost read her mind, saying,

"I'm sorry. He is my nephew. If there was something I could do for him, I'd be in the middle of it already".

She turned to Aberfort.

"Why are you so quiet? He is your son".

He didn't dare to look back. Just started at the match in his fingers, and walked away silently.

"This is ridiculous", she puffed, "don't expect me to give up on him".

Albus nodded.

"Would never. But don't have hope, Orlaith. It will destroy you".

That evening, she took a slow walk home, thinking. The flowers in the basket looked tired. It was raining a little, and wet, the wind was doing its last winter deeds, bringing pebbles, leaves and someone's kerchieves from place to place like it was autumn. Orlaith decided to stop at Honeydukes to get something for tea, and realized she didn't have any friends. No one to send an owl asking how she was, or call her for a coffee downtown. Exiting the shop with her hands full, she collided with a lady in a pale purple raincoat, with braids neatly laid upon her head. The woman looked distraught, a little confused. She is most curious, Orlaith thought, looking at how her eyes were running all over the place.

"Sorry", Orlaith said, "balance not good with my hands full".

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I wasn't seeing where I was walking at all".

Suddenly, the woman grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled under the light of a streetlamp. Orlaith saw her face, long and petite, with big teeth but a very nice nose that somehow correlated with her composition.

"Are you a Peverell by any chance?" she asked.

She doubted a little. She was a Peverell on the paper, on the portrait that's been found at the mansion. But she wasn't sure.

"I think..."

"I have a message for you. Hi, I'm Matilda, Matilda Crockleporne", the woman gave her hand, not realizing there was no way Orlaith could shake it.

"I'm going to be teaching Divinations at Hogwarts, starting next year", she smiled.

"Oooh", it made sense now. Orlaith smiled without enthusiasm. She wanted to be at home, crying her stomach out and holding her baby.

"But I came to Hogsmeade beforehand, because I felt that I needed to give a message to a Peverell. So, are you?"

"I'm the only one around, for sure", she shrugged.

"Great. I need to tell you - "don't prevent the tree from growing".

Orlaith bit her lip, utterly annoyed. They stood there, both, silent.

"Does it mean anything to you?"

Orlaith hummed.

"Well, I love trees. wouldn't prevent them from growing, but... I don't know".

Matilda appeared ruminating.

"No, that's all. I don't have any context".

"Do you ever. Thank you, nice to meet you, I need to go now", Orlaith bowed to her awkwardly and made her way back into the street. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn't take it. This feeling of irritation was eerily familiar: when you're feeling the most ignominious, there is going to be a foreteller in your face, giving you nothing but confusion.

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Credence was lying in his bed. Mara, the night demon, had just sprung from his chest as he woke up. He's been seeing only bad dreams for weeks. And when he woke up, another nightmare welcomed him in the shape of dark-red drape over the bed. Casting out any light. He didn't know what time it was, but through the window, pale dust was entering the room. His back hurt, so he got up slowly, not to sprain a muscle. His skin was cold, no matter how long he rubbed his shoulders.

He thought he knew what he was doing when he joined Grindelwald. Then he thought he had things to do, to kill time, as he was given various grim, soulless tasks. Kill this and that. Then, he realized why Grindelwald couldn't take on Dumbledore by himself. He felt like a tool. But it wasn't the worst thing he could be. He used to be an abomination and an object. So, instrument at least had a function. And then, when he saw his uncle in Berlin, he realized he didn't care. He thought he was angry with the Hogwarts professor in his brand new clean coat and with his perfect trimmed personality. But he didn't feel real hatred towards him. He was just tired. Dumbledore's voice echoed in his head ever since he's come back, and he was sure that Quieenie was tired of listening the same thing again and again, on repeat. When she looked at him, her little pale face twisted like she was about to wail. He was sure she wanted to tell him how sorry she was.

She's searching for you

He was sitting on his bed, freezing to death. His toes barely moved on the stone floor. Outside, below the edge of rocks, snowstorm fell down deep into the abyss. Phoenix was circling through the gusts of it. As he noticed the bird, Credence stood up and walked towards the window, opened the lock. The air stung him in the chest, for several seconds he couldn't breathe. Phoenix flew towards him, and he stepped away. He watched the beautiful, mirthless bird fly through the room.

"Why are you here?"

It didn't say anything but sat on his shoulder, little steady paws pricking his skin.

"I know".

It was hard to stand. There were better and worse days; on the better ones he felt the waves of strength that made him overwhelmed with desire to move and fight. Today was one of the worse days. He felt his illness very clearly, he could hear the obscurial devouring his bones. It thought it was silent, but Credence heard it; the snapping, clicking sound coming from the inside. He went to the mirror, sent the bird to the door. In the fog where his face was usually reflected, he wrote with his finger,

I want to see her

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An owl was clicking on the window gently. But Orlaith was sleeping, and seeing a dream about a giant spider, one from the forest, with a hair brush in one leg, and a wand in another, and a mirror in the third, and a brick in the forth. As it snapped its jaws at her, cornering her between a sharp rock and a broad cobweb placed there specifically to trap her. Her wand was missing. Click-click-click the jaws said. She was calling for Sirius Black, who wouldn't be born for good twenty-five years yet. She just had the idea that his dog form would be a tremendous companion on her forest raids.

She woke up when the spider jumped, and saw the baby standing beside the bed. It was looking at the window.

She patted it on the head and opened the window. The little grey owl gave her her leg, and Orlaith untied the note.

"Do you guys want breakfast?" she asked, but then she read it.

The three of them ran downstairs, the Qilin baby happier than the two others. She raced for her plate and started drinking immediately. Orlaith took the owl on her arm and put on her coat; took some treats for the bird and ran out of the house.

It was raining; March was almost over, and it was crying heavily, like a capricious child. There were few people in the streets, everybody was warming to the fire inside. She ran through Hogsmeade, and the owl eventually took off from her hand after munching on biscuits a little. She watched its gliding flight above her head, as they both headed for the Inn.

Orlaith didn't knock on the back door through which they usually entered the Inn. Aberfort was sitting, waiting at one of the ever-empty tables. The season was over, and the next one hasn't begun yet. In the misty, humid space of the house, she smelt his sweat and the old wood.

"Where is he?"

"In Austria", Aberfort replied, unaffected. Orlaith froze in place.

"What? Wh- why did you send..."

He motioned towards the mirror.

"He wrote to me".

"You talk to him through the mirror?" she wondered. The anger was brewing inside of her silently. How funny it was. By the mundane tone he said it, it was obvious he had access to Credence all this time. And nobody bothered to let her know.

"Yes. He said he needs to meet you. Give me the location and the time".

"Do you still have the match?"

"Yes. When and where?"

She rubbed her forehead, sweating under the coat from running.

"There's this place in Northern Ireland. It's very well protected. I'll draw you a map".

As she was leaving, she wondered if the mirror messaging has been corrupted and whether Grindelwald could write messages instead of Credence. But she wouldn't care. She trusted her own rage, forgetting about what Dumbledore said.

"Orlaith", Aberfort called when she was at the door. Her name sounded so rough, foreign in his mouth.

"Do you think he can forgive me?"

She pressed her jaws.

"I wouldn't. But I'm not him".

She really didn't know.

At night, she made sure the baby fell asleep, and the house was protected. She checked it three times. There were many variants now. It could have been a plot to lure her out of the house and seize the Qilin, or Aberfort in the morning could have not been Aberfort. Maybe Grindelwald already knew about everything. She was blinded. As she dressed and did her hair, she put on her hoop rings she wore at the time she was at the circus. The road out of Hogsmeade was shorter if one went straight from the back of the house, past Potions and Lotions, up the hill to the woods. She disapparated from there and spent the next three hours walking through the wet Irish forest. She cut the branches and cleared the bushes where she could. Worry was tearing her ribcage apart. But it felt just like a tale from the book. In the moonlight, as the restless day strom had quietened, the woods stood vigilant and wet; the birds cooed gently from the distance, and her steps were softened by the damp, awakening earth. Soon, this will be paradise again, with ladybugs occupying one tree trunk in thousands; with diagonal rays of sunlight on the webs, and small animals racing in the tall, thick moss. She was quite tired whe she finally realized that she was at the edge of her own protective dome. She needed to eliminate all protection for Credence to be able to find her. But first, she decided to enter and check if everything was alright. Approaching the pond in almost complete darkness, she was guided by the glow from the water. The moon was hidden behind the clouds. Her heart was beating so loudly it was obvious to anybody who could be there.

There was someone watching her, next to the big stone that stood above the water. Her eyes adjusted to the enchanted light, and she saw it was Credence.

They shouted at once, simultaneously,

Revelio!

Nothing happened. So, he had somehow found her well-hidden pond. She had no doubts the protection still stood, as she, herself, had to trace the edge of it with magic. But he had already been waiting for her, and the spell didn't disclose any charms. She ran towards him, whispering his name. Credence was taller, it seemed, although she knew it was impossible. His pale face was absolutely infernal in this aquamarine light. But his eyes were the same, cautious, distinctly dark. His hair was long and messy, as if he was trying to hide his face in it. She took his hand and he clenched it.

A little smile cut his face and warmed it up.

"What are those?" he asked, instead of greeting.

"Bluetails. They're very rare. They glow in water".

"But it's fish. They're always in water".

"Exactly", she smiled, realizing that she's crying. She embraced him, and Credence didn't push back but accepted it. His hand laid on her back, fingers light like a kiss from the gust of wind.

They sat on the stone where it was the lightest. Orlaith was examining his face.

"How are you?"

Credence made himself look normal.

"Alright".

"Let me see your arms".

"No", he stopped her hand, catching her fingers and lightly stroking them. "I'm fine".

"Dumbledore said..."

He chuckled.

"Dumbledore says so many things I can't believe half of them".

"What do you mean?"

"I guess, nothing".

It didn't feel like a place to talk about their mentors. But there was nothing else to talk about it. Orlaith asked him where he was kept; and how to get him out; and how he got out this time. He mentioned that Queenie was invasively miserable but supportive, and that he, actually, owed her a lot.

"I'm sorry you had to do it", Orlaith said, meaning his capitulation to the Lord.

"I don't regret it".

"I bet you do".

He looked at her hair and the glimmering earring. She could feel his smile with her skin.

"I don't".

Orlaith was looking at his palm when he turned her own and touched the old burn scars.

"They're almost gone".

"Yes, the medicine the elf gave me was good. I kept it. It really removes the scars pretty quickly".

Credence raised her hand to his face and kissed her palm.

Bluetails scurried in the water, gathering closer to them, curious to look back.

"Don't go back", she said, after a while. Credence shook his head slowly.

"He'll know where I am. Now I need to be there".

"What for?"

Credence didn't reply. Instead, it felt like he was gathering strength to say something else.

It was strange. She knew he was Aurelius by birth, but he didn't look that at all. The other name felt so natural on him. She was going to ask about it, but Credence said,

"I brought him a Qilin. I killed his mother and stole it. Almost killed Scamander in the process".

His eyes were now waiting. She had known about that, but was still taken aback by his firm tone. She looked at his face, whithered, sick. It was agonizing.

"You should hate me for that", he helped. "He killed the baby".

His stare was empty, the sharpened features of his face making him look like one of the statues in the basement levels of Hogwarts, the ones surrounding the Slytherin main room entrance.

"Why did he need the Qilin only to kill it?"

"Yesterday he resurrected it with necromancy".

She wished Dumbledore was here to help her think.

"Why?"

Credence shrugged.

"Why aren't you mad?"

"All of you Dumbledores are trying to make me give up on you. I won't do that. Think, Credence".

She said it the same way she said to him, Credence, my friend, listen to me. Taking him by the neck and making him get himself together. A matter-of-fact tone she used, to tell him he still mattered, was lovely. He felt warm first time in a long time. He felt the chthonic power of obscurial ease up a little.

"There will be election for the new leader of magical world soon", he said. Apparently, they both thought about the same thing, but not quite identical. Credence's eyes narrowed, as Orlaith's, in turn, widened.

"He sees the future. We can't have a plan".

She shook her head in agreement.

"Just go with it. And hold on until we meet".

Credence looked at their interlocked fingers.

"I don't think we will. What Dumbledore told you is true. I'm more obscurial now than a human".

Orlaith forced herself onto his shoulders, grabbing him, hugging, burying him in the wave of her hair, her fingers stroking his head.

"No, I need you".

He closed his eyes. The concept of that was unclear to him, but he made himself believe.

"Alright", he pressed his forehead against hers. "Then, when we meet, what?"

"Don't have any plan", her smile flashed in the blue light. "But improvise".

"Trust your rage?" he smirked.

She couldn't speak, as if she was the weaker one. Credence knew he had to go, but alternatively, dying right at that moment was a good enough compensation for his life.

[iblazitastic]

The birds were chirping and the day was flowing with its usual characteristic calm. 

Clairin was used to days like these, days filled with nothing but domestic tasks; he would wake up early to tend to his garden, harvest fresh vegetables for his breakfast, and feed the plump adoraburrs that nestled themselves near his oven. 

And every once in a while, he would run through the woods  on four fuzzy paws, conducting his patrols and making sure everything was all right. 

Nothing drastic, nothing…dramatic, usually happened there. 

…It was why it hurt so much. It happened on a calm, and normal day. 

His ears twitched when he first heard the noises, footsteps heading up  the rock path that lead to the entrance of his front yard in the middle of the woods. 

He was just returning back from his patrol, and had noticed nothing wrong, noticed no trespasser. 

"A-ada…" 

Clairin’s eyes opened wide in shock as he sprinted through the door, knocking a vase full of flowers to the floor. 

"Lune!" he yelled, seeing the state of his son. 

Lune was in a weakened state; his legs were trembling, his face was bloody and he was sweating, panting hard like his lungs were about to fall out of his chest. 

Clairin arrived just in time to hold him as he fell forward, exhausted. 

"Lune…Dharlin, what…what happened?" Tears immediately welled up in his eyes as he took in the painful view of his own son, barely holding his last breath. 

It was then that he noticed the ribbon on Lune’s bicep, shining silver with the light that filtered through the leaves in the trees.  

His arm! 

He touched it gently, a worried expression on his face. 

It was beyond help. His whole arm was a deep purple, considerably darker near the assassin's binding. 

That meant he had failed his mission, but Clairin could not care less. His son, his little boy, was in pain.

"Ada…I…" Lune looked up at the crying face of his father; he didn’t even have the strength to do the same. 

He had used every last drop of his own energy to reach his home, and he could feel his breathing getting weaker, his vision growing blurry.  

"Lune, son, stay with me!" Clairin yelled as he held Lune's head up, holding onto his damaged arm as though his own life depended on it. . 

Lune could not find words or strength to tell him how much it was hurting. 

"I will get you to the house, stay with me, Dharlin…you're…you're strong, you will be fine." Clairin was trying to convince himself with his own words, and it was only when he moved to pull Lune out of the grass that he noticed it; some bits of his hair weren't glowing with the silvery light that it used to reflect. When he ran his fingers through it, it was like the newer, darker strands were lifeless, without shine. 

Dark Magic? He shook his head to clear those thoughts away; it was not time to focus on the cause of that. 

Lune's last thought before he finally passed out was how he had disappointed his father, going against his own beliefs and profaning the place he so long worked to protect.

A single tear fell from his eye.

Clairin used all the strength in his older body to get the boy inside the house as quickly as possible; with his knowledge, he worked throughout the whole day and night to get his son to a stable state. He didn't stop to eat or rest, his eyes always darting between Lune’s face and the binding ribbon that grew tighter with each passing hour. 

After much work, he managed to stabilize his breathing, using every magical and non-magical resource he had at his disposal. Lune would need his strength now more than ever.

There was nothing he could do to remove the binding, and even if he could, his arm was beyond help; if he kept it in such a state, the pain would only make it harder for him to recover. 

There was only one option now and it made Clairin sick, his stomach turning and tears falling from his eyes again. 

His hands were trembling when he finally gathered the strength and courage to pick up the blade, cleaning and sterilizing it twice before returning to his son’s side once again.

Clairin couldn’t breathe; the idea of doing that, of hurting Lune, was causing him more agony than he would have ever experienced before…he had to convince himself that it was necessary, that it was the only way…

It was the only option, his precious boy would die if he didn't do it. . 

He would die.

Clairin could not let that happen.

He would not let that happen.

The ribbon was taken off, together with Lune's arm.

///

Finally some proper written and illustrated OC Lore! 

Someone asked (thank you for that!) Clairin’s reaction to Lune’s losing his arm, and there it is! The painful and traumatic moment :D 

Thanks @primedaycommissions for helping me with the text 💖

[istherewifiinhell]

okay just gonna link a bunch of the es story boards videos (i started this with the mind of curation but ended up in a place of COLLECTION. whoops)

and ONE FUN BONUS at the end which u could just skip to the bottom for if (website popup voice) YOU DONT LIKE COOL ANIMATION. (joking lmao. this is for me interact however u like). The bonus is BOTH a fun fact and a fun vid.

i could not be any more clear at ALL TIMES. that i want ppl to watch es but lol either way. <3 story boards. (note also the rise turtles like swag (crossover staff) and see why i say this show looks so good cause u can tell their doing the 3d like its 2d)

notes: scratch track (the non VA audio in theses) so charming. yay u get to see them actually use purple rain. u can really clock mandroid flubbed a punch cause he DIDNT want to punch alex (inch resting) LOOK how extra expressive twitches alt mode is in 2d tho RIP. (crys about the little bird moment for the five hundredth time). Hashtag <3 fucking lmao.

this scene is one of those first DAMN thats crazy in the show i feel like and oh lol. would u look at that. DAMN THATS CRAZY.

AND THEN. this is the part with the meg move i love so much and the meg.op battle couple AND THE AND THE. (passes out) its sooooo cool.

notes: deleted scene, explains WHY shock wave got out during the megs field trip ep. gayass. CUTE KITTY. #3 son mug. this shits literally just so funny. she/her rav pronoun drop fjgbdfjg.

notes: altered version from the final ep they moved night shade around. they all have their final mode colours in the boards aw lol. ALSO. little like. adopted kids moment that i doooo get why they cut but u ALSO GET how it would emotional payoff in the ep with NS protecting their parents Oughhh (rolls on the ground)

notes: JUST A LITTLE MORE emotional oumph to the megs flash back but not that different. hes handsome tho i like to see him. like the scratch tracks impression of shock wave its cute. i can hear the vocal quality their going for.

oh hey also GAY CARS. i just found these/am seeing them first time today

Neat!

NOT THE SAD SHIP VIDEO VIBES.... OH GOD OH GOD... NOT THE SAD ASS PIANO MUSIC..... WHAT THE HELL. THIS IS DEVASTATING. watching bd tanking those shots for bee and crumbling APART. awesome. what the fuck. HELLO.

finale stuff

kids fighting oppie at the train yard. just COOL

fight on the bridge. ALSO COOL.

BIG finale scene stuff in 3 diff parts

scary shit and visuals that FUCK

THE MEGS ANGST. im KILLS ME that it didnt get a way in there. tho would have killed me to see also. no really tho this shit is so visually insane god damn. seeing this DID also help me understand how the screamer save happened better. EVIL SPIDER MAN. also in the group that comes saves em. was not in the final ep but we must pray hes still safe maybe just doing smth else.... (hes with swin and his bro busting in. the brother is the car. lol). twitch doing megs move!!! (propelling herself with her canon). mandroid going full fucking beast mode.... etc.

urghh u can really vibe out how bad those injuries are. and emotionally. bwah.. and. THIS SHOW. god. okay.

okay this one isnt the bonus but ill give it anyway

song from the tf the movie and also my alarm for several months (yes it HAS stopped working thanks for asking) BWAH. my loves. (weeping gently)

OKAY HERE IS THE FUN BONUS VIDEO

REALLY funny really goofy really fucking delightful. the mean girl trio seekers energy is supreme. god i love gay ppl. anyway. hey. doesnt that screamer look.... familiar...... WHY YES. YOU MAY NOTE THE YOUTUBE CHANNEL... SAME PERSON. THEY GOT A FUCKING JOB. ON THE SHOW. (unsure if its causally related) THATS SO FUCKING CRAZY the world is wonderful. es seeker trio THE mean girls seeker trio of all time. even if their barely in it. cause like. wow. (gets stuck in my loop of watching this forever and ever again) BWAH

[alphareleasemedia]

Daily Drabble Project May 21-31

5/21/23 Bugs plinked against the windshield as the car flew down the highway. Leah paid them no mind, her eyes glued to the patch of road illuminated by the yellow headlights. It was late. The world around them was nothing more than a pitch black void into which Leah and her brother hurtled. Leah could feel the caffeine from her energy drink starting to wear off, but they were still miles out from the nearest town and she really didn't want to pull over in the middle of the woods if she didn't have to. Leah glanced at her sleeping brother.

5/22/23 Jim looked out of his bedroom window at the neighborhood street down below. His room was up on the second floor and his window afforded him a pretty nice view of the surrounding area. The leaves on the trees in all the front yards were still blooming so the houses behind them weren't totally obscured yet. He could even see into the upper story window of the house directly across the street from him. The curtains were drawn, revealing an empty bedroom, but sometimes a skinny orange tabby cat would come lounge in the windowsill. Jim always enjoyed seeing it.

5/23/23 Renji scratched the back of his head as he meandered towards the mailbox. He hadn't checked it in a couple days, so he wasn't surprised by the stack of mail waiting for him. Renji sniffed as he sorted through the pile, still standing in front of the mailbox. Aside from a couple bills and a bank statement, it was all junk mail. There were some credit card offers, an advertisement for a landscaping service, and a couple banks offering to refinance Renji's mortgage. Which was weird considering he didn't own a house. Renji yawned and wandered back towards his apartment.

5/24/23 Robespierre scrambled across the tabletop, his little nose twitching as he examined his strange surroundings. Well, strange to a mouse. Things like charging cables, a lone metal fork, and a pile of junk mail. Robespierre couldn't even begin to contemplate junk mail with his little mouse brain. Mice may be intelligent, but it would be a difficult task indeed to explain to them what 0% APR means. Perhaps they could understand what a car is, but the process of buying one would be beyond them. Anyway, Robespierre found a sandwich, and he certainly knew what food was if nothing else.

5/25/23 The house was very old, as everyone well knew. It had been part of the neighborhood since... well, since before the neighborhood had even existed, having slowly grown up around the old house over time as more and more people had moved to the area. Before that the house had stood alone out in the wilderness past the creeping edge of civilization. Which was why no one could say for sure when the thing had been built originally. It had changed owners too many times for there to be anyone left to remember. So yes, the house was very old.

5/26/23 Swiftshot looked out across the prairie, watching the horizon. There wasn't much out at the moment, the sun was beginning to set and all the activity of the day had died down. Now there was nothing to see but small scrub bushes and rocks for miles. Even the sky had cleared out, the clouds had all moved on and no birds soared above. The lone road that cut across the empty wilderness couldn't be seen from Swiftshot's vantage point, but he knew from experience where it was. His eyes traced where he knew it ran, scanning for any evening travelers.

5/27/23 It was raining, and pretty hard too. The gutters had turned into rivers rushing down both sides of the street and pouring into the storm drain. Fallen leaves and random debris pulled along for the ride. Thick sheets of the downpour obscured the world beyond the end of the block. There were almost no vehicles on the roads, though the occasional car would pass slowly by, its wipers beating furiously against the onslaught. The wind picked up as the rain continued, growing stronger and stronger till the raindrops were practically falling sideways, splattering forcefully against the sides of  the houses.

5/28/23 Ventia tapped her nails on the table as she stared out the café window. The sun was high in the sky, shining down harshly on the crowded street below. The road was full of cars pressed bumper to bumper as they slowly crawled along. The sidewalks were also packed with pedestrians all bustling about and pushing past each other. The inside of the café was equally packed. The line at the counter stretched out the door and onto the sidewalk. All the tables had been claimed and the only empty chair in the café was the one across from Ventia.

5/29/23 Cheddar Biscuit was the handsomest boy in the whole world. He was fluffy, orange, and big. All the best qualities to have. Cheddar Biscuit was also quite the explorer! When he wasn't getting lost in his own home, that is. Not that he could be blamed for that. One day there's a box in the hallway and the next there isn't? Anyone would get confused by that! And then there were the doors. Always randomly switching between open, closed, and half open or mostly closed with seemingly no rhyme or reason. If Cheddar Biscuit got lost, it wasn't his fault.

5/30/23 Trinia tiptoed through the darkened house, the floor squeaking loudly beneath her bare feet. She moved cautiously, trying to make as little sound as possible in spite of the loose floorboards. Trinia had one arm stretched out in front of her, probing the darkness for any obstacles that she might run into. Only thinking to do this after she had already banged into a desk. Unfortunately, this method proved ineffective as Trinia completely missed an open door and walked right into it; smacking herself on the forehead so hard that for a moment she swore she could see in infra-red.

5/31/23 Booker eagerly sniffed the dirt in front of the front porch, his tail wagging fiercely. There had been creatures about. Probably rabbits. Booker couldn't be too sure though. He was in new territory and every scent was a new discovery to him. He followed several trails that all zig zagged and crossed each other around bushes and across the front lawn. Booker knew he ought not stray too far from the house wherein his master had business that sadly Booker wasn't allowed to be a part of. But surely he could be excused a little exploring. Just a little excursion.

[paradoxolotl]

I have nothing to offer except half delirious AUs thought up in the middle of the night

~~

I’ve never seen him so angry. I’m almost impressed

Andrew stared down at the message, the unknown number at the top. He made a lot of people angry, but a few possibilities stuck out in his mind. Sticking his cigarette back into his mouth, he took a shallow drag as he tapped two fingers on the sides of his phone, debating the merits of just ignoring the message. It would be the smart thing to do, but Andrew’s blood still buzzed with nicotine and annoyance, and he needed something to distract himself with.

be more specific

He had finished his cigarette and had moved onto another by the time the next message came.

That much of an asshole, huh? Kevin. He’s been moping for days over you

Andrew blew a plume of smoke into the cold evening air. He would need to go back in soon. he needs to be told no more often then

This time, the response was almost immediate. He’s never had someone turn him down before. Not by someone who matters, anyway

Despite himself, Andrew felt his brow quirk up.

you dont matter or you dont tell him no

Both. The message read. There’s no point in me saying no to him

Andrew’s mouth tasted like ash and rot, and he took a harsh drag to try and remove it. Keeping his eyes firmly on the scraggly bush at the back of the yard, he forced his breathing to stay even and deep. Whoever this was on the other end of the messages wasn’t his problem. Chances were they were just another bird sucked into the void of Exy and delusion. Andrew had no energy to give them, not even to tell them to fuck off. His silence should do the trick anyhow.

His phone buzzed with another message. Andrew stared at the device long enough for his smoke to burn down and singe his fingers. Flicking it carelessly into the yard, he watched it bounce twice, glowing orange blossoming before dying out. He should ignore it. Somewhere in the house, he heard a door slam.

His joints were stiff as he rose from his seated position, his spine popping when he stretched. The cheap linoleum of the kitchen floor stuck to his shoes, the thick smell of stale smoke and cheap perfume almost enough to choke on. Making his way through the house, he stopped at the end of the hall, watching Tilda freeze with her hand halfway to the handle of his and Aaron’s room. Her lip curled into something ugly, her fingers twitching before she let her hand fall to her side. Andrew wanted to break it for her fear. He wanted Aaron to break it for her cowardice.

She stomped down the hall, glaring at him all the while. He stared back impassively, knowing she never went after someone who would hit back. “Feed yourselves tonight,” she said as she passed him, the too sweet smell of her shampoo invading Andrew’s nose as she swept it up into a bun.

He didn’t bother pointing out there was no food in the kitchen, instead watching her silently as she grabbed her purse and shoved her feet into a pair of ridiculous shoes. She said nothing else as she left, not even bothering to look back. Andrew waited until the sound of the engine faded in the distance before making his way to the bedroom.

Aaron glanced up at his arrival, shoulders loosening when he saw Andrew in the doorway. “She gone?”

He didn’t bother to answer, both of them knowing he wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t. Andrew shoved a few of the textbooks Aaron had stacked on his bed to the floor, each one falling with a heavy thump. Aaron only watched quietly, having never been using them in the first place. Another lie folded neatly on top of himself. Taking the now free space, Andrew kicked off his shoes, eyeing the book still in Aaron’s lap.

“Think you can get higher than rock bottom?” It was mocking, because Andrew still felt too sharp and angry to soften it to anything less.

Aaron scowled at him, but his shoulders didn’t hunch like they used to. He tossed the university guidebook to the floor. “No.”

“You think I should have signed with them.”

Sighing, Aaron fell back against the headboard, the bed creaking with the shifting weight. “I think you would have hated playing for them. Did you see how Riko was looking at you and Kevin?” Aaron’s face darkened, his jaw setting. “I think you’re good enough to sign with someone, but no, I don’t want you to go with them.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

“I know.” Aaron looked tired, his hands rubbing his leg absently.

Batting his hands away, Andrew pulled Aaron’s foot into his lap, firmly running his fingers along his ankle. Watching Aaron’s face carefully, Andrew catalogued every wince and grimace. “You’re not going your exercises,” he said, pressing more firmly into Aaron’s leg.

“I am,” Aaron grumbled. He hissed when Andrew pushed his thumb into a particularly sore spot. “I am,” he insisted. “I’ve just been busy this week.”

“Liar,” Andrew said. He knew Aaron’s slacking was more so a rejection of acknowledging the injury rather than an actual forgetfulness.

Aaron didn’t argue, but he crossed his arms in a silent protest. Andrew kept working until the muscles under his fingers loosened and Aaron’s face was no longer twisted in discomfort. When he was finished, he shoved Aaron’s foot off his lap unceremoniously. “I took twenty bucks from Tilda’s wallet,” he said. “What do you want for dinner?”

Aaron sighed, rotating his foot in slow circles. “Don’s and the park?”

Andrew nodded and shoved his feet back into his shoes, uncaring of the books still scattered over the floor.

-

Later, in the dark of the night and Aaron fast asleep across the room, Andrew fished out his phone from under his pillow. The small screen’s light was just enough to make him squint. Clicking through to his messages, he found a few unread ones waiting for him, all from the same unknown number.

Why did you say no? You’re more than good enough to play on their court. Or even pro, if you wanted

I saw your file. What, is red too much colour for you?

Riko thinks he could convince you

And finally, timestamped a little more than twenty minutes ago: If I convinced him to go back, could you do it again?

Rubbing a thumb under his eye, Andrew stared at the messages. Part of him wanted them to just stop, but another part was curious on what kind of Raven wanted their perfect duo to go back to their nest disappointed once again.

Against his better judgment, his curiosity won out. depends on who is asking

He didn’t get an answer before sleep took him.

In the dead of night, the soft rumble of his phone on his chest jerked him awake. Taking a moment to orient himself, Andrew rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Do you care?

With his face half buried in his pillow, Andrew glared at his phone. do u not sleep

Sometimes. The message read.

Then, immediately after: Do you?

sometimes Andrew sent back.

Aaron shifted in his sleep, the rustling of his blankets loud in the night. Andrew turned his phone to fully silent.

His screen lit up with another message. You didn’t answer my question. Any of them

ask better questions then

This time, Andrew stayed awake until they answered, watching the street lamp just outside his window.

What do you want more than anything?

Boring and predictable, but an easy enough answer. i want nothing

Good. Then you can’t be bought

A prickling sense of unease travelled down his spine. Before he could think too much on it, another message appeared. What are you afraid of?

is this plan b? it wont make me sign

Plan C. And that’s not what I asked, but good to know

Andrew sighed. u first

I asked first But instead of silence like Andrew expected, another message appeared. I don’t like knives

Rubbing his thumb over the words, Andrew let his mind run over scars and late nights and the memory of choking on his own fear. It felt more honest than he was expecting, and it left him feeling surprised and unbalanced. Watching Aaron’s sleeping form, Andrew sorted through the gnarled thing in his chest, picking out what was useful and shoving everything else down deep where it would hopefully rot away to nothing.

The message stared back at him, undemanding and expectant all at once. He told himself again to ignore whoever this was. Carefully, letter by letter, Andrew sent his answer.

heights. thats 2. u owe me an answer now

Do I?

fair is fair. After a moments debate, he added give me ur name

While he waited, Andrew listened as the rumble of an engine sounded down the street, growing louder. The car stopped outside the house, the brakes protesting slightly. Andrew tracked the quiet noises until the front door slammed open, and Tilda’s drunken stumbling echoing through the house. Across from him, Aaron stiffened, his eyes snapping open and landing on Andrew. He held his brothers gaze as they listened to Tilda curse and fumble, her heavy footsteps uneven as she came down the hall. She didn’t pause, and a moment later they heard the door to her bedroom slam shut. Aaron was still holding himself tight and still, his hand fisted in his sheets. Andrew watched, the world quiet again, until Aaron slowly relaxed, his eyes still on Andrew as they drifted shut.

He waited a little while longer, until he was sure his brother was asleep, before pulling out his phone again. Once again, he found a message waiting for him.

Nathaniel. But I hate that name

Running through the Raven’s lineup, Andrew came up blank. i dont know a nathaniel

No, you wouldn’t. Not yet

Andrew felt a glimmer of interest or maybe irritation spark in his chest before fading out just as quickly. how boring

I’m not here to entertain you

Amusement, maybe. But that still didn’t feel right for whatever he felt. why r you here

Why is your spelling so inconsistent? ‘Nathaniel’ asked.

is that ur question? itll cost you

So does everything. Is the answer worth it?

Andrew settled further against the wall, tucking his arm under his pillow. It was odd, this one. Just as deflective as he was forward. He wasn’t sure if he believed a word Nathaniel said, but something about them rang as truth.

is it ever?

It almost felt too honest, but Andrew couldn’t find it in himself to care either way. If he had seen Andrew’s file, it wouldn’t take much to put two and two together. An easy sunshine filled life was not in the words describing his past.

Yes. Nathaniel said. Or at least I hope so

an optimist? such a novelty

If you think that you don’t know me

i said that already nathaniel keep up

And I told you I hate that name

Unfortunately, Andrew knew all about that feeling. The oil dripping over his skin at the sound, his skin trying to tear itself open in protest. But Andrew had never been a kind or very sympathetic person. why

Is that your question? It’ll cost you

Oh, Andrew wanted to break him. To tug his lose threads until he unravelled and was nothing more than a mess at his feet. Then Andrew would move on to the next thing, a plague of his own. yes

This time, Nathaniel took long enough to answer that Andrew’s eyes had grown heavy and his thoughts slow. The steady flash of a notification pulled him from the edge of sleep, only to find yet another puzzle waiting for him.

It’s just another reminder where I came from

Yet another piece of unexpected honesty, leaving Andrew owing. i said no because i have no desire to be placed under someone. Each punch of his thumb was vicious in its finality.

The Again? Nathaniel sent back was almost enough for his temper to break. Andrew turned off his phone, but he didn’t sleep again.

[totiredtowrite]

I love how everyones just agreed that daishou is a naga in a fantasy au

Snake

Warnings - cursing, unedited

Note: He could strangle me and I'd apologize. Also tf is his eye colour???

Male Reader - Fem Readers DNI or you're a horrible person who disrespects boundaries of writers :)

You had one job.

All you had to do was pick something up from the market. Your village healer only needed like ten things! Of course you just had to be the nice guy and get it for her.

Still though it was rather rewarding. She was a nice old lady, anyone in the village would do things to help her out. You sighed, furrowing your brows angrily. You should have just let Hanamaki do it. After all, he was the navigator. He'd done it before. He wouldn't get turned around at the simplest fork in the path!

With another heavy sigh, you pulled yourself off of the forest floor. No point in sitting about, right? The place was beautiful, even if it was a little too close to the swamps for your liking.

It's not like the naga and the elves hated each other. No, they were more just...wary. Existing so near to one another made sure that both always knew what the other was up to. You weren't exactly neighbours, (being almost a mile away), but there weren't any other villages in the area. Or, in the snakes case, nests.

Not to mention how the peace treaty kept them at a distance. Most of the younger elves in your village have never seen a Naga. You included. Not that you were that young, though you never had a reason. Training with Oikawa and the rest of the fighters in the village took up most of your time anyway.

Speaking of, you were starting to be thankful that Oikawa makes you train so hard. The walk was starting to near a couple hours.

You rubbed your face. This was bullshit. And how did you even get lost so bad you ended up in the swamps? Well, the outskirts of the swamps, but it still counts. The trees were starting to droop more, vines hanging off of every other one. You stepped in a puddle occasionally, cursing every time you did.

On the bright side, (at least), you knew now to walk in the opposite direction to get home.

You will walk in the opposite direction.

The...opposite...direction.

Or not.

What was the worst that could happen? You were already about two miles away from the market, and there were things in the swamps that you needed. You only had to go a couple yards in, it's not like you were going to wander straight into the heart of the nest.

You drew in a controlled breath. Naga don't typically take strolls along the outside of their nest anyways.

Taking another step in, you started to calm down. The only sounds you could hear were the birds and your own footsteps. The sound every time your boot collided with the ground was rather disgusting, the dampened landscape getting progressively wetter.

You were a couple minutes in, (still not having found the plant you needed), when you heard it.

Even never coming face to face with one, the sound was unmistakable. The only accurate word you could think of was slithering. Like a giant snake making it's way through the swamp.

You froze up instinctively, long, pointed ears twitching to try and catch the sound again. Nothing but your own laboured breathing.

Slowly, after a minute of a whole lot of nothing, your hand creeped towards the dagger in your boot. You knew it was just a supplies run, but better safe than sorry right? Maybe the Naga passed by already.

If you'd turned your head even slightly though, maybe you wouldn't have missed the pair of glowing green eyes watching you.

And maybe you wouldn't be in this position right now.

You couldn't describe how it happened because you weren't even sure how it happened. He moved surprisingly fast for how cumbersome that giant tail must be. Your dagger had clattered to the ground, the murky green blue of his tail coiled around your body.

"Well," his eyes still seemed to glow at you, "What's an elf doing all the way out here?"

You snapped out of your momentary entrancement to actually take in the situation. His eyes, slanted like all Naga, took in every little movement. He actually seemed relatively put together, hair looking tame and neatly parted to one side. His face was rather cut and slim, cheekbones sharp and pronounced. Hell, if he wasn't a Naga he'd still look like a snake.

His tail tightened around you slightly, urging you to answer the question. You sputtered a bit at it. "Well I could ask the same! Your kind don't wander the outskirts like this!" You attempted to sound commanding, hiding the discomfort in your voice.

Luckily he didn't pick up on the fear in your tone, instead giving you a harsh glare and momentarily squeezing you. You let out another harsh breath. "Well at least I'm on my territory."

You were about to retaliate, but you fell short. He was right in a sense. No words were exchanged for a moment. The snake leaned in further narrowing his eyes further, (if that was even possible), and studying your features. "So it's true then?" He finally said something.

You regarded him with confusion.

"About your kind," he poked at the satchel that you'd also dropped. "They're all pretty."

You blanked. You were about to comment on the fact that 'ruggedly handsome' might be a better term, but ultimately decided against it. All elves, regardless of shape or size, gender or skin tone, were ultimately just...better, in a sense. Stronger, faster, they lived longer, and, as he said, prettier.

"Have you never seen an elf before," You sneered instead.

"Have you never seen a Naga?" He shot back quickly, head tilting slightly. Seeming more comfortable, he had a sly smirk on his face.

You didn't respond.

He laughed almost tauntingly. "Dont look so confident elf," he leaned in closer, to the point where you could feel his breath on your lips. "What makes you think I won't wring," you felt his tail shifting, "You," it got tighter, "Dry?"

You attempted to scoff, the sound being cut short at the pressure on your chest. "And-" you took in a breath, "And break the peace treaty? No way," you let out a raspy laugh.

He let something else take up his attention. His hands lifted to your ears, long, slender fingers trailing along them and prodding at the pointed tips. You shuddered. His hands were cold. Unsurprising of course, but still catching you off guard.

"Would you cut that out! Just tell me your name and let me go!" You snapped.

"Someones impatient," he, quite literally, hissed. In all honesty, listening to him speak was somewhat addicting. You'd thought it was just a stereotype, how half snake people always dragged out the 'S' in the words they say. As it turns out you were wrong.

"Okay, let's just keep this civil." You exhaled slowly. "My name is (l/n) (y/n), I'm trying to find something for my village medic. Who are you?"

He eyes you suspiciously before responding. "Daishou. I'm just...patrolling."

You nodded, pushing your arms out slightly. You were still wrapped in his tail.

Sending your discomfort, Daishou loosened his grip. The sound of his tails grip going slack following soon after his realization. You sighed with relief, slumping to the ground as he repositioned himself to face you.

It took you a moment to look up.

"What are you looking at," he hissed at you.

In truth, everything. His scales were brighter than you thought Naga usually were, green blue and muted yellow. "Nothing," you said, mouth still agape.

"Right." He clearly sounded unconvinced, though he decided not to pursue the matter any further.

You had to admit to yourself, he was rather attractive too. He gave you another look at your continued staring. "What were you even here for anyways?" He slithered closer.

"Just- uh," you stuttered slightly. The tail made him look more dangerous than he most likely was. Or not, he might be just as dangerous as you thought. "I...forgot."

He couldn't stay composed, snickering at you.

"What?" You huffed and stood up, pulling your satchel over your shoulder once more.

"Nothing," he chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, face going red. "Get back safely okay?"

You, confused at his little bout of care, nodded. "Okay."

You turned around, though just before you walked off he stopped you. "Oh, and elf."

You turned once more. "Hm?"

"Try to stay aware next time," he opened your palm and placed your dagger in it, another sly smile making its was onto his face.

"We wouldn't want another snake to catch you."

[blueeyedgeorgie]

Cancelled-Dream Was Taken

A/N: Surprise bitch. Weren’t we expecting for me to release mcyt fanfics soon? If I didn’t tag my usual @‘s it’s because idk if you’d like to be tagged for mcyt content.

Pronouns: she/her

Word Count: 2.3k+

_________________

"You're so harsh on him!" Her hands sat on the keyboard, staring at the green human that stood on Y/n's computer screen.

She needed to be careful. While this was a heated moment, she couldn't let herself get too loud for multiple reasons. If she got too loud, Dream's stream viewers would be able to tell she was in the next room or they would just receive noise complaints from their neighbors.

"No Y/n! You're too soft on him! He needs to learn that he can't get away with everything. You're setting him up for failure." As the h/c girl listened to her roommate speak, she had to remind herself over and over again; 'This wasn't real.' Dream was mad, not Clay.

This had all been arranged as roleplay. Y/n would be leaving in a few days to go visit some of her family for a reunion, so Wilbur had been the one to think up the brilliant idea of what was playing out now; an argument between Y/n and Dream. The plan was to have Y/n get so upset she didn't log onto the SMP for the next few days, only to come back with a master plan to backstab Dream.

At first, Clay wasn't really on board with the thought of him getting angry at Y/n. They had been together for a little over a year, there wasn't a single moment they had gotten upset with one another. But surprisingly, Y/n had been the one to convince Clay it was a good idea.

The fans knew Dream and Y/n had a close friendship, Dream had always been so protective of her. But when this was going down, they didn't know how to act.

Every time Y/n would glance at her chat, she'd see thousands of comments rising up as new ones appeared. Comment after comment, it looked like the fans were shocked by the way this stream was turning out.

"I'm not setting him up for anything! He's a kid, Dream!" Y/n glanced from the chat,  back at the screen showing her PC game. Standing on her screen was Dream and Tommyinnit, she had accompanied Dream to visit Tommy.

"You're just babying him! 'He's a kid!' Well, he needs to learn to grow up eventually," his voice had been filled with such spite. It felt weird to hear Clay speaking to her like this in such a tone.

For a moment, she stared at the green man before a short scoff escaped her lips. "I can't believe you." With that, Y/n had pressed a few keys, turning her character towards the nether portal a couple of yards away. Before Dream had gotten the chance to speak again, Y/n began to move away.

"Y/n! Come back here!"

She flicked a few buttons, taking a moment to look behind her character to see Dream following. Good, everything was going according to plan. Within the next few minutes, she'd be able to log off and she'd be on vacation for the next few days.

The h/c girl ignored the green man as she stepped through the portal, taking her to Minecraft's version of hell. Almost done, she just needed to find a good spot to stop as she listened to Dream continue to speak.

"You can't keep ignoring me! You know I'm right in this. You know you can't keep defending Tommy. You know Tommy is driving a wedge between us-"

Perfect. Y/n had stopped just on the edge of a bridge, molten lava sat feet below them. If she fell, she'd surely die. "No."

"No?" Dream was a bit surprised to hear Y/n cut him off, but he stayed silent as he was prepared to listen to what she had to say.

"No. No more. I don't wanna hear you blame Tommy for us breaking apart. I want you to listen to me. You've been acting like much more of a dick than usual and I hate it. I despise it. You've changed for the worst because you think you can step on everyone. At this point, everyone fears to tell you the truth-except me. I'll be a hundred percent honest with you, you've been so egotistical, it's really pissed me off. This is your fault, Dream. Not Tommy's. You exiled a child for pulling a prank on a vacation house! Not even George's real house!"

"But-"

"Shut the fuck up. I'm done, but I don't wanna hear you bullshit me. So shut the fuck up."

A moment of silence passed between them as Y/n stared at her screen. Just a few more steps.

And within seconds, Dream had pulled out his netherite sword. With one hit, she was falling back into lava. Y/n glanced at her chat, a look of shock on her face as she read over what a few comments said. A moment of silent tension had passed before Y/n had finally spoken up, removing her from the voice chat she was in.

"Alright guys, I guess that's enough for the day. I'll see you all... later." With that, she had clicked a few buttons, raiding Dream's live-stream as she ended hers.

For the next 20 to 30 minutes, Y/n knew Clay would be busy streaming. So she had decided to take a bit of time to wind down and think to herself.

Get a glass of water.

'Are the fans harassing him in his twitch chat?'

Sit down on the living room couch.

'The SMP fans were always so protective of me.'

Pet Patches.

'Was I too much when I snapped at him?'

It didn't seem like 30 minutes had passed when Clay had walked out of his streaming room, only to find Y/n on the couch with Patches in her lap. "Hey, N/n." "Oh, your stream is already over?" Y/n smiled, pulling herself out of her thoughts as she scoot over, giving Clay room to take a seat right by her.

"Yeah, did you lose track of time or something?"

"I must've. How did the chat react after I 'died'?" She smiled up at her boyfriend as he wrapped an arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer into his embrace.

"Everyone was filled with joy that you died."-Y/n playfully swatted at him. "Okay, okay! I got a few chat messages of people bashing me for it, but it's fine."

"Well, it's a good thing the chat wasn't completely littered with hate. How was it after my raid?"

"Honestly, not that bad as you expect. Like I said, just a few comments. Nothing bad, I just ignored it." Clay placed a hand on Patches's head, gently scratching her, followed by the animal beginning to purr.

"Good to hear, anyways... I'm not ready to pack. Do you think we can procrastinate?" The h/c girl let out a huff leaning against her boyfriend. "How?"

"I was thinking a bit of movie binging, cuddling, and ordering dinner?" A cheeky smile spread on her face as she spoke.

"It's like you read my mind."

The couple had made it through three movies, by now it was later at night. The sun had set and they had already door dashed some food. By now they were in the middle of watching 'The Empire Strikes Back.'

'I love you.' 'I know.'

The iconic moment between Hans and Leia had been interrupted by the sound of Clay's phone buzzing. "Why is George calling?"

"What?" Y/n was a bit curious herself. Considering the timezones, George should be asleep right now. Pausing the TV, she turned her attention to her boyfriend's phone.

"Hey Clay."

"What's up, George? Isn't it like early in the morning for you?" Clay raised a brow, moving his phone so Y/n would be able to see George as well.

"Yeah, I had to stay up to fix a YouTube video I need to get out today. I was about to go to bed and I checked Twitter-"

"Oh no." Clay made a short joke, only to be cut off by his friend.

"I don't know if it's trending for you in America, but you might as well look."

"What's going on?" He swiped up, taking him to his home screen so he could click on the little blue bird app. Y/n had grabbed her phone from the coffee table, opening up the app as well. "#Cancel Dream... #Y/n... #Dream SMP"

"Is... is Clay getting canceled for killing me in Minecraft?" Y/n scrolled through the tweets involving the hashtag 'Y/n.' She could see plenty of people defending her, but making it much bigger of a problem than it actually was.

"Oh, hey Y/n. But yeah, he is." George chuckled awkwardly, scrolling through his Twitter app as well.

"This is so fucking stupid."

"It really is. So we might as well get this cleared up with the fans as soon as possible. Do you want me to tweet something, or do you want to?" Y/n looked up at her boyfriend, it looked like he was thinking.

"Yeah, I'll tweet it. Don't worry about this, Y/n."

"Alright, whatever you say," she replied, pulling a blanket over her as she waited for Clay to finish typing his response.

"Here's what I'm gonna say: 'I can't believe you guys actually think me and @(y/n) are in an actual fight in real life. We have been good friends since forever, the fight was only roleplay. I love that you guys are so protective of Y/n, but no one's actually upset.' How's that sound?"

"I think that's good," George hummed softly.

"Yeah, I doubt you'll stay 'canceled' once you've explained to them it was all part of the SMP lore." The h/c girl smiled up at her boyfriend with a small nod.

"Alright, I'm gonna post it. George, I think you should go to bed because you're half asleep already."

Y/n turned, looking at her boyfriend's iPhone. "Go to sleep, Gogy!"

"Alright, alright... I'll talk to you guys later." The call had ended with Clay and Y/n saying goodbye to their friend while George simply yawned to them as a response.

As soon as the call was over, Clay looked at the response to his tweet. It didn't seem to be going too well. There had been a few fans who understood what was going on and responded with a paragraph as an apology for the misunderstanding. But most replies had been telling Clay he was bullshitting the fans or that he wasn't being honest.

"I'm sorry, Clay," his girlfriend had huffed as she read through the responses to his tweet.

"Honestly I'm just a bit pissed off. Literally, any time someone tries to 'cancel' me, it's over something stupid. I'm not a bad guy, it just feels like some people just don't want to see me succeed." Clay had excused himself to grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

It hurt Y/n to hear how upset her boyfriend was. He never got too upset over things, but seemed to take a small toll on him. "Hold on. Let me say something." The h/c girl couldn't be asked to post multiple tweets of her response to hate sent towards Clay over the internet. So what was better than a short video that could be posted to the blue bird app?

"Um, hey guys. I'd just like to make this quick. Stop sending hate towards Dream. The fight was roleplay and nothing more. I'm gonna be busy for the next couple of days so Wilbur thought of a good idea to help build SMP lore with me and Dream and we both agreed to the argument. Now stop sending the green man hate, or I'll commit war crimes or something-"

Y/n had been interrupted by the sound of Clay letting out a small giggle. "What? What did I say?"

"Nothing, just keep going with your video."

"Whatever, I'm cool. No matter what Dream says. Anyways, I'll speak to you all later." Y/n had hit the red button again, ending her video. Within seconds, the video had been uploaded to her Twitter account.

Placing her phone back down on the table, Y/n approached her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around his torso. "I'm really sorry about the hate, Clay. I love you."

"Don't apologize for something you can't control. I love you more." The brunette held his partner close, accepting her hug. Y/n always loved his hugs, she always felt so safe in his embrace.

The rest of the night had been spent with more cuddling and more Star Wars movies. Hours had passed before Y/n had even thought about the Twitter situation again. But for some reason, she had decided to look at the app again tonight.

It was 2 in the morning by now, Clay was half asleep. His head laid in the h/c girl's lap as she brushed a hand through his hair, her free hand opening up her Twitter app once again.

It had been a bit of a surprise to see a couple of trending hashtags had changed so quickly. What was trending now was #Dream, #Y/n,#(ship name), and #Dream's Laugh. This had to be about Y/n's short clip she posted. And by the looks of it, people had stopped acting so harsh towards Clay. But instead, they had decided to focus on the fact Dream and Y/n were hanging out together. Not to mention the fact Dream and let out a stupid little giggle because of Y/n. People had been apologizing to him through Twitter for being so hard on him.

"Babe."

"Hm?" Clay mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Pretty much everyone is apologizing to you over Twitter for being hardasses."

"Hm, that's good to hear."

"You're really tired, huh?" Y/n paused her scrolling to look down at her boyfriend.

"Yeah," He continued to mumble, followed by a short yawn.

"Alright, time for bed, babe." Y/n smiled to herself, beginning to carefully move away from Clay. "I can pack tomorrow and we can laugh over the stupid bird app tomorrow after you've gotten a good amount of sleep."

"I still can't believe Twitter tried canceling me over roleplay."

"I can't believe you got uncancelled by shippers."

Taglist: @notphilosopherstudentblog

[inquisimer]

Happy Friday! For DADWC: ‘What nonsense! Of course that’s not how the story ends’ for Mahariel/Tamlen?

this was such a sweet fluffy prompt! so I wrote angst ofc🥰

sorry not sorry, hope you enjoy!

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

Tamlen was a few years older than Sari, and he liked to remind her of it. As usual, they’d secluded themselves from the other children; he sat atop a stump and Sari was cross-legged at its base, dutifully listening as he retold one of hahren Paivel’s tales.

“And then” —he leaned in conspiratorially and dropped his voice— “the Dread Wolf sprang out from behind a bush and ate the shemlen!”

“That is not how the story ends!” Sari leapt up and pointed an accusing finger at her friend.

“How do you know?”

“’Cause I pay attention when the hahren tells stories, that’s how!”

In lieu of responding, Tamlen reached out and gave Sari’s braid a none-too-gentle tug; she repaid him by sticking out her tongue, and then they were tussling on the ground, rolling about in the grass and mud until a shadow fell over them.

“Dal’en’en.” Ashalle’s disapproving voice brought them both to their knees. Before they could turn their mud-streaked, totally innocent faces on her, she scooped them up by the scruff of their necks. The clan had made camp next to a gurgling stream, just deep enough to make a splash when she dropped the pair unceremoniously in.

“Come back to camp when you’re clean and dry.” And she left them to splash each other to exhaustion.

-:-:-:-:-

They hunted together often. Sometimes it was a game, a competition, sometimes a friendly pastime. Today, it was a chase.

Her toes gripped the soft earth as she darted through the trees. The dampness soaked through her footwraps, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins warded off any chill. Her ears twitched every few yards: a bird taking flight, a squirrel chittering up a tree trunk, the gurgle of the creek to her left.

She loved the forest like this, bathed in the gray light of dissipating clouds, everything dripping with recently fallen rain.

The cover of trees abruptly gave way to a small clearing. Sari stopped short and blinked, but before her eyes could adjust to the influx of light, a lithe figure sprang from the side and tackled her to the ground. Instinctively she drew her bow close to protect it as she and Tamlen tumbled side-over-side in the grass, both laughing as they went.

They finally came to a stop, both covered in bits of wet greenery, faces red, hair mussed and, in Sari’s case, pulled completely loose from its tie. It hung down in a curtain around Tamlen’s face from her position straddling his hips, hands propped against the ground on either side of his face. Caught up in the adrenaline of the chase, the hunt, the catch, Sari almost missed how his eyes dropped to her lips for just the barest second.

Almost.

“You know, Andruil used to kiss her hunters at the end of a successful hunt,” he said cheekily.

“Sure she did.” Sari rolled off so they were lying side by side and looked up at the misty sky. “That’s not how those stories end, lethallin.”  

-:-:-:-:-

“Tamlen?” she breathed.

Darkspawn corpses littered their campsite. Most of her companions were passing around waterskins, swishing their mouths and wiping their faces clean of the tainted blood. Alistair stood beside her, sword still drawn, held back only by her hand and the desperate longing in her question.

Only one of their attackers was still standing. He was a horribly twisted thing, but she recognized his armor. What was once healthy skin had been blackened by prolonged exposure to the Blight; wide eyes were sunken and rimmed with even darker patches; his hair had all fallen out, exposing the mottled patches of his scalp.

When he spoke, his voice was completely unrecognizable. Gravelly, like sandpaper against concrete, and echoing, like three people were speaking at once.

“You…” he croaked. “Lethallan…”

“It is—Tamlen—let me go!” She lunged to throw her arms around her old friend, only for Alistair to catch her arm and pull her back, shaking his head. She turned to him with bared teeth. But Tamlen was shaking his head too.

“Don’t…don’t come near me. Stay away!” He fled, but Sari had always been faster and she chased him to the edge of camp.

“Don’t look at me!” He hung his head and covered it with his arms. “I am…sick.”

“I know, lethallin,” she murmured. “But you are still you. I can help.”

“No! The song…in my head…it calls to me. He calls to me—I can’t make it stop!”

Ignoring Alistair’s objections, Sari sheathed her daggers and grasped Tamlen’s wrists. Her heart squeezed; they were little more than a papery layer of skin over brittle bones. If she clenched her hands, she would probably snap them clean in two. He struggled against her grip, but she’d grown stronger in the intervening months, and he was too weak to manage it.

“Please, Tamlen. Please. Let me help you—I can save you!”

“Sari…” She didn’t look at Alistair, didn’t want to acknowledge what that regretful note in his voice meant. They’d saved her and Tamlen was twenty times her worth—he would survive—he had to—

“This is…advanced Blight sickness.” Alistair touched her shoulder lightly, but she flinched anyway. “When it gets this bad…we can’t help him, love.”

“Too far,” Tamlen confirmed. “You cannot help me.”

“No!” She forced her eyes to stay open, even as a sheen of tears clouded her vision. She’d thought him lost to her long before this, and she wouldn’t take her eyes off him until he was whole and well again.

“Please…” he rasped. “I don’t…want to hurt…you…”

Somewhere in the haze of her anguish, she lost the grip on his wrists and her daggers returned to her hands. But she couldn’t.

“This is not how the story ends,” she sobbed. Tamlen laid his hand over hers and smiled; a ghost of the real thing, warped and sad, but a smile nonetheless.

“I am…so sorry. Always…loved you. Vhenan.”

He tugged, and they drove the blade forward.

Together, as they always had.

But never would again.

[eldrai]

Like Father, Like Son

Whumptober 2021 - day 2 - prompt: garrotte

Character: Hotch

Warnings: implied/referenced domestic abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, strangulation

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Vincent Perrotta is violent. He is dedicated. He is brutal and efficient. His potential pool of victims includes a handful of asphyxiation deaths.

He has nothing to lose.

ao3 link / masterpost

In cases of domestic violence, strangulation is one of the strongest predictors for homicide: a nonfatal strangulation incident makes the victim seven times more likely to be killed by that partner.

Of everything he’s learnt on the job, this stays with him.

Strangulation requires the physical strength to do so, as well as the intent. It’s much more personal than something like poisoning or even shooting and therefore more difficult to carry out. The same principle stands for any homicide. It indicates a deeply violent, deeply dedicated unsub.

(Is it inaccurate to say he learnt on the job? The exact statistics were new to him but he’d known how violent hands around a neck are. How it was never limited to just that.

He’d had a lot of ‘sore throats’ as a kid.)

Vincent Perrotta is violent. He is dedicated. He is brutal and efficient. His potential pool of victims includes a handful of asphyxiation deaths.

He has nothing to lose.

The junkyard is cluttered and their line of sight fragmented by the heaps of trash jutting out every which way; the impaired visibility has them spread out to cover the most ground. With backup waiting on their signal, everything is in place for Perrotta’s arrival.

It is a concentrated quiet: there isn’t much to do other than keep an eye out for their unsub or wait for the comms to crackle to life as someone else finds him. Aaron steps into place behind the rusted shell of a car; enough cover it isn’t immediately obvious he is there, but he’s got a good shot if Perrotta turns up.

His bet is on the man hopping the fence on the west, too clever to waltz through the front gate but arrogant enough to assume he’d outwit them. Morgan is positioned over there ready to intercept, and Reid and Greenaway take the small building at the opposite end of the yard.

“Anyone got anything?” Morgan’s voice comes through strong.

“Nothing on our end.” That’s Greenaway.

“He’ll be here,” Aaron says.

He settles back into position, both hands on his gun, carefully still. Wrappers rustle as the wind agitates them, whips dirt around on the chipped concrete. The chain-link fence rattles.

No movement.

He waits. Time slips by interminably slowly, as it tends to do on sting operations, with no distraction but nothing to be distracted from.

A rattling, tinny sort of noise to his left stops just as suddenly as it had started. Gun drawn, he picks his way through the junk. The silence settles in once again. Likely something blown loose in the breeze, a can rolling down the pile, any number of mundane things which shouldn’t register at all.

It’s a rat. In the corner of his eye, a blur of brownish-grey fur streaks past and he catches a glimpse of the tail before it vanishes under (into?) a different heap.

Jesus. He must really be bored if something so commonplace has him actually investigating it.

Gravel crunches and Aaron glances over his shoulder. Gideon must’ve heard it too. His main interest is his birds but he doesn’t doubt the man probably has a soft spot for other small creatures. They say rats are fairly intelligent – or is it mice? – after all.

His head jerks backwards.

Stumbling to maintain his balance, it is a dizzying moment before the pain sets in: a sharp pressure curving around his throat.

It throws him for a loop. He’s used to hands.

Aaron crashes into someone behind him and they stagger sideways. The impact knocks the air out of him. The pressure pulls taut.

He can’t breathe.

Shoes scuff against the ground. The sour smell of sweat. Heavy breathing.

(is this gonna be the time it goes too far is it feels like it)

The wire is thin and twice as effective as human hands. Instead of whittling away his ability to breathe, pressing in more and more and more, it disappears in an instant.

Hands are breakable. They are skin and muscle and bone. Push a finger back until the muscles twitch; jam a thumb into the wrist’s bony hollows; a thumb at the base of the neck hurts like hell.

Easy to read intent in someone who stands right in front of him. Someone whose eyes spark with malice right before he clamps down harder. The telltale twitch in their cheek in the moment they step forwards. To guess whether they’re going to let up or not.

Behind, Aaron has no idea. His best guess might be entirely wrong.

(go for the eyes that works he won’t let go but he’ll get weaker)

Gasping for oxygen and drowning in carbon dioxide, his chest burns even as he strains to breathe. His eyes water. Aaron breathes in and in and in. Nothing happens. He’s just making rasping, croaky sounds at the back of his throat.

He almost loses his footing, his knees going weak and his ears ringing, a high-pitched shrill scream. Aaron can’t. He can’t leverage his weight on that. He’d never breathe again. Never get back up.

Perrotta grunts. Must not have expected this resistance.

(what if he never wakes up this time what if what if what if)

His gun clatters to the ground as his hands go to his throat. For something so painful, the wire is remarkably small, his fingers sliding over it. Perrotta draws the ends together. It cuts into the sides of his neck, bearing down on the arteries.

Aaron turns his head sharply and the momentary slack in the wire is enough to get his fingers hooked around it. Perrotta kicks out at his knee and he stumbles, resists the instinct to let go.

It’s not enough.

Having his hands between the wire and his skin does nothing if he can’t move them, if he can’t buy himself some space to breathe. Instead of the wire, his own hands press down on his throat. He pulls with all the strength he can muster. It cuts into his fingertips. Every muscle from his shoulders to his hands burns.

It’s not enough.

Dark spots blot his vision. He’s running out of time.

(if he dies they better notice adult-sized handprints better ask questions)

Aaron jerks his head back. Perrotta’s teeth clash and he lets out a muffled grunt.

The wire loosens.

Half a breath and Perrotta regains his composure. Cuts off his air before it reaches his lungs.

Tugging at the wire burns oxygen he can’t afford to waste. Doing nothing just guarantees he’ll pass out. His hearing fades out as the sensation in his hands and feet turns into vicious pins and needles.

Fear and adrenaline keep him standing, keep him fighting when oxygen deprivation turns his joints weak and head sluggish. Aaron hasn’t got much chance of wrestling it out of Perrotta’s hands.

He kicks everything he can reach. Metal jolts against metal; precariously balanced junk crashes down; his shoes drag in the gravel. Sound. Sound is what got him into this and if he’s loud enough, it’s going to draw their attention. With Perrotta outnumbered, he’ll run.

It’s hard to think.

The black spots compose most of his vision and he misses half of what he’s trying to hit. His pulse beats sickly against the wire. Having the chance at breathing stolen like that has strained something vital in his chest. Burning is too mild a word for the tearing pain.

(why doesn’t she stop it he’d let go if she said to)

Half-formed thoughts flit through his mind, too fast to catch, too fragmented to use. Aaron can’t see. Can’t breathe. He almost lets go of the wire, his hands aching and weak. The last vestiges of his strength go to keeping himself upright.

His knees hit the ground and sharp stones jab his legs. Something in his throat itches and spasms and he’s coughing and taking in great long breaths between and he’s breathing.

When the coughing fit passes, his heart slows its assault against his ribs and his vision clears up. Aaron steadies himself and waits for the dizziness to come to an end. He blinks once, twice, until his eyes aren’t watering.

His hearing kicks in all at once when the ringing ceases, and he twists around just as Gideon manages to wrestle Perrotta into handcuffs. Someone shouts in the distance. Back-up, or the rest of the team.

And Gideon’s in front of him, crouching down, telling him to take off his tie for once. Aaron nods, loosens it before he does, because the idea of hands near his throat – even his own – is dicey at best right now. He feels around the small indentation in his skin, feels the flat tenderness, and that’s going to bruise quite deeply.

“I’m—” Aaron swallows and a sharp pain lances across his throat. The motion aches, as if it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper. Nonetheless his voice is much less raspy the second try. “I’m fine.”

Gideon hums a token agreement but doesn’t have time to press him on it as Morgan materialises behind them, and Greenaway and Reid a few moments later.

Perrotta snarls, his eyes wild with animalistic hatred.

(It is this, Aaron will realise, which reminds him so much of his father.)