#tentatively trying something different for colouring and backgrounds

[journey-to-the-attic]

just a little sleepyhead

[talenlee]

Player Characters Of the Szudetken

Oh yeah, I talked about the Szudetken, right? That peninsula that’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, and is full of these awful horror-inspired daylight-horror Christian ideas, with a dash of Bloodborne and The Locked Tomb for players to work with. But how do players interact with them? Especially with no mechanical information?

Well, that’s what this lengthy mechanical article is about. Yes, two thousand words of just ‘different perspectives on living in these cursed places.’ It’s not going to have a dramatic conclusion, it’s just character options. Note that these aren’t the backgrounds you get in the Szudetken. You can be an Artisan or a Merchant or a Military background character from all across the Szudetken: those backgrounds still show up just fine. These backgrounds just represent some of the more prominent experiences unique to these specific parts of the Szudetken.

Also, these backgrounds are presented as a way to try and give you, the player, a vision of what life is like when you have this background. Things that are familiar to you and normal to you, and what big, prominent things that are normal to other people aren’t necessarily normal to you.

Where a Background says ‘Associated Skills,’ that means you can choose for those skills to either be added to your class skill list, or you can have a constant +2 bonus to those skills. When it lists a ‘benefit,’ that’s something else.

And now, on with tools for making a Szudetken character, which may be of use to you if you’re just… grabbing these cultures and dumping them into your world!

Osteon Backgrounds

You grew up in the Osteon. You’re familiar with centralised cities, connected across landlocked countryside with a train system. You live with industrialised benefits, and a class system that hasn’t got a lot of upwards social mobility. If you ever broke a bone, it was healed in the same day by experts, and when you lost your teeth as a child, your parents probably sold them. Instead of coal, oil, or captured lightning, though, the industrialised cities you lived in were defined by skeletons. Prosthetics, engines, transport and weapons of war – skeletons were involved somehow.

Bonecrafter Family: Your family are somehow connected to the necromancers of the Osteon society. You probably insist on them being necropaths or mortirian, and you have very clear opinions on what the difference is. You might have been a business that acquired bones, or cleaned or sorted them, or recovered bones from other skeleton systems in a process of optimisation and refinement.

Associated Skills: Religion, Heal

Capital Camper: You grew up or learned your trade in the vast camp around The King’s Lattice. Rather than growing up in a city, you grew up in a tent camp around an enormous city, and knew that everything around you was temporary. Any day now, you’d be allowed into the city, which is what everyone hoped for, at least those who didn’t give up and quit. Time to time bone constructs would emerge over the city walls and drive off some of the tents, or kidnap some people, and sometimes missions would be delivered out of the city to the camps by skeletal messenger birds. Despite living in a country with a central industrialised system, you basically lived in a tent city, surrounded by people trying to interpret strange and cryptic changes in the walls of a city.

Associated Skills: Endurance, Nature

Crucesbough Backgrounds

You’re from Crucesbough. You’re used to assuming it rains. Sunny days happen, you know, since farms grow food and laundry dries eventually, but even the sunshine is dull and grey and grimy. Every colour you’re used to is muted, hillsides of grey-green with purple-grey lavendar and grey-white heather. Almost everything you’re used to somehow orients around blood — sellers will boast how their food is good for the blood, travellers will store magical spells in blood and carry them from town to town, and people recommend treatments to improve up your blood. One of the hallmarks of a Crucesbough native is the phrase ‘something up the blood,’ like angry up the blood, hurry up the blood, sing up the blood, where ‘up the blood’ is used to invoke the idea of a person’s inner self, a true opinion or something deeply felt.

Empty Churchguard: Cathedrals and churches in Crucesbough are empty buildings. Nobody goes into them. It’s actually seen as a sin or crime to go into a church, and so most churches are patrolled by people who keep near the churches to make sure the empty space is kept inviolate.

Associated Skills: Religion, Streetwise

Blood Courier: You’ve done work travelling between the cities of Crucesbough and wandering the unguarded highways. You’ve probably dealt with nasty cults and woodland druids, blood thieves and ne’er-do-wells, and the things that teem to attack the veins of your nation. The heavy mask, the rain slicker coat, the boots, the scarf – the whole aesthetic, you are skilled in the transport of magically enchanted blood. You know not to look in a box. You’re probably really patient and can handle losing a lot, though you might be haunted with memories of dying over and over on your journey and somehow not being dead.

Associated Skills: Nature, Dungeoneering

Terzocco Backgrounds

You’re from the glorious kingdom of Terzocco. You’re familiar with a life with a healthy, bustling economy. You know people who have jobs, unemployment is probably limited to a few people in any given village, and the royal family’s affairs are excitingly always on your mind. The world is colourful, with beautiful, brightly coloured plants and fruits in parks dedicated to the crown. Every place you’ve ever lived has had an interesting puzzle just waiting to be solved nearby, whether it’s an old cairn that druids set up, or maybe a particularly hazardous type of local bear, cursed by an ancient fungus. You are used to living your life in a small, fairly insular experience where you rarely travel from where you are, and facilitate the experiences of a few rare travellers who enter your town to help with problems. These problems are very rarely fixed, even though every time, the people helped. You are a quest NPC in a brightly coloured MMORPG run by the royal family to keep themselves entertained.

Curtain-Twitcher: You’ve seen the truth of it. Whether you did the math on the economy and worked out it doesn’t make sense, or you tried to solve your town’s problem on your own only to learn it resets itself, or maybe you just saw a moment where one of those questing nobles changed into a different person because they were bored. You know what reality is now and you know that a large portion of your whole country is made out of dreamstuff the Terzocco Nobility have set up just as the boundaries of a playground. You know that they don’t think of you as a person and you know, you know, that they have absolutely replaced some people who they thought were interesting, so they could ‘play��� those people’s lives.

Benefit: Your paranoia has benefits. You get a +1 bonus to initiative. Once per day, if you roll an initiative and don’t like it, you can reroll it, but you must take the second result.

Lost One: You know the truth of it. You were a Terzocco Nobility, one of the Fair Folk from another realm projecting yourself immaterially into the bodies of these puppets in Terzocco. But somewhere along the way, either for moral or narrative or traumatic reasons, you can’t go back any more, and now you’re bound on this plane trying to make life as an actual creature with actual needs and an actual life work. You are a fair folk stuck in the body of an actual person and finding that you can’t stop being real, even if you used to be able to.

Benefit: You can’t die while you’re asleep. If someone coup de graces you in your sleep, your body just persists, not decaying. When your normal sleep time runs out, you wake up, with your body intact and on one hit point. This is because your body doesn’t know how to die on its own, even if you do understand it. Your starting hit point total is increased by 2.

Bernean Lodge Backgrounds

You’re from the apocalyptic Bernean Lodges. You know power flows from a compound built out of tempered wood. There are villages outside the compounds, but they don’t have the horses, they don’t have the steel, they don’t have the priests and they don’t have the knowledge of the future. You may have never seen a building more than two storeys tall, and even signal towers only reach a little higher than that. The forests are dark but rolling hills and wide valleys are dangerous too. You probably assume the world is ending, because you were told that most of your life. You also don’t look up at people on horseback, out of habit. That’s a good way to get hit.

Curst or Heretic: As a Curst, at some point in your childhood, you did something wrong. You might have expressed a heretical thought or asked a question that upset a Cathar. You might have weird hair or wrong coloured eyes. You got kicked out and forced to survive outside of the community. Food was left outside the walls for you to gather if you were too far from a convenient village to offload you.

If you were a Heretic, you chose to do something and get outcast from the community. If you were around, the food left for the Curst would probably have dried up – they don’t want heretics, who chose to be evil, stealing things left for the Curst, who had no choice.

Associated Skills: Religion, Nature

Voolfardisworth Backgrounds

If you grew up in Voolfardisworth, you know it’s pronounced ‘Vulzy.’ You probably grew up in a small population centre, maybe a small city at the biggest. You know that travel should always be done to places during the day, and never at night. You’re used to the storms that rack the sky. You know that the countryside is dotted with old castles or abandoned mansions, near towns that are otherwise trying to get by. You’ve heard rumours about vampires that drain your years away.

Ah, You Must Be The Hunter: You’re from a heroic family of vampire hunters, or possibly hunters of the general supernatural. There’s a legacy behind you, a skillset that suggests that you were being prepared to be good at fighting the forces of darkness from the cradle. You probably aren’t going to take too kindly to finding out that your family’s progress was being managed and fostered by another vampire that was trying to create a good weapon to direct at other vampires, though.

Benefit: Choose a simple or military weapon. You gain proficiency in it if you didn’t already have it, and you have a +1 to initiative while you’re wielding that kind of weapon. Add Religion to your class skills, and if it already was, you get +2 to Religion checks.

Night Survivor: The powers that drive Voolfardisworth are in a non-stop cold war against each other, and sometimes they can be locked into inaction by the right coincidence of effects. You at some point, had a brush with the night creatures and then somehow got away from it, surviving and escaping, either through wits or political maneuvering. Either way, you know things about your limits most people don’t.

Associated Skills: Arcana, Dungeoneering

Seibelmarsh Backgrounds

You grew up, or moved to, Seibelmarsh, a country that snakes along the cold, northern coasts of the Szudetken peninsula. Heading further into the country involved long passes up and over hazardous mountains, and dark nasty forests, you’re used to all the new things in your life coming by boat. You probably see the most outsiders of anyone from the Szudetken. If you’re well off, you probably ate a lot of fishy food, mushrooms and kelp products, flavoured with imported spices. If you’re poor, you probably ate most of the same things, without any spices. You may think of your people as intellectual, since every fishing village seems to have its own special secret and practice, and the University of Seibelmarsh is one of the largest in the world (you understand).

University Adjacent: It isn’t to say that you’re necessarily one of the famously doomed researchers at the Seibelmarsh university. It’s a big institution, and there are a lot of people involved there. But whether you were emptying the bins, protecting the staff, or preparing the food, you still picked up the way that university style magic is done, and can pick it up more readily than someone without exposure.

Benefit: You can substitute Arcana checks for any other skill checks for performing rituals, and you get a +2 bonus to Arcana checks for rituals.

Fouled Blood: Oh, you don’t think of it this way, but people outside your village do. Your village had a pact, perhaps, or maybe just your family, with something that wasn’t like the rest of Seibelmarsh, and it shows in your body and your mind. Maybe you’re a little bit fishy-person, a little bit demon-y. Either way, you know things deeper than people know them.

Benefit: Whenever you make a monster knowledge check, you can reroll the check, but you must use the second result even if it’s worse than the first.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[frospino]

I was wondering if you can write a sort of continuation to The Answer? (Im sorry I really loved it.) Continuation in the sense reader knew Marius liked Rosa, but can be totally unconnected. The reader finding out Marius used to give Rosa lots of gifts (the ephyllium, amethyst, portrait, etc.) and Marius was worried that reader is gonna get jealous. She initially felt a twinge of jealousy then realized it’s Marius she fell in love with – him, his smile, dorkiness, etc. All of him, not his money. A bit angst to fluff, if you will. If this is too much plz feel free to ignore!

A Story in Pictures

(can be read as a continuation of The Answer or as a stand-alone!)

Pairing: Marius von Hagen (Lu Jinghe) x Reader

Genre: Slight angst in the beginning, lots of fluffy fluff

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 1.196

A/N: I'm sorry this took me so long!! I've been writing small pieces during project breaks whenever I could. I hope this is what you wanted. The fluffiness might have run away with me at the end. I just want Marius to hold me and tell me he loves me <3

---

You know that Marius was once in love with her. Of course you do. You saw him try to impress her, time and time again, only to be crushed by her reaction. You held him when he had a breakdown in a club. You talked to him about it multiple times – what he saw in her, why he lost himself so much around her, what you could do in your relationship to give him more confidence.

Still, seeing the portrait he painted of her in one of the piles in his studio feels different. He has handed you a key, said you can visit whenever you like. It felt, still feels, as much as a promise of forever as a ring.

You wonder why he has kept this painting. You study the pencil lines, her expression, the light reflected in her eyes. Marius’s talent is remarkable, of course. But more than that, what really stands out is the love the painter has poured onto the paper.

The other paintings in the stack seem somewhat disconnected from this one. A flower; or rather, a sparkling blossom in a serene forest. A toy dog in an arcade, droplets of colour mixed into an otherwise grey and white background. A bird view of what must be Stellis City. Something tells you these paintings must tell a story when put together, but you don’t understand it.

“They’re gifts I gave her. Dates we had.” For someone so tall and lanky as himself, Marius sure knows how to be sneaky. You jump at his voice, having believed yourself to be alone until now.

“You sure showered her with gifts, huh?” you ask, the question rhetorical in nature. You try to keep your tone light, but a tinge of bitterness creeps in anyway. You turn around and see your boyfriend, one hand behind his head, ears bright red – in embarrassment?

“I just… I never felt as if I was enough for her. I thought if only I bought her enough gifts—”

You wave a hand, dismissing what he just said. You’ve heard this before. You know the story. Still, you can’t stop the sudden heat of jealousy in your stomach. Why has he kept these paintings?

Marius sighs and his shoulders drop ever so slightly. “You weren’t supposed to find them.”

Anger flares up then, hot and violent. The room, Marius, your emotions – everything feels as if it had been dipped into crimson paint. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Marius flinches in response, and you realise your voice sounds as sharp as a knife. Good. He has some explaining to do, and you want him to feel just how angry his words have made you.

“Okay, now that I think about it, I realise that sounded bad. And doesn't come close to the truth.” Marius looks at you with his huge, violet eyes, and you once again curse his genes. It’s so hard to stay angry with him, even when he deserves it.

Probably sensing the shift in your demeanour, Marius takes a tentative step towards you. Then another. He keeps walking until he’s close enough to touch you, and you can feel your body leaning towards him on instinct. It’s almost as if your bodies are opposite magnetic poles. His pull is too strong to resist.

Marius feels… safe. He would never hurt you on purpose.

All tension leaves your body as you practically fall against him. His arms wrap around you, pulling you even closer, leaving no space for the doubts that had pierced your mind just seconds before.

“I’m sorry,” Marius whispers against your hair. “What I meant to say was…” He is quiet for a moment. He plays with your hair, twirls it around one finger, and you can tell just how nervous he is. “I’ve kept these as a reminder. I’ve told myself I wouldn’t hide behind expensive gifts and fancy dates. I want you to like me.”

“But you give me expensive gifts all the time,” you mumble against his shirt. You can feel the rumble of his laugh in your chest. “That’s different. They’re… an extension of who I am, rather than a front. Like… I know you see me. I know you like being with me. You still deserve everything money can buy. These things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You detangle yourself from his hug and look at Marius, and the warmth and pure love you see in his eyes take your breath away for a moment. You feel foolish for having been jealous at all – which doesn’t mean Marius can get out of this without a little teasing.

You push your bottom lip out in your cutest, most pathetic pout – the one that gets him every time without fail – and cross your arms. “Good,” you say, “because I want lots of presents.” Marius answers in his finest whine in return. “But you said just being with me was enough!”

You close your eyes and tilt your head away from him. “You’re the one who said those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Anyone watching you two would have thought you to be much younger than you actually are. You know Marius would have no qualms putting on a display like this in public, but you are glad for the privacy of his studio.

You wait for his reply, but Marius is uncharacteristically quiet. Have I taken the teasing too far? You slowly open one eye, intending to peak at your boyfriend—

—only to be startled by his face mere inches from yours. You jump back, almost like a cat touching tin foil, and Marius breaks out in laughter. You try to be stern and pretend you’re hurt, but his laughter is infectous, and soon the both of you have tears rolling down your face, clutching each other for support as your bodies vibrate with happiness. “You’re—you’re ridiculous, I hope you know that!” you manage to utter. Marius winks at you, the smuggest grin on his face. “But that’s one of the reasons why you love me.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, full of gratitude and warmth. “It is. I do. I love you.”

Marius takes both of your hands in his and interlaces your fingers. The sunlight filters in through the large windows, and in this lighting, his hair looks vibrant blue, but his features are softened, almost as if they have been airbrushed. I want to paint him like this, you think. “I love you too,” he says, and these three words make the scene in front of you even more perfect. There’s a burst of colours in your heart, vibrant and warm, and you practically leap into his arms.

You press yourself against him as tightly as you can – which draws out a quiet “Oi, please leave some air inside my lungs” from him. Embarrassed, you let go a little, enough to let him breathe, at least. “Sorry. It’s just. Everything is a lot, right now.” He chuckles and presses a feather-light kiss to your cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Promise to never let go?”

“Promise. I’ll hold on for as long as you want me to, my love.”

[thevalleyisjolly]

Hi there! If you feel up to it, would you be willing to expand a bit more on the idea of white creators creating poc characters who are ‘internally white’, especially in a post-racialized or racism-free setting & how to avoid it? It’s something I’m very concerned about but I haven’t encountered a lot of info about it outside of stories set in real world settings. Thanks & have a good day!

Hey, thanks for asking, anon!  It’s a pretty nuanced topic, and different people will have different takes on it.  I’ll share my thoughts on it, but do keep in mind that other people of colour may have different thoughts on the matter, and this is by no means definitive!  These are things I’ve observed through research, trial and error, my own experiences, or just learning from other writers.

The first thing I guess I want to clarify is that I personally am not opposed to a society without racism in fiction.  It’s exhausting and frankly boring when the only stories that characters of colour get are about racism!  So it’s a relief sometimes to just get to see characters of colour exist in a story without dealing with racism.  That being said, I feel like a lot of the time when creators establish their settings as “post-racial,” they avoid racism but they also avoid race altogether.  Not aesthetically -they may have a few or even many characters with dark skin- but the way the characters act and talk and relate to the world are “race-less” (which tends to end up as default white American/British or whatever place the creator comes from).  Which I have complicated thoughts on, but the most obvious thing that springs to mind is how such an approach implies (deliberately or not) that racism is all there is to the way POC navigate the world.  It’s definitely a significant factor, particularly for POC in Western countries, but it’s not the only thing!  There’s so much more to our experiences than just racial discrimination, and it’s a shame that a lot of “post-racial” or “racism-free” settings seem to overlook that in their eagerness to not have racism (or race) in their stories.

A quick go-to question I ask when I look at characters of colour written/played by white creators is: if this was a story or transcript I was reading, with no art or actors or what have you, would I be able to tell that this character is a character of colour?  How does the creator signal to the audience that this is a character of colour?  A lot of the time, this signal stops after the physical description - “X has dark skin” and then that’s all!  (We will not discuss the issue of racial stereotypes in depth, but it should be clear that those are absolutely the wrong way to indicate a character of colour).

This expands to a wider issue of using dark skin as a be-all-end-all indication of diversity, which is what I mean by “aesthetic” characters of colour (I used the term “internally white” originally but upon further reflection, it has some very loaded implications, many of which I’m personally familiar with, so I apologize for the usage).  Yes, the character may not “look” white, but how do they interact with the world?  Where do they come from?  What is their background, their family?  A note: this can be challenging with diaspora stories in the real world and people being disconnected (forcibly or otherwise) from their heritage (in which case, those are definitely stories that outsiders should not tell).  So let’s look at fantasy.  Even the most original writer in the world bases their world building off existing things in the real world.  So what cultures are you basing your races off of?  If you have a dark skinned character in your fantasy story, what are the real world inspirations and equivalents that you drew from, and how do you acknowledge that in a respectful, non-stereotyped way?

(Gonna quickly digress here and say that there are already so many stories about characters of colour disconnected from their heritage because ‘They didn’t grow up around other people from that culture’ or ‘They moved somewhere else and grew up in that dominant culture’ or ‘It just wasn’t important to them growing up’ and so on.  These are valid stories, and important to many people!  But when told by (usually) white creators, they’re also used, intentionally or not, as a sort of cop-out to avoid having to research or think about the character’s ethnicity and how that influences who they are.  So another point of advice: avoid always situating characters outside of their heritage.  Once or twice explored with enough nuance and it can be an interesting narrative, all the time and it starts being a problem)

Another thing I want to clarify at this point is that it’s a contentious issue about whether creators should tell stories that aren’t theirs, and different people will have different opinions.  For me personally, I definitely don’t think it’s inherently bad for creators to have diverse characters in their work, and no creator can live every experience there is.  That being said, there are caveats for how such characters are handled.  For me personally, I follow a few rules of thumb which are:

Is this story one that is appropriate for this creator to tell?  Some experiences are unique and lived with a meaningful or complex history and context behind them and the people to whom those experiences belong do not want outsiders to tell those stories.

To what extent is the creator telling this story?  Is it something mentioned as part of the narrative but not significantly explored or developed upon?  Does it form a core part of the story or character?  There are some stories that translate across cultures and it’s (tentatively) ok to explore more in depth, like immigration or intergenerational differences.  There are some stories that don’t, and shouldn’t be explored in detail (or even at all) by people outside those cultures.

How is the creator approaching this story and the people who live it?  To what extent have they done their research?  What discussions have they had with sensitivity consultants/readers?  What kind of respect are they bringing to their work?  Do they default to stereotypes and folk knowledge when they reach the limits of their research?  How do they respond to feedback or criticism when audiences point things that they will inevitably get wrong?

Going back to the “race-less” point, I think that creators need to be careful that they’re (respectfully) portraying characters of colour as obvious persons of colour.  With a very definite ‘no’ on stereotyping, of course, so that’s where the research comes in (which should comprise of more than a ten minute Google search).  If your setting is in the real world, what is the background your character comes from and how might that influence the way they act or talk or see the world?  If your setting is in a fantasy world, same question!  Obviously, avoid depicting things which are closed/exclusive to that culture (such as religious beliefs, practices, etc) and again, avoid stereotyping (which I cannot stress enough), but think about how characters might live their lives and experience the world differently based on the culture or the background they come from.

As an example of a POC character written/played well by a white person, I personally like Jackson Wei and Cindy Wong from Dimension 20’s The Unsleeping City, an urban fantasy D&D campaign.  Jackson and Cindy are NPCs played by the DM, Brennan Lee Mulligan, who did a good job acknowledging their ethnicity without resorting to stereotypes and while giving them their own unique characters and personalities.  The first time he acted as Cindy, I leapt up from my chair because she was exactly like so many old Chinese aunties and grandmothers I’ve met.  The way Jackson and Cindy speak and act and think is very Chinese (without being stereotyped), but at the same time, there’s more to their characters than being Chinese, they have unique and important roles in the story that have nothing to do with their ethnicity.  So it’s obvious that they’re people of colour, that they’re Chinese, but at the same time, the DM isn’t overstepping and trying to tell stories that aren’t his to tell.  All while not having the characters face any racism, as so many “post-racialized” settings aim for, because there are quite enough stories about that!

There a couple factors that contribute to the positive example I gave above.  The DM is particularly conscientious about representation and doing his research (not to say that he never messes up, but he puts in a lot more effort than the average creator), and the show also works with a lot of sensitivity consultants.  Which takes me to the next point - the best way to portray characters of colour in your story is to interact with people from that community.  Make some new friends, reach out to people!  Consume media by creators of colour!  In my experience so far, the most authentic Chinese characters have almost universally been created/written/played by Chinese creators.  Read books, listen to podcasts, watch shows created by people of colour.  Apart from supporting marginalized creators, you also start to pick up how people from that culture or heritage see themselves and the world, what kind of stories they have to tell, and just as importantly, what kind of stories they want being told or shared.  In other words, the best way to portray an authentic character of colour that is more than just the colour of their skin is to learn from actual people of colour (without, of course, treating them just as a resource and, of course, with proper credit and acknowledgement).

Most importantly, this isn’t easy, and you will absolutely make mistakes.  I think the most important thing to keep in mind is that you will mess up.  No matter how well researched you are, how much respect you have for other cultures, how earnestly you want to do this right, you will at some point do something that makes your POC audience uncomfortable or even offends them.  Then, your responsibility comes with your response.  Yes, you’ve done something wrong.  How do you respond to the people who are hurt or disappointed?  Do you ignore them, or double down on your words, or try to defend yourself?  Just as importantly, what are you planning to do about it in the future?  If you have a second chance, what are you going to do differently?  You will make mistakes at some point.  So what are you going to do about them?  That, I think, is an even more important question than “How can I do this right?”  You may or may not portray something accurately, but when you get something wrong, how are you going to respond?

Essentially, it all comes down to your responsibility as a creator.  As a creator, you have a responsibility to do your due diligence in research, to remain respectful to your work and to your audience, and to be careful and conscientious about how you choose to create things.  It’s not about getting things absolutely perfect or being the most socially conscious creator out there, it’s about recognizing your responsibilities as a creator with a platform, no matter how big or small, and taking responsibility for your work. 

In summary:

Research, research, research

Avoid the obvious no-no’s (stereotypes, tokenization, fetishization, straight up stealing from other cultures, etc) and think critically about what creative choices you’re making and why

Do what you’re doing now, and reach out to people (who have put themselves out there as a resource).  There are tons of resources out there by people of colour, reach out when you’re not sure about something or would like some advice!

Responsibility, responsibility, responsibility

Thank you for reaching out!  Good luck with your work!

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Nightwing 79 Review

i said i would and i will. i did like this issue! not as striking and attention grabbing as 78, but i think this issue was meant to be a foundation one, laying out the groundwork for the future. overall, pretty good. also there wasn't enough bitewing. as promised, overly extensive metaphors and me reading too much into things under the cut

i know i've talked about this cover before, but this particular thing is oddly important to me, so i'll talk about it again

this is me, once again screaming about how artists put nightwing in traditionally feminine poses and how every time i see it i just get whiplash. i mean, true, the main reason why is because nightwing is a so often sexualized character, and putting him in these poses just increases the objectification, which is a goal that dc producers have. but there are very few popular male characters that do this. the only one i can think of off the top of my head is deadpool, but that was so obviously a critique and a way to make fun of the media industry. when they draw dick like this, they’re being serious. they’re putting him in appealing poses meant to show him off, and that’s something that’s traditionally only been done to women.

it's a very direct and very loud breaking of traditional gender roles in media, especially for a character as high-profile and historic as dick grayson. colour also plays a factor in this. the entire background is pink. i was absolutely shocked when i first saw it, when the teaser came out, because i cannot think of any comic book covers of male comic heroes this high-profile where pink is even just prevalent in the cover, let alone the majority of the cover. the pink does look beautiful: it offsets and highlights the black and blue of dick's suit gorgeously, but does it with more finesse than orange or red. but the fact that the stylistic choice was made to accent and draw this cover with aesthetic and beauty in mind, completely ignoring traditional hard-set gender rules in art, was a conscious choice and one i wholeheartedly support.

just another example of the sexualization i was talking about. i remember seeing harley quinn in this exact pose in suicide squad.

so far, taylor's been pretty dead-set on bringing alfred to the forefront of importance in this series. he wants people to know how much he loves alfred's character, and how much the butler meant to dick growing up. he was dick's father too. but what i adore is how taylor managed to stress alfred's importance in a way that didn't insult or belittle bruce.

this is one of the best bruce and dick interactions i've seen, and it's done in one simple interaction. in this, bruce is tough and harsh. he knocked dick down hard, but then he reached a hand down and helped pull dick back up. let me analyze their dialogue for a minute

on your feet: this is bruce telling dick to get up. he's trained dick, he knows what the younger boy is capable of, he knows his limits, and he knows what dick can do. this is bruce telling dick i know you're strong enough to get up, so get up and prove me right

are you just going to knock me down again?: surface-level, it looks like dick's complaining. he doesn't like bruce's rough training, and he's tired of bruce knocking him down. but look at his face in this. he's smiling up at bruce, knowledgeable and a little hopeful. he knows that bruce is doing this to help dick better himself, he's completely on board with the rough training, because they both know the rewards are incredible. also, he's teasing. he's bantering with bruce. there's an ease in that joking statement, one that belies affection and intimacy. they've only known each other for a little bit, but they're already slipping into a close familial relationship.

it depends on how fast you learn: this is bruce bantering back. this is bruce not being a stoic, unfeeling asshole. instead, he's shown with the dry humor that a good batman writer knows is a staple of the character. he's teasing dick, telling him he'll basically whoop his ass if dick doesn't learn fast enough. it's incentive for dick to train harder, while also being lighthearted enough to tell dick that believes in dick and doesn't want him to push himself too hard.

gosh i love the titans. also it looks like wally's staring at dick's ass.

this was cute. a prod at dick's silly and playful sense of humor, while not dumbing him down for the sake of a laugh. instead, he's joking about food, which is stuff everyone jokes about. this is the kind of stuff that'll actually make me laugh, instead of just making me vaguely uncomfortable.

bludhaven's almost always portrayed as a cesspool of a city. and to be honest, it really is. but this panel gives the city a meaningful history, while also giving us a reason for why dick moved there.

it talks of a time when people still thought they could beat the monsters. that if they fought hard enough, they could win the fight. it was a tentative hope that you could always overcome hardship.

dick's little "i like that it's still standing" shows how he still believes that, despite what the rest of the world thinks. despite everything that he's been through, dick is still tentatively an optimist, and believes he can fight the monsters of the world and win. it's a beautiful testament to his character, and i'm like that they added his signature element of hope back in. it used to be what he symbolized as robin, and despite his growth and character arc from robin to nightwing, this is one aspect of robin that i'm glad nightwing still has.

remember when i said "things that make me vaguely uncomfortable??" yeahhhh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Shooketh Dick: A Sequel

(the expressions in this series are just,,,,on point)

this was an incredibly sweet and kindhearted thing for dick to do, but i found it kind of,,,,,,,,desperate? maybe that's just me, but let me explain.

dick's suddenly a billionaire, and he has entirely too much money that he knows what to do with. it's also alfred's money, what the man left to him, so dick forever links it with alfred. in addition to that, he's back and bludhaven and looking at it with "fresh" eyes. (at least, from a different point of view since he got shot in the head. then mind controlled.) he's desperate to do something with the money and he's desperate to help the people around him that so obviously needs up, so he comes up with an on-the-fly solution that's a little impractical and a little crazy, but it still helps and still does some good.

to me, dick seems a little lost. he hasn't completely found his balance yet, and he's trying to do things that will. he tries charity, because that's what bruce did and it's what he knows, even though he admitted that he always thought bruce could have done more as bruce wayne than batman.

they have a family group chat guys yall were right.

also, do i think that dick would ever actually get his wallet stolen?? no way in hell, he’d notice someone getting ready to pickpocket him a mile away. but i suppose it’s important to the Plot. 

okay this is getting interesting. first blockbuster, now maroni (+ the weird heart stealer guy). i can officially say that i am intruiged

this particular artistic quirk is shown a lot in this issue, and from this art team in general, but i feel like this panel is one of the best examples of it. it was stunning enough to take up a full page, and it’s well deserved.

the way they show dick moving is absolutely brilliant. as a reader, i like seeing these smaller versions of dick getting clearer and in more detail as they come closer to the screen. not only do they show depth in the picture beyond what a simple 3 dimensional piece of art does, it also shows the passage of time.

in addition, it showcases dick’s skill. dick spots these mobsters running after a group of petty thieves. he then, and follow me here, leaps off the roof of one building feet first, springboards backwards off the side of the adjacent building with his feet, gracefully continues his backflip, rights himself, shoots a line with perfect timing: just in time to soften his landing but not slow him down, execute said landing on top of a moving bus, keep running on the moving bus without missing a beat, shoot his grapple, use the grapple to swing, use the swing to build up momentum, then use the momentum to deliver a powerful blow to the mobsters. and he did all that fast enough to catch up with the mobsters, even though he was a ROOFTOP OVER. 

d a m n  s o n

this panel, the very first in the issue, is also another example of that art style, but a little more distinctive. i love the way they showed dick’s different costumes through the ages, along with him simply growing up. it’s a little heartbreaking, but a lot uplifting to see how far he’s come. thank god he got rid of the red. now all we need is the fingerstripes, and we’ll be golden

discowing my beloved. also i can’t clearly see discowing’s hair but it definitely looks like it’s pulled back. it looks like he put it in a ponytail. guys. guys. dick had a ponytail omg. 

he’s having a Hero Moment

are you talking about the city, dick, or are you talking about you? the kgbeast, the court, the joker. dick fell to each one of them, no matter how hard he fought. he won in the end, eventually and with his family’s help. but i think he’s feeling a little low, a little defeated right now. it’s almost like he needs a win, he needs to feel victorious, he needs to feel like he helped someone (hence the food and the hotel room), just because he needs to remember what it feels like.

these lines were supposed to resonate with you, and goddamn they did.

i looked at it from two ways. first, it’s the girl asking, begging nightwing not to hurt them. bludhaven doesn’t know dick the way gotham does, they’re still a little frightened of him. this child was brave enough to step in front of all of the other hurt and homeless kids and ask, to a strange man in a mask, if he was going to hurt them like the other men had. it’s heartbreaking, but commendable, and an echo of the city itself that dick’s decided to protect. they’re bloody and broken and terrified, but still gritty and brave enough to stare what they fear in the eye and ask it not to hurt them.

second, it’s dick seeing the question reflected in himself. recently, he got shot in the head and lost all his memories. while i think that the way ric reacted was a perfectly valid and human response to the situation, i think dick still regrets how callously and rudely he treated his family. then, he was manipulated by the court of owls, then he was brainwashed with a magic crystal by the joker. dick does have a guilt complex. it’s not a big as bruce’s, but it’s there. and right now, with this girl begging her not to hurt them, dick is probably thinking about all the times he hurt people, in control of his own actions or not, bc he “didn’t have a heart.” 

little ambitious don’t you think, dick?

also just look at the sunset colours loOK at the they could not make this any more obvious oh my godddddddddddddddddddddddd

in conclusion, i need more of her

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 8

Let me in

B.Barnes x Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n gets emotional

Warnings: swearing, feelings

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Life at the tower was...tiring, to say the least. During my free time I often found myself in the gym, lobbing knives at a target and trying my hardest not to biting one in Steve's chest every time he would correct my technique. When I wasn't trying to murder the avenger in cold blood, I was usually dragged into things by the other: briefings and debriefing for missions I'd never go on, my dad's parties, group training sessions and study periods with Bruce in his labs to name a few.

But for now, I was huddled in my rooms - fresh out of a hot shower after a brutal two hour training session and four mile run with Natasha - curled up on my bed and attempting to catch up on a few of the films I'd missed. But the exhaustion and drowsiness clouded my eyes, the noise from the TV merely in the background as I felt my eyes growing heavier by the second.

A sharp knock at the door snapped my out of my lowsey state, the people movie across the screen simple a blur of colour as my eyes darted past the tv and over to the door.

"Mr Stark is waiting at your door. Would you like me to let him in?" FRIDAY's evenly calm voice chimed, making me groan and mumble a 'no' into my pillows. The last person I wanted to see right now was my dad.

"Come on kid, let me in." My dad called from the other side of the door, and I could practically hear him roll his eyes and shake his head when I stayed silent. When he spoke again, it wasn't directed at me. "FRIDAY, override command and open the door."

"Wait! That's hardly fair!" I whined like a five year old, groaning again when the door swung open and my dad stood on the other side, quite clearly just as exhausted as I was.

"Get used to it, kiddo. Life isn't fair." Tony chided, walking over to my bed. I tried to shuffle away slightly when I felt the bed dip, my dad perching on the edge as his eyes scanned over the room. "I see you haven't decorated yet." He commented casually, as if nothing had ever happened between us.

"Yeah, well, I thought It'd be a shame to spend so much time on something when you're probably waiting to kick me out anyway." I mumbled, refusing to look at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you, y/n? Ever since you got back you've been-"

"Acting different?" I cut in, and when Tony simply swallowed thickly I nodded. "Funny that, seeing as I was kidnapped and tortured for three years. Not to mention made to kill people for another year after that."

"Y/n I'm sorry..."

"But you're not! You can't be, otherwise you'd actually have tried to save me, rather than leaving me to rot!" My voice cracked, tears pricked at my eyes and I now sat up straight in my bed, facing my dad but not looking him in the eye. "And you can't change that, you can't go back in the past and fix your mistake. And trying to fix it now sure as hell won't work, so I suggest you leave before I'm tempted to use you as my target for my training session tomorrow." I raised my voice, eyes now keeping his captive as the tears rolled freely down my cheeks.

"Oh, kid, they broke you." Tony murmured, cupping my cheek with his hand, eyes swimming with sorrow. Sorrow that I didn't want.

"You can't fix me either, because I'm not broken!" I said harsher now, voice only getting louder. "I don't need to be fixed..." I trailed off, voice barely above a whisper Joe as my eyes broke the contact, averting to my lap as the tears dropped onto the bed sheets.

That's how I found myself in my fathers arms, face pressed against his shoulder as the sobs made my body shake, hiccups escaping me as I tried to speak.

"A-all I needed W-was my D-dad, and yo- you took him f-from me!" I wailed, hands clutching my dad's shirt and his arms wrapped protectively around my shoulder, hands rubbing circles over my back soothingly.

"I know, kiddo. I'm sorry."

...

"Who is that?" Clint frowned, staring at the pictures scattered over the table in front of Natasha and Steve as they studied them deeply,  brows creased in thought.

"Our newest pain in the ass." Tony answered for them, slapping a thick folder down in front of Clint as he said so. The marksman was quick to pick it up, flicking through the documents, news stories and information sheets greedily.

"The...winter soldier?" He asked, looking at the three superheroes in front of him as if they'd gone mad. "But he's a ghost story!"

"I've seen him. Been shot by him, actually." Nat said, an sadistically proud smirk forming on her lips with her last words, almost as if it were an achievement.

"We're trying to find out more about him, maybe that way we can beat him." Steve explained, sitting back in his chair with crossed arms as he huffed in defeat, sick to death with staring at the same five pictures all morning.

Y/n walked in, a skip in her step as she crossed the room to Tony.

"Morning, dad." She greeted, placing a quick kiss to his cheek and heading over to the cupboard to grab a mug. Clint and Natasha frowned in confusion, looking between the two as if they'd witnessed pigs fly.

Tony shrugged, y/n too preoccupied with making herself a coffee to notice the avengers' reactions. When her coffee was done, y/n swiped her mug from under the machine and sipped happily, letting out a content sigh before wandering over to stand behind Natasha.

"What are you working on?" She asked, peering over the spy's shoulder to get a glimpse of the pictures.

A loud smash crashed through the room, Tony's eyes widening in shock and Natasha jumping from her seat in order to not get covered in spilt coffee. Y/n stood paralysed, eyes never leaving the photo in front of her as she started at the Soldier. Steve frowned deeply, studying the girl as her eyes glossed over with with what seemed to be...sadness.

Clint was already at her side, a comforting hand on her shoulder as they all asked y/n what had happened and if she was alright. It was like a constant ringing in her ear interrupted their words before they reached her ears, and y/n suddenly felt nauseous as she starred at the bright red star on the soldier's arm, his long and messy dark hair shrouding his face and his leather clad, muscular body. Only his cerulean blue eyes could be seen, the rest of his face covered in a black mask she didn't usually see him in.

"I-I need some air." She stuttered, stumbling blindly out of the room and down the stairs, tipping over a few steps from the bottom and tumbling down the last few. She quickly pulled herself to her feet, hearing still ringing and vision offset, hazy, as she scrambled for the double glass doors. Luckily they already stood open, so she flew through them and out into the busy streets of New York.

Y/n found herself colliding will someone almost instantly, angry shouts of 'hey, watch it!' And 'look where the fuck you're going, kid!' Being called after her like a chorus as she pushed through the bustling people.

She finally stopped, dropping to her knees and simply staring straight ahead, no intended subject in her line of vision as she tried to comprehend the-the grief, at seeing the a soldier's face again.

It had only been two weeks, and yet two weeks without him, his touch, his scent - it felt like an eternity to y/n now. She hasn't registered what her feeling meant for him before, liking him beyond a source of comfort had just felt...wrong, after all he'd done, and yet y/n couldn't deny it.

She was in love with the Winter Soldier, and she didn't even know his name.

...

I wasn't aware of when someone had found me, nor of how they got me back to the tower or even how I was now stood staring blankly out of the window that stood next to my bed. I gazed longingly, almost as if I stared long enough, hard enough, he'd appear.

But of course he wouldn't, he was probably half way across the world, knowing HYDRA. A soft knock on my door and my head was turning, facing my visitor with a look of pure grief and want. Desperate, unhinged want that could eat you up from inside out and you'd still feel it.

"Hey, y/n. Can I talk to you for a moment?" Nat asked tentatively, clearing trying to to disturb my shaken up state. I nodded, offering a small smile which she returned as I now faced her. She walked up to me, talking my hands him hers and playing with the as she spoke, eyes kind and full of understanding.

"There's a mission, and we want you to go." She said calmly, almost as if the mere thought of it would send me into some kind of heart attack.

"Okay," I begun, eyes flitting down to the floor before back up again. "What is it? Aren't you scared that I'm still HYDRA and all I'd do is stab someone in the back?"

"Not exactly." Nat informed me with a smile, amusement glinting in her eyes at my assumption. "For starters, we all trust you, well maybe not steve - but everyone else does." Nat and I both laughed slightly. "And I think you wouldn't have it any other way it to go on the mission yourself." Nat finished.

"How come?" I asked, brow raised.

"There's been a lead..." she started. "On the winter soldier. We thought you might want to help check it out, possibly capture him. Your powers may be the best chance we have a detaining someone as strong as him." Nat spoke. "And if we can detain him.."

"We can save him." I finished.

"Exactly."

[cherry-interlude]

Lana Del Rey Unreleased Ranking (5)

This is a re-ranking of Lana's unreleased songs, after making a first a few years ago. This is all my opinion, which I don't mind anyone disagreeing with but don't come for me for it - honestly, I like every song, despite any criticism, and this ranking is very vague. It's based on objective and subjective opinion.

This is the fifth of five posts, with my favourites.

Wild One

Lana is nostalgic without the sadness, remembering how she’d shake it for Mike but is embracing her freedom. She lets country influence seep through her voice and her uncomplicated instrumentals – it would be an unsurprising addition to Chemtrails

True Love On The Side

Though simple in structure and lyrics, it’s more Lana’s grittier rock sound and her incredible vocals that make this one of my favourite unreleased tracks. Lana lets herself go and goes full pop rock chick for this track, whilst keeping in with her ‘other woman’ trope that makes the song still familiar despite its departure from her usual music.

Driving In Cars With Boys

Dripping in nostalgia, Driving In Cars With Boys makes you yearn for the kind of 1950s/1960s era Lana often laments over. Lana is a bad girl just having fun, doing what she pleases and giving in to her vices, and it’s this kind of song that is relatable in its escapism and desire to just do what you please. There are two versions, one with a more monotone chorus that matches the rest of the verses and another where Lana sings in a higher register, letting her cheerful, breezy love for driving with the boys shine through in her vocals.

Angels Forever Forever Angels

Perfect for Paradise, Angels Forever Forever Angels has that slow, rhythmic summer drive feel, a relaxed version of Ride which also has associations with the bikers that feature in both the music video for Ride and the lyrics to this unreleased song. It’s dreamy but grounded by Lana’s patriotic love for the grungier side of Americana.

Hollywood

It has a breathy chorus you could sing to, the feeling of a summer evening and blue skies. The ever building and dropping beat that keeps the song ticking as restlessly as Lana’s hopes and dreams gets me feeling pumped as much as her emphasised, dragged out “Hollywood” in the chorus makes me soothed. Lana is wishing for fame and fortune but it has the feel of an eighties American teen movie, iconic and deserving of a cult following.

Yes To Heaven

Hazy like a daydream, Yes To Heaven is made of sunlight and soft grass, closer to nature than the spotlights of Lana’s often alcohol-soaked, money drenched stages. Lana’s voice is tentative until it shimmers in the chorus, and though it was made for Ultraviolence, it wouldn’t be out of place on the shining beacon of hope that is Lana’s positive turn, Lust For Life.

Life Is Beautiful

This gorgeous song was intended for Age of Adaline’s trailer, and it’s been years of waiting for the full song to be released. Now we have it, it’s certainly worth the wait. Dreamy and soft, this track is a timeless classic that could underwhelm from it’s gentle feel but works perfectly well as a pure little love song.

On Our Way

Stripped back and with a country twang, Lana doesn’t add fuss and frills to this song, instead just crooning precisely how she feels in the kind of song that keeps you daydreaming for hours. Not even the smattering of her favourite imagery (Chevrolets and K-Mart lip gloss) overshadows the love that’s at the forefront of this track.

Never Let Me Go

Like On Our Way, Never Let Me Go has the country twang and stripped back feel that makes this a more subdued song, her lyrics shining even more. Lana’s additional strings layer this song well and her comparisons to the dangerous couple that is Sid and Nancy gives this track an edge, keeping it from being too frothy.

French Restaurant

A piano ballad, Lana strips back the hurt of Without You and dual dedication of Video Games to sing about how fame matters so little to her while she’s torn between two men. Her voice is beautiful and it does well to be so minimal in its production, her emotion driving the song clearly enough. Especially pretty are the backing vocals of the choruses, echoes of her thoughts that hammer home her broken feelings.

Trash Magic

Lana’s delicate and soft vocals help tie into the Lolita-esque character Lana often plays in her music. It has a similar feel to 1949, dripping with her delicious imagery, and wouldn’t be out of place on AKA Lizzy Grant. Lana is the fragile ‘daddy’s girl’ again in this song, and the sharp yet soothing music in the background sets the tone for a quiet trailer park night.

Us Against The World

Though fairly chilled out, Lana still hooks listeners with her characterisation of waitress by day/stripper by night, a dangerous girl tempting an equally dangerous guy. Lana drips sexiness in this song and though it’s not as exciting as some of her other unreleased pop hits, it is perfect for the Del Rey character.

Your Girl

Much like Caught You Boy, Lana is desperate for a man she can’t have but is instead a complete wreck. Lana just repeats over and over how she wishes she was this man’s girl, practically pleading after describing how she needs to be led off the stage from falling apart. Yet it’s still sultry, still passionate, and is topped off by her honey-like vocal demonstration in the bridge and the chorus.

Roses

Lana is the other woman with a twist – instead of moping about her man (Other Woman, Sad Girl) she is taking action. Fighting against him, not letting him go without making some noise and getting rid of his girlfriend, Lana storms into the song with a vengeful wrath and calls him out for his poor attempts at apologies. When this song first came out, I adored it, since it was the exact kind of strong-girl track I wanted from her with a great hook and all the right Lana-isms. Now, I still get that thrill listening to this song and its kick-ass fuck-you to the man she loves.

Playing Dangerous

The churning drums, the spoken verses and the coy vocals set this song apart from her others. It falls shorter during the choruses, the verses being the best parts of the track, but the way Lana interacts with the listener ultimately and is a more direct character of ‘innocent’ seductress who might actually be downright bad (arson is hinted).

Serene Queen

Lana is unbothered and unruffled, as collected as she is in Put Your Lips Together but this time with a definite Ultraviolence/Honeymoon feel. Lana is unshaken by the blazing guns, instead completely calm with her dangerous lover, questioning why he even has a problem in the first place. As it picks up in the chorus, almost smirking, it becomes one of her finer unreleased songs yet.

Ave Maria

This is just an instrumental but there’s something so beautifully haunting about it. It wouldn’t be out of place in a Hollywood movie, with shades of the Lolita soundtrack instantly coming to mind when it first starts. It even works well without singing, and I hope we get a full version soon.

Puppy Love

From the perspective of a Marilyn Monroe figure, Lana plays the teenage girl wishing for a traditional romance with her lover. It’s ever-so-adorable, harking back to the sweeter parts of the fifties, but there’s a sense of sadness throughout it. Under the surface of the puppy love is the reality that the references to Monroe do not forget her sadness, loneliness and ultimately her overdose. The tone shifts to such an unhappiness in the bridge, directly calling back to Monroe’s phone call shortly before she overdosed, twisting the song to something more melancholic.

Cherry Blossom

The lullaby that grew into the marvellous, completed Cherry Blossom is a lovely tribute to someone small and beloved. Though Lana doesn’t have children yet, the care in her voice and each of her heart-warming compliments and promises is still thoroughly enjoyable – and comforting.

Colour Blue

In a song that reminds me of the love/hate relationship of Norman Fucking Rockwell, Lana takes her time to question why she loves the men that she does and, ultimately, grow from it, beginning to want something different. It’s raw and personal, with a gushing chorus that is complimented fully by the guitar. This song is blue all over, from Lana's opening harmonisation to her abrupt, unhappy ending.

Paradise

This song is, of course, pure paradise. A summery beat, a flippant Lana simply enjoying her lover no matter how long she’ll have him for and her coos of “sick!” and “that’s dope!” make this into a tasty distraction fit for the sunny months. Her casualness in this track is fresh as well as the dance-happy music that she doesn’t often create in her albums.

Meet Me In The Pale Moonlight

Lana is the waitress with a crush in this bop of a track, trying to convince a guy to get with her instead of that “bitch”. Convincing she is, as she uses all of her charm, wit and insistence that there’s no promises behind her intentions to have a good time with him. It’s just a breath of fresh air compared to a lot of her music, not too heavy and perfectly polished. It’s self-assured as much as it is breezy, and calm as it is it’s still a riot to listen to.

Caught You Boy

A dream-esque confession of desire, obsession and pure, crazy love, Lana isn’t outright insane in this track (Kinda Outta Luck, Jealous Girl, Serial Killer) but she hints towards being slightly too attached to her beau and describing herself as an army of one. The song is sweet and flowery but there’s a sadness and danger to it that keeps it from being too sugary.

Fine China

Some of Lana’s best lyrics are in Fine China as she sings of her fractured relationship, unhappy wedding and many beautiful yet easily broken things. It’s a slow, unfussy ballad but her strong voice and stunning lyrics make it so much more than a throwaway unreleased song.

Thunder

What feels like a coming-of-age slow dance song but is ultimately a choir-backed break-up track. Lana’s lyrics are clever and her voice is the perfect complement to The Last Shadow Puppets, this combined work a sure hit that deserves some kind of release and recognition. Lana is frustrated but tender as she leads the song with plenty of presence.

Prom Song Gone Wrong

The fifties feel, the teenage romance, the warm and gorgeous vocals that switch from dreamily longing to a cheeky talk-rap suggest this is a song tied tightly to Puppy Love, except with a more hopeful feel to it. Lana is ready to leave and she wants her lover to come with her, and even if it’s a youthful mistake there’s no mistaking that the love she – and her man – feels is real. It’s a pretty dedication to the kind of head-spinning romance of younger years, though it has an edge to it. Lana’s choruses are desperate, her pleading genuine and the strange way the music builds and collapses right at the end give the illusion all isn’t the sunshine and rainbows Lana sings of – and hopes for.

[ibijau]

“I’ve got a sick sense of justice, but you knew that.” 3zun fic? Where things work out between them, somehow, and yet JGY still kills JGS the same way and defends that choice to LXC and NMJ (Or JZX, if he's alive)? Can go full on JGS was stealing his women's energy, hence their sickness/deaths!

warning for mentions of death, rape and murder. Yay, it’s a happy one :D

Nie Mingjue storms into the cell, only for Jin Guangyao to look up and smile at him, as if he were welcoming him into his quarters, rather than locked up and in chains. He smiles just as peacefully to Lan Xichen when he follows their lover inside, pretending not to notice the other man's obvious distress. 

"I hope Da-ge and Er-ge will forgive me if I do not stand and bow to them," Jin Guangyao calmly says, rattling his chains. 

Nie Mingjue stares at him, taken aback. 

Even though they have reached a tentative peace between them, and Jin Guangyao often makes efforts to be more open with them than he is with anyone else, he still is the same person he always was. When he gets in trouble, he makes himself pathetic before them, almost on instinct. Sometimes it annoys Nie Mingjue, but other times it feels almost like a joke between them, as long as Jin Guangyao has that twinkle in his eye to show he knows he won't be taken seriously. 

To see him this calm and detached is unsettling. Nie Mingjue can only wonder if it has something to do with that large bruise on the side of his head. Going by the colour it is at least a day old. No cultivator of Jin Guangyao's level should have let this last this long. 

"Ah, this," Jin Guangyao notes, feeling their gaze. "Zixun was not very happy and let it be known. I am sorry to present myself before you in such a state, but my powers have been sealed, and I could not do anything about it. Please, just avoid looking at it." 

That makes Nie Mingjue frown. If Jin Zixun is behind one bruise, he's ready to bet there are more, hidden under Jin Guangyao’s clothes. He forces his mind to drift away from the worry he feels, because the real problem today is… 

"Did you do it?" Lan Xichen asks, something wavering in his usually calm voice. 

Jin Guangyao placidly looks up at him. 

"What do you think, Er-ge?" 

Lan Xichen trades a glance with Nie Mingjue. 

What they think is that Jin Zixun, who uncovered the plot against his late uncle, is not the most reliable man in the world, and holds a grudge against Jin Guangyao since that near fiasco with Wei Wuxian at Jin Ling's hundredth day party. 

They think also that he did bring convincing evidence. The most critical one is the testimony of a woman who took part in the murder of Jin Guangshan. She says she did not see the man who paid for her services, but she would recognise his voice. She also did see Xue Yang, and they all know the little creep respects no one except Jin Guangyao. 

They think that Jin Zixuan is desperately trying to prove his half brother's innocence, but finding it difficult. 

They think that Jin Guangyao has killed his superiors before. 

They think he promised he wouldn't again, and they both made the choice to trust him. 

And Nie Mingjue thinks, also, that although they've disagreed on means and motives, Jin Guangyao never strikes unprovoked, which he says out loud. 

The tenderness in Jin Guangyao’s eyes as he hears this is nearly unbearable. 

“Da-ge, are you really asking for my side of the story?” he asks in disbelief. 

It might be sincere. It might be feigned. Nie Mingjue never knows with him, just as he suspects Jin Guangyao never knows what to expect from him.

“We know your father was not… the kindest of men,” Lan Xichen says gently, kneeling down next to Jin Guangyao to send some spiritual energy into him and help him heal. Jin Guangyao sighs in relief, but keeps his eyes on Nie Mingjue even as Lan Xichen continues speaking. “You have let us know about some of the things he’s done, A-Yao, and I’ve long suspected there’s more you never told us. If he did anything to deserve such an end…”

“Of course he deserved it,” Jin Guangyao cuts him, still looking at Nie Mingjue. “You both know it as well as I do. He deserved it whether I had a hand in it or not. He was a selfish man. He only joined the Sunshot Campaign because he hoped to become what Wen Ruohan had been. He only took me in because his true son, forcefully kept from the heat of the action, failed to garner glory for Lanling Jin. And I won't get into the details of everything that happened with Wei Wuxian."

"But none of these things are why you killed him," Nie Mingjue retorts, suddenly convinced that Jik Guangyao really did it. 

Once, it would have filled him with rage to realise this. Back when he first understood what sort of a person his efficient and soft spoken friend was, when he saw Jin Guangyao murder his own captain… But since then, Nie Mingjue has learned to forgive, at least somewhat. Because when Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue’s men in Nightless City, he took care to only murder those who once derided him for his background, to lightly wound the ones who never mocked him. 

It was still wrong, those were still good men, but Nie Mingjue, who had been burning for years with his hatred of the Wens, understood that better than he ought to have done. 

So there is no anger as Nie Mingjue too kneels down next to their lover. Only disappointment. In himself, for wanting to excuse this most awful crime. In Jin Guangyao, for not coming to them this time, when he thought something was wrong. They had listened about Wei Wuxian, they would have listened about this too. 

"Some brothels offer specialised services," Jin Guangyao says, the smile on his face shifting from loving to cold and polite, the way it used to be around his father. "I suppose this doesn't surprise you. Someone with money can always get what they want in this world." 

Both Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen nod uncomfortably. 

"Some of those services offered are of a rather different nature," Jin Guangyao goes on, his eyes growing distant. "They are difficult to perform, cannot be repeated, and cost an obscene amount of money… not to speak of the moral cost. It takes a certain kind of man to purchase such services. Believe it or not, even Xue Yang found it distasteful. For all the wrong reasons, but still, I think Da-ge and Er-ge will agree that it takes a lot to shock someone like Xue Yang."

Lan Xichen takes their lover's hand, trying to comfort him, but Nie Mingjue freezes. He is suddenly reminded of certain rumours, gossip so foul that it had to be exaggerated. He's always refused to pay it any mind, knowing well there were horror stories about him as well, as there always are against powerful men. 

He can't escape it now.

“It’s not hard to find human cauldrons, if you know how to look for them,” Jin Guangyao states in a voice devoid of any emotion, staring somewhere in the distance. “And some men will always look for an easy way to improve their cultivation, even if it means raping and killing a girl for it. There are addresses, and certain euphemisms. These days, you would ask to see a Wen girl. I’ve learned that a few years ago, people called them educated women.”

Nie Mingjue only frowns at that comment, but next to him Lan Xichen gasps in horror, squeezing Jin Guangayo’s hand.

“Your mother…”

Jin Guangyao blinks a few times, and forces himself to look at Lan Xichen. It appears to take him great effort. Nie Mingjue wonders if it is the topic that causes this, or if the blow to his head caused more damage than is visible.

“No, don’t worry. She was just actually educated. It didn’t mean the same thing in Yunping as it did in Lanling, but my father found her attractive enough for his other purposes, I suppose.” Jin Guangyao looks away again, his face growing harder. “Others were not as lucky. It is all too easy to get what you want, with enough money.”

“You should have told us,” Nie Mingjue says. “If you had come to us with proof…”

“My father is not so stupid that he would have left proof,” Jin Guangyao hisses between clenched teeth, still staring at the wall. “Even he would have had trouble justifying doing such a thing to augment his power. I only found out because I went to fetch him with Xue Yang at a brothel one day, and heard him discussing in detail his next… purchase. Xue Yang happened to be knowledgeable about certain euphemisms we were hearing, and thought it entertaining to explain to me. After this I started looking. It’s funny what you find, when you look for it. It wasn’t proof enough to openly attack him, not with my background. But it was enough to be sure. And then…”

Jin Guangyao chuckles darkly, his eyes finally meeting Nie Mingjue’s.

“I’ve got a sick sense of justice, but you knew that,” he says with unnerving calm. “Xue Yang was on board because he thinks that sort of thing is cheating. Torturing the dead and cutting them from their reincarnation doesn’t phase him, but he knows it could have been him, if he’d been born a girl. And so we did what had to be done. My father died the way he lived.”

He pauses a moment, taking in the expression on his lovers’ faces, from Lan Xichen’s horror at that confession to Nie Mingjue’s anger that once again, this took clever man made all the wrong choices.

“Nobody else would have dared to stand against him,” Jin Guangyao adds, smiling feverishly, his gaze on Nie Mingjue. “But I’ve always been one to do what others wouldn’t. Someone has to get their hands dirty, Da-ge. I’ve never minded doing it when my turn came. I wonder if you will, now that you know the truth? You’ve always been such a champion of justice, always telling others to be righteous. Let’s see what choice you make, now that justice isn’t such an easy thing to decide.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Omertà👄1

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (sexual intercourse); tags to be added throughout series

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: Yes, I’ve decided to do a mafia!au. Yes, I have no idea what I’m doing. Yes, I’m avoiding actually working on other WIPs, but yes I want y’all to have a good time! Be safe.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The antique shop was unimposing along the New York street front. No different than any other aged and wilting business. The sign was painted with curling calligraphy that read ‘The Attic’ and the windows displayed French chairs and stained glass lamps from over a century ago. The show room smelled of old paper and welcomed few patrons. A mask for what was hidden behind that black door right along the rear.

Loki Laufeyson inherited the old shop from his father just as you were bequeathed your father’s business in turn. But Odin had been more than a mere antique seller. He was a businessman, a swindler, a criminal. The antiques were only a distraction from his real dealings. Powder hidden in African statues and guns hidden in back of creaky old wardrobes. The perfect front. Timeless.

And what were you but an accomplice to this life of crime? Well, you just kept the sums but you weren’t so sneaky as your father. His time at the tracks had taught him much, except for common sense. He could run odds for days but those odds had finally caught up to him. And you. 

He had taught you his skill. The art of numbers. Easy, simple. Numbers don’t lie. But you didn’t want to be a bookie and given the mistakes of your youth in the charge of a criminal, life as an accountant in some city office was a pipe dream. So you accepted the job at The Attic, tallied the debts, and went about your life, only slightly tinged by the city’s underbelly.

The sound of the bills quickly flipping into the tray filled the back office. Lopez was in the storeroom as he always was, his rotund figure balanced on the tall stool just behind the counter. You could hear his off-key humming through the door.

Loki’s tall figure stood before the machine better suited to a bank. He was quiet, as he often was, never one to mince words. That morning had seen a large influx as overdue debts were finally fulfilled; with paper as much as blood. You hovered your pencil along the margins of your ledger.

“Twenty percent to Barnes,” He dropped in another stack. “How much is that?”

You bent over the pages and punched in the numbers to your old calculator. You preferred the clacking of the keys. 

“One sixty,” You said. “Borderline?”

“Mmhmm,” He turned and began to count the bills by hand. “If I have any say, we won’t be splitting pennies much longer.”

“I’m sure he feels the same,” You said as you tapped your eraser on the desk.

He raised a brow at you. He didn’t tolerate much impertinence but you were so minuscule, he allowed you the odd jibe, though he was rarely amused. You straightened the buttoned collar of your blouse and smoothed the lapel of your tweed blazer. It was stuffy in the back room as the sun slatted in through the blinds.

He was quiet again. He neared and set a stack of bills before you. You took it and started to count it. He sat at his own desk; bigger than your own and predominant to the space. You were a side note. His little book keeper on her perch. He had counted right.

You tapped the stack so that it was even and stood to lay it down before him. You stretched your legs before you sat again and flipped listlessly through your ledger.

You were waiting. Loki wasn’t a man who often worked with others. ‘Partner’ was not a word to be found in his vocabulary. However, given a recent string of raids and retaliation, he had swallowed his pride for a cut. A healthy one. A true lose-lose for all involved. A pit of resent and greed which was sure to fester once more but for now, he would pay the piper.

Lopez quit his humming suddenly as the front door clattered shut. Loki’s eyes flashed but his body did not betray his expectation. He remained as he was, one leg draped over the other as he leaned back in the leather chair. You shifted and stilled the flutter of pages. You pushed your glasses up and re-examined the figures.

A knock at the door. Lopez pushed it open and huffed just inside, a mustard stain on his shirt.

“Mr. Barnes is here,” He gasped.

Lopez didn’t look it, but he was a formidable man. He’d shown that, several times. His deceptive appearance made him Loki’s favourite. And they both had a thing for knives.

Loki nodded and Lopez stepped back and his round stomach brushed against the man who waited behind him. Two others flanked the new arrival but did not enter alongside him, merely hovered by the doorway.

You had seen Barnes before; his men called him ‘Bucky’, Loki called him worse. His dark hair was kept short and his sharp jaw bore a constant five o’clock shadow. He wore a striped suit, flamboyant in contrast to Loki’s deep green attire. He entered and strode into the middle of the room. He grinned as he stopped across from the adversary turned cohort.

“I did try to be early,” He said. “I don’t come to Manhattan often.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Loki slithered. “If I were a real prick, I’d take a late fee.”

“And you’re not?” Bucky challenged and chuckled. He looked around the room and barely seemed to notice you among the bookshelves.

“I like this place. Fancy,” He mused. “I could use a little something to dress up my own place.”

“Your cut,” Loki pushed the stack of money forward. “How you spend it is no concern to me.”

Bucky slowly reached for the bills and licked his thumb before he flicked through them. His lips moved slightly as he counted. When he finished he looked up at Loki.

“That’s it?” He asked.

“Would you like to consult with my accountant?” Loki shrugged and gestured to you. “She is a mouse but efficient… Or better yet, you may return with your own, if you wish.”

“I keep my own numbers,” Bucky placed the money back down. “I’ll have a look.”

You made to stand and he waved you back down as he neared. You lowered yourself stiffly and flipped the page to the properties along the border of their territories. He stood just beside you and you ran your finger along the proper column. As he read, he bent closer, his finger fell just next to yours as he went down the numbers.

You glanced up at Loki who was entirely disinterested. He sighed and tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Bucky’s hand gripped the chair behind you and he leaned in even closer. You looked back to the page and felt the soft brush of his breath, the subtle inhale of your jasmine perfume. You turned slightly and his eyes met yours before he pushed himself straight.

“That’s quite the decline,” His hand dragged over your ledger and you moved yours before he could brush it. 

“Yes, well, we did lose a certain op to the fire,” Loki said sharply. 

Though it hadn’t been proven, all were certain it had been set by Bucky’s men. The man even snickered at the mention.

“Checks out,” Bucky grabbed the stack and tucked it into his jacket. “I’d hate to find cracks in this new association so early.”

“Surely not,” Loki replied. “Is that all then or should I offer you a drink?”

“A bit early,” Bucky countered. “But I would like a closer look at that statue out there. Can I have some help that isn’t coughing up a ham sandwich?”

“This is a small business, Mr. Barnes,” Loki leaned forward and tented his fingers. “And I haven’t worked the showroom since my adolescence.”

Bucky nodded and glanced at you. Loki followed his gaze and tilted his head. He looked between you and the other man.

“Go on,” He motioned you with two fingers. 

You blinked and frowned. You barely knew anything about antiques; sure you admired them but you really couldn’t place a date or a style. You set your pencil down and rose. You peeked over at Loki and he shrugged. He just wanted the man gone. To be fair, you felt little different.

Bucky stepped back and sidestepped the door. He waited for you to leave first. You did so reluctantly. You entered the showroom, passing between his two henchman as he followed. You sensed him close behind.

“This one,” He said and you stopped short. 

You turned as he strutted over to a statue of a naked woman barely sheathed by a swath of silk. You neared and his eyes roved the full figure of the statue. His finger brushed her hip and he smiled.

“You like it?” He asked.

You drew your brows together and looked at him. You were rarely asked what you thought, merely for a sum.

“I suppose…” You offered. “Though it is chipped along the shoulder.”

He scoffed and shook his head.

“You aren’t much of a salesman,” He remarked. “But you’re right. I think… I’d prefer a different decoration in my home.” He grinned and turned to you. “Something more… lifelike.”

You were uncertain of his meaning and his tone. 

“Something with more colour?” You suggested.

“Perhaps,” He said as he checked his watch. “I'll have to come back and have another look around.”

“Okay,” You said dumbly.

“Miss,” He gave a curt nod and spun on his heel.

You watched him go as his men followed. The door groaned loudly in his stead and you were left with Lopez’s thick breaths. You looked at him as he bent over a newspaper and squinted at the funnies page. You turned back to the office and picked at your sleeve.

‘Don’t trust men like me,’ Your father’s words whispered in your head. ‘Their wants are simple but their methods are tricky.’

You rubbed your neck and headed back to the office. If Loki had taught you anything, it was that your father, for once, hadn’t lied.

“Did he buy it?” Loki asked as you entered the office.

“No,” You answered quietly as you sat back down.

“Hmmm,” He hummed as you felt his eyes on you. 

You lifted your head and found him staring. He was watching you, weighing you like he did a sac of money or a crate of guns. You picked up your pencil and twirled it.

“Do the numbers again,” He said. “I want to make certain they’re correct.”

👄

Several days passed and you soon forgot about the awkward meeting of kingpins. The days blurred together as they always did, like the numbers in your ledger. You closed up the book as the shutters grew grim with the impending rain clouds. You went to the safe and spun the dial. You shoved the ledger inside and closed it up.

Loki’s chair swiveled and his toe tapped. You glanced over as you watched his lithe legs stretch out. He leaned an arm on his desk and tapped his fingers.

“I wonder…” He began softly. “Why do you do this?”

“Pardon,” You grabbed the top of the safe and pulled yourself up. You closed the wooden door of the chest that hid it.

“Well, more aptly I wonder, do you dress like that to throw off the scent or are you truly that displaced?”

“I don’t--”

“You looked like a librarian.” He interrupted. “Like you should be sat in a cubicle with a mug that reads ‘TGIF’.”

“I… this is how I dress,” You looked down at your pressed wool pants and your starched blouse with the little red flowers. “Professionally.”

“Your father was a bookie and your mother… well, I do not speak ill of the dead if I can help it.” He said.

You swallowed the insult. You knew this man too well to be upset. It was his favourite pastime riling others up. Seeing how far he could push them.

“I’m not my mother and I’m not some dancer or moll,” You said. “So I don’t see how a blazer should bother you.”

“I am not so concerned by your clothes,” He laughed. “I ponder on your commitment to your work. You see, you come in here, like it’s a nine to five, and then you’re on your way and I frankly do not know, nor can I even imagine, what it is you do outside of here.”

“I didn’t realise you needed to know.” You said coolly.

“I don’t need to know the intricacies of your personal life, I only need to be assured of your loyalty.”

“I’ve worked here for seven years. Name a time I have ever shown anything other than diligence.” You argued.

He grinned and licked his bottom lip.

“I am not worried about your past, I am worried about the present and your future which if you wish to continue on here is intertwined with my own.” He insisted. “So, after seven long years, I need more than your little scribbles.”

“What is it you want?” You asked. “A blood sacrifice?”

“I want you at Diablo’s. Tonight.” He said evenly.

“Diablo’s?”

“Yes, he is having one of his little meetings. Truly, I can’t even think of an appropriate term for the occasion. It is mostly drinking and gaudy suits on our part but you can’t truly think you’ll be my bookkeeper forever.” He said. “You don’t want to be your father, do you? Your whole life spent in the weeds.”

“Don’t talk about him like you knew him,” You warned. “If you did, you’d know I’m nothing like him and you would thank all the odds that I am not.”

“You cannot be a background player in this scene and let me warn you, there are not a lot of opportunities for girls like you.”

“Girls like me?” You scoffed.

“A woman in a skirt can lift it and secure herself a pretty little set-up,” He purred. “But you, you can’t dress like some matron and expect to watch the blood spill with clean hands.”

You sighed and clenched your jaw.

“So, you find a dress, buy one if need be, and you will see me at Diablo’s tonight.” He declared. “Without those awful wiry glasses, too.”

You shook your head and turned away from him. You checked your purse before shutting the flap and he cleared his throat.

“I expect an answer.” He said.

“And if I refuse, you will find a new book keeper?”

“I could. Easily.” He affirmed. “But I daresay, you won’t have as easy a time selling your numbers to others. You’d likely end up selling something else.”

You sneered but resisted rolling your eyes. You missed his former apathy. His quiet derision.

“What time, boss?” You asked.

[whyralltheusernamestaken]

hey! i love ur blog and i couldn’t resist requesting something. so i was thinking that if the reader was from medieval times where they have magic, wizards, knights, mages, and stuff like that. so 1 A was hit by a quirk that brought them to that dimension. and the reader is like god level with the amount of power they have even though their the same age as class 1 A. and they help the class survive or sum like that after like knights attach them cause sum of them look weird. can u use they/them.

It's just the main three boys if that's alright :( I can do hcs with the entire class if that's more of what u had in mind! Just leave another ask,,, sorry about that 😅 

Warnings : swear words 

Words : 1.2k 

You were bored. 

Perhaps that was the understatement of the century, but an otherwordly being like you had ceased to find interest in the small confines that was your world. The never ending weeks of wasting your life on your temple throne, perched upon a royal gold seat and listening to prayer’s wishes were certainly tiring you out. The ordinary wished for happiness, for their crops to yield well or for them to find true love, the king would wish for power, luxuries. And through your judgement, you would grant some of these wishes, crafting an empire like soft clay in your hands, a game to a child. Yet even with your godly powers, you could not seem to satisfy your boredom. 

Today you watched idly as a mage stepped into the light of the temple's wishing grounds. You sat high above the clouds, listening to their talk of discovering a new spell, hidden from the mere mortal's eyes. Sure many of mankind had laid eyes on you before, however sometimes you preferred to keep away from the prying eyes. After all, you were far far superior than them - one of their creators, in a sense. Your messenger would speak to your creations when you chose to observe from afar, teaching them of your presence with fables and songs. It had only been seventeen years since you were first introduced into the world, born from ashes through their beliefs, and yet you were already one of the most respected gods.

~~~ 

The villain's quirk was truely terrifying. One would only be a fool to engage in battle with someone who's quirk they did not understand. The first year class of UA learnt this the hard way when the warp gate villain's quirk had transported them to an entirely different location. Different time period perhaps. Todoroki had picked up on this as he gazed over what was once the medival Japan. 

"Um guys." Midoriya called out. 

"Where are we?" 

"Do we look like we fucking know Deku?" the blonde shouted, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he marched around the alley, coming to an abrupt halt when his eyes met a busy marketplace. 

The streets were lined with broken stone, small tent like structure of straw and wood littered the area as people bustled in and out of them, each carrying a basket. The air was a brown hue from the sand that had been kicked up, the shouts of stall owners filling the air as exchanges of good and money illustrated the market place. 

"This isn't modern Japan." Todoroki stated, looking out at the same scene. He stepped out into the street, sticking to the shadows and the other two followed, survaying their surroundings in case of an villains. His ears perked up as he realised the people spoke in a different language altogether. "This might not even be Japan." 

"U-uh what?" Midoriya stuttered, close to tears as he frantically looked around. "What do we do? Where are the others? How do we get back? Is all might okay?" 

"For god's sake, shut up." Bakugou scowled. His dismissal was perhaps due to an inkling of fear that had burrowed it's way into his heart. He had utterly no idea where they were and no one could help him. Alas, his pride would never allow him to voice out his concerns and so he followed in silence, a dull glare permenantly etched onto his face. 

~~~ 

"Shit." 

"Yeah we are in some pretty deep shit." 

"Why the fuck are they treating us like the villains here?" Bakugou shouted, running down the cobbled street as men on horse back clothed in sheets of metal chased after them, swords and spears in hands. 

"Over here." Todoroki called out, pulling the two behind a row of neatly trimmed bushes and running further into the garden. 

"Hurry up and find them!" they heard one of the men shout in the background. 

"Ah!" Midoriya screamed, tripping over and landing directly into a small pond. He desperately scrambled to his feet, eyes glancing over the fish that he may have crushed in his fall. 

A small laugh rang out from the distance, the boys all swiftly turning their heads towards an approaching figure emerging from behind the trees. "That was rather humorous if I am permitted to say so." you chuckled, running a hand through your locks and your eyes darted over the three strangers. "And you are...?" 

“There they are!" the voice bellowed, the sounds of hooves drawing closer as the boys turns to run. 

"Gentlemen!" you proclaimed, your voice ringing sharp through the air, ceasing all movement. The horses had stopped right in their tracks and even the teen's feet were frozen to the ground. 

"Y-your highness!" one of them stuttered, jumping off his horse to bow down on one leg, the other guards following suit. 

"May I ask if you know these men?" You tapped your chin slightly, cocking your head to the side as you studied them. 

"They are my guests." 

"H-huh?" 

"I see your highness, please forgive us for chasing them however they were spotted-" 

You waved your hand to stop the guard from speaking. "No worries." you beamed. "Please excuse their unsightly behaviour." 

"Unsightly? You bitch-"

"Bakugou please stop." Todoroki sighed. "They're helping us."

"I am a fucking god and I just got sworn at." you muttered softly, turning your head to the side as you brought up your hand to your mouth, faking a sob. Your pity party was cut short when you heard your messenger, Hermes calling for you.

"Y/N!" they flew over, sighing as they landed on the grass. "You cannot just leave your duties like that." they scolded you, recieving a pout in return.

"But it's so boring there." you whined, scrunching your face up at the thought of another day wasted. "I'm growing old Hermes and I don't want to be cooped up in that damn seat for hours on end."

"Old my ass." the blonde snorted, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms, sending you a glare. "You look the same age as us."

"How are we able to understand you?" Todoroki suddenly asked, registering that the language you spoke was not Japanese, and yet he was here having a conversation with you.

"Hmm I wonder. Maybe I’ll tell you later." you replied, feigning curiosity before turning back to the guards.

"These gentlemen will be staying with me."

"Y/N you can't-" 

“Your highness-" Hermes and the head guard began.

"Silence." you demanded, the air once again growing cold and still. "How dare you speak back to me."

You watched as the colour drained from their faces, the guard's lip trembling with fear before breaking out into laughter. "Just kidding!" you said, sticking you tongue out before turning on your heels. "What possible harm could dear ol' me do?" 

“A remarkable amount." Hermes sighed. "Your highness do you remember that one time you flooded the halls of the gods-"

"Hermes shh!" you gasped, running over and throwing a hand over his mouth. "Not in front of the guests."

"Those guests are leaving."

"B-but." you pleaded, sticking your lip out in a pout. "Look how good looking they are."

"Y/N."

"No." you huffed, skipping over to the dual haired boy and throwing your arm around his. "Well would you like to come with me?"

"Why would we go with a brat?" A sudden object flew past, you reaching out your arm to form a barricade of air, the spear stopping just centimeters from the blonde's neck.

"What the fuck? Why are you trying to kill me you dipshit."

"You know what." you sighed.

"I'm leaving him behind. You can have him Hermes." 

"Your highness, I do not want him."

"Tough." you snickered, dragging the other two back to your temple.

~~~

"Todoroki Shouto." you echoed, looking at the boy seated opposite you upon one of your grand pearl quilted couches. "That's cute."

"Thank you your highness." he replied with a small smile.

"Oh my god." you waved, your face tinted a slight red. "There's no need for such formalities! Just think of me as an average civilain."

"But-" "Shh." you hushed before turning to the blonde. "Midoriya?"

"Y-yes?" he jumped, a small squeak to his voice. "There's no need to be on edge." you reassured.

"You're perfectly safe here. Well apart from that thing." You nodded your head towards the boy chained up to one of the grand marbel pillars, a muzzle clasped against his face, his angry shouts filling the hall now that attention was back on him. Honestly, it was hilarious that Hermes had resorted to this.

Midoriya picked up another grape, before adding, "Yeah, that's Kacchan, he's like that most of the time."

"Well, it's about time I get back to work." you sighed as you heard the clocks chyme the fifth hour of the evening, stretching your arms above your head.

"May we observe?" Todoroki perked up, turning his attention away from the fuming Bakugou.

"I mean sure, I don't know why you'd want to though since it's really boring."

"I'm sure it's amazing!" Midoriya rebutted, a large smile on his face now.

You clutched your chest at his adorablness. Maybe they could stay for a while.

[oumaheroes]

Earthbound: Matthew’s Story

Context:

Hundreds of years after the fall of Earth, mankind is slowly starting to return. Some people have a stronger urge to return than others, confused by fragments of memories from a life already lived.

Full fic can be found here.

Arthur’s story can be found here.

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Matthew is four. His family have got their first dog and it’s a large, fluffy creature, all flank and tail and teeth. Matthew is horrified, at first, at this large thing that has suddenly appeared in his house, and he cries and tries to get away from it when it approaches him in the living room.

‘Just come say hello,’ Daddy says, hoisting him up to sit on his knees and taking his small hand in his larger one. His father’s body curls around him and, enveloped in arms, Matthew feels safe. His daddy reaches out his hand, thus, Matthew’s hand, giant thumb in the middle of his palm so that it is pinned there, and holds it aloft in front of the creature.

A large wet nose immediately descends and Matthew squeals because it is cold and strange and scary and Daddy shushes him, bouncing him on a knee. ‘He won’t bite’, Daddy says, ‘I won’t let him hurt you. He’s just trying to say hello; doggies say hello a little differently, is all.’

He kisses Matthew’s temple and rocks him, gently. ‘Want to try again?’

He is not but he nods and says yes because he wants to be brave and strong and he trusts Daddy, he does, or he really really wants to. At his reply, Daddy holds out their hands again, in front of the thing’s mouth, and whispers soothing nothings in Matthew’s ear- he’s not paying attention, too focused on the mouth with the teeth.

The creature snuffles their hands before giving them a lick, pink rough tongue and slobber; Matthew gasps, surprised, and then laughs. Daddy chuckles, and Matthew feels the vibrations rumble through him. ‘See? I told you; he only wants to be your friend. He’s called Kumajirou.’

The name doesn’t quite stick, too long and cumbersome for Matthew’s tentative tongue and he becomes Kuma, instead. It fits.

Matthew is eleven and wishes people could be more like dogs, open and friendly and honest about all that they are. He finds people too quick, children especially: too sly and fast and always with something hidden behind their smile. He’s figured out that he isn’t really a people person, anyway- it’s not that he doesn’t like people, exactly, but he doesn’t really know how to act around them; doesn’t know what to say or how to read them properly and now the whole process of opening his mouth to speak to someone feels daunting, like standing on the roof of his house and forcing himself to step off.

Matthew likes to sit on his thoughts, chew them about in his mouth a bit and be sure of the shape they will form before he lets them go. This means that he takes too long, is silent more often than not because kids his age don’t have the patience to stop and wait for him to get himself ready, lining up his words like soldiers about to march.

He’s known as the silent one at school, blending into the environment like a piece of furniture. Whether it’s in lessons, in sports, in games, or anything in between, his classmate’s eyes glaze past him and he knows that they’ve forgotten he’s there, forgotten that he’s an option to speak to. They’re not mean to him, they just don’t think about him, anymore. Even adults are not immune, more used to handling the demands of the louder kids, dazzled by the brightness of the smarter ones, fond of the affectionate children. Matthew is only half there, he supposes, sitting in the background with a mouthful of words that won’t come out when he wants them to.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s even really there at all, because that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Memories of things and people and places and conversations- moments you share with other people that plant you in time, leaving a mark of your life like a footprint in their existence. He feels like a ghost of a person, a shade of parts that resemble someone else and it leaves him more tongue tied than ever.

But if Kuma is there, wherever he is, it’s instantly better because Matthew can be himself, can feel something loosen inside him and let him act like a person because Kuma loves him no matter what. Dogs act the same to everyone as long as you’re good to them- love them even a little. Kuma doesn’t care if Matthew doesn’t want to talk, or doesn’t know how he properly wants to say something. Kuma doesn’t care if Matthew struggles to find his words, tripping and stumbling over them as they clog his mind, clumping awkwardly on his tongue.

Kuma will sit there, patient and still, as Matthew whispers his day into his fur, words clear and strong and unsullied by fear in a way they never are with people. He will lick him on the nose and shove his head onto his lap when Matthew has curled himself into a ball in his room, replaying his day over and over so much that his mistakes blur together like paint, colouring everything with a smear of shame.

Matthew is fourteen and he feels as though he finally understands something. It starts as a small something, creeping and pattering through him and leaving tiny tracks in his mind, but now it’s growing larger and stronger, moving within him and sending his thoughts racing.

Kuma died a few months ago. This is what started it, Matthew knows, seeing Kuma slow and slow, more so each year, before, towards the end, it took all he had left to just lift his head. Matthew had felt terrible, of course- at a loss and helpless sitting there with him, stroking Kuma’s head and whispering final goodbyes. His father had joined him on the floor, both of them cocooned by a companionable silence in a way they couldn’t be at any other time, and Matthew felt truly heard, to the bottom of everything he was, in the depths of his grief. This was a moment that needed no words, was a thing that could not be named- only felt and experienced.

His father is a research scientist at some big lab in the heart of the colony and is more used to theory and hypothetical than practical application, but he had found some e-tab journals on dogs, about how their bodies worked and how to fix them, and used his skills to pour over them with Matthew on the floor, studying the miniscule entries as much as he could to provide some help.  Matthew watched, days lit by the flash of the e-tab as story after journal after analysis was checked and rechecked by his father beside him. There was no medicine that could save Kuma, no special cure for age, but there was some information about helping it, easing it- gentling death until it was as soft as sleep and Matthew’s father tried each and every one that he found. Kuma left them with a shift and a sigh and Matthew was surprised at death’s kindness, how easy it could be.

His father, haggard, tired, and sad, had given something of himself for Kuma, and Matthew felt so proud of him, thankful for the benefit it had given his oldest friend. Kuma is gone, but Matthew thinks of that shared peaceful end, of those journals filled with age old accounts from long dead men. He realises that there must be many of these e-tab entries about so many other animals, the few that are left and the thousands that there were before and he flicks onto one, in passing, just to see.

That’s all it takes. One leads to another, which leads to another and another and another and then Matthew can’t stop himself from drinking up as many as he can sync to, allowing himself to be pulled down through trees of evolution, skipping through the classifications of mammals to haunt reptiles and glide past the wingspan of birds. There used to be so many animals, more than he can ever name, more than he can ever conceive being possible- in the seas and the skies and the land and all at once. In, out, around- a planet teeming with things besides humans, living alongside the hulking toxic growth known as mankind and breathing life into the skies.

When earth fell they were lost, all apart from the few that the survivors managed to cling to, stolen away in their bags and clutched under an arm. Small animals and creatures that could be carried and fed easily with scraps that weren’t needed by another fleeing human life, or domesticated food that was herded and pushed, clueless, into a slaughterhouse of spaceships. It is redundant, of course- a pointless skill for him to nurture but Matthew is hungry for all of it; drawn in and hooked to something beyond his control he syncs file after file, strange creatures taking shape in his mind to migrate the past into his waking day.

Matthew’s colony is one of those ones where they like to push people, like to specialise their children early and drive them to great things. They’re good at what they do, structurally organised to churn out success and Matthew see the benefit of this, finally. He hadn’t really taken part before, hadn’t really shown an interest in pushing himself into a single category, but now, all of a sudden, he wants to do what his dad does.

Well, not exactly what his dad does, numbers and figures and study of physics, but the process of it. The breaking down of information, the mythological categorising of data; the calm soothing expectation of silent contemplation. So, he picks to try to become a research scientist too, selects classes that will give him access to greater libraries and archives and locked journals for deeper study, searching for fur and teeth and claws amongst them.

Matthew is eighteen. He managed to find a uni that taught a few classes in veterinary studies, the medical beginnings for those wanting to specialise as a vet. Matthew doesn’t want to do this, exactly -he’s more interested in how animals work and what they’re like, what colours they come in and how big they are- but if he becomes a vet it will allow him to work with animals all day and this, small as it is, could be enough. He isn’t sure, really; doesn’t really know exactly what he wants other than to learn but he hopes that if he takes enough classes, he’ll eventually figure something out.

The bell rings and he stands, gathering his things and heading out of class -anatomy of canines, his favourite- and turns a corner, slinging his bag over a shoulder and aiming for the canteen where he hopes they’re serving pancakes. He keeps missing them, never making the queue in time, but today he’s hoping that maybe he can manage to push his way through. Suddenly, as he turns a corner someone bumps into him, not seeing him at all, it seems, and everything crashes to the floor, e-tab skidding away out of sight.

There’s a mumbled ‘watch it!’ from someone whom Matthew doesn’t see, just a mouthless shout from a sea of strangers, and then he’s left scrabbling on the floor, parting students like a boulder in a river. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glint of metallic grey and a flash of Kuma’s tail across the hallway by a wall. He sighs in relief and scoots his way over, bending to snatch his tab up before it can get trodden on and straightening to come face to face with an e-board, notice shining bright and loud.

Matthew blinks at it, then shakes his head and blinks again when the advert doesn’t change, displaying something he never thought possible. It’s Earth, there and large and green and Matthew can’t read the words properly because, out of nowhere, his eyes are filled with tears and he’s crying- great shuddering breaths that turn heads and rip his voice from out of him.

Earth. Earth, there, open. Looking for people. He’s crying, crying so hard he can’t breathe, just gasp and choke and cry and people stop to stare at him because all of a sudden he’s the centre of attention, the loudest thing there is. He can’t control himself, can’t reign it in because at the top, under a heading for ‘Looking for skills in:’ he sees-

Animal care.

He doesn’t need to think, doesn’t need to read any further, doesn’t even stop to feel shame for his outburst; class forgotten, lunch forgotten, life forgotten he sprints home, avoiding the shuttles and cars he runs as fast as his legs can carry him, pounding on the electric walkways that shoot through town and feeling himself grow lighter and lighter with each step.

His mother and father don’t want him to go, mother clinging to him with arms wrapped tight around his neck. They feel, briefly, like a noose and Matthew chokes to think of listening to them- at the thought of staying here.

He loves them, he loves them- they’re his parents and he loves them so fucking much but this is something he needs to do, has to do and as he pulls away from his mother and meets his father’s eyes he can see that his father knows this too.

‘You may not get to work with animals,’ he says seriously, ‘at least not the ones you want.’ Matthew’s mother steps back to look at his father in horror, betrayal raw on her face as she realises that his father isn’t saying no Matthew can’t go, that he must stay. She reads the acceptance there, understands the truth of it and leaves the room to compose herself, Matthew staring after her sad but determined.

Matthew nods. ‘I know.’

His father steps forwards and puts a large land on his shoulder, rooting him in this moment. ‘If you’re not happy, will you come home?’

Matthew feels his eyes begin to burn, throat tighten, and thinks of the birds he’ll see even if he works in a lab, the insects he will find and small animals he can watch from a window; life spilling over the edges to bleed into buildings. ‘I’ll be happy.’

[mimssides]

Never Met You

Chapter 10: Revelation

Things will reveal themselves in the least expected moments. They will be there when they are most needed. 

“We still have no clue for where as to start with our investigation,” Virgil sighed and put the letter opener back on Janus’s desk.

Janus sat on the chair behind it, while Roman paced around the room and Logan sat on the armchair in the corner of the room. Roman was muttering silent curses under his breath and Janus watched him closely. They had been sitting together for a few hours. He and Logan had retold over and over again how they had met Green but nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day, except for Green’s arrival, of course. The day before was also quite unremarkable to the point of both Logan and Janus not having anything important to say about it.

“I am aware Virgil,” Logan said and scratched his eyebrow as he looked over to the window. It had the view to the inner courtyard, where the makeshift medic tents had been put up. “But there is nothing else I can tell you. We didn’t learn anything about his background from himself, so we have to reconstruct who he might be from the things we have seen ourselves.”

“Well, we know that he had a partner. Possibly, a husband.”

Janus, Logan and Roman stared at Virgil, who took the letter opener in his hands once more and fiddled with the blade.

“A husband?” Logan asked with a shivering voice.

Virgil glanced over to him and nodded.

“Yes. He mentioned him. No details but that one existed. I assumed he… He never mentioned this to you?”

Logan shook his head and stared down at his left hand. Did he imagine it or was there a band of lighter skin around his middle finger? He blinked and the image was gone, the skin just as brown as the rest of his hand.

A loud stomp almost shook Logan out of his chair and he looked over to Roman who stood with his back turned to them. His hands were balled into fists. For the first time Logan noticed how broad Roman’s shoulders were now that they were held with tension.

Dramatically, Roman turned around and glared at the others as he announced: “We know him! We know him and he obviously knows us! He knew how to calm me down, he knows exactly how to get on J’s nerves, he knows what all of Vee’s nods mean and he knows everything what you think Lo! And so do you! You just throw each other a look and it’s clear! You just know and it’s like it’s all we should need to know in order to figure out who he is but there is something preventing us to make the last connection and it’s driving me mad!”

“I can see that Roman,” Janus said and vaguely motioned against Roman’s hands, “but what are we supposed to do? We have nothing to go off and-”

“He knew where about the panic room. He brought me there. He knew it was safe. He knows the castle; he knew the courtyard but he was no servant. And we can’t remember it because of a curse.”

With that Janus stood up. His brows were furrowed deeply and his lips were pulled into a harsh snarl. Roman growled at the expression and pressed his hands against the side of his head while shaking it vehemently.

“You can’t deny this anymore! It has to be a cruse!”

“Don’t lightly talk about magic, which has been used to eradicate my ancestors. The only ones who would dare to use such powers would be the unnamed and she hasn’t been here since months before Green’s appearance!” Janus hissed.

Roman wasn’t affected by Janus’s anger. In the contrary, he seemed to get even more worked up and turned away towards the door.

“Come on Janus,” Roman said as he gripped the door handle, “this thing is affecting me. Which means it had to be her. No other magic is strong enough to do so.”

Roman pressed the handle down and left the room. Immediately Janus went after him and both Logan and Virgil followed rather confused about what the two had just talked about. They watched Janus getting next to Roman and how he opened his mouth to chide the prince but stopped. His expression changed and he silently kept walking next to Roman who steered towards the backroom in the servants’ wing.

Nobody said anything when Roman opened the door and entered. Nobody made a noise when Roman paced around the room for a few minutes. They just came inside and Virgil closed the door as he was the last one to enter and waited with the others for Roman to get a grip on himself again. He watched his partner walk in circles and eventually stop in front of the wall opposite of the door. He was staring at it and Virgil exchanged a worried look with Janus.

“Ro?” Virgil began cautiously and walked up to him. “I know you wanna solve this but there is nothing in this room. He has been inside here only once; we won’t find any clue here.”

Roman stepped closer towards the wall and put his hand on one of the stones.

“This wall opens.”

“What?”

Perplexed Virgil stepped back. Frantically Roman moved a chest to the side and again put his hand on the same stone as before and pushed down on it. A low creaking sound. The wall slid aside and opened a passage into a dark tunnel.

For a moment four men just stared inside. Then the prince went inwards unbothered by the dark, his eyes adjusting effortlessly and taking on a red colour. His ears were taking in every sound, he knew immediately that the light steps just behind him belonged to Janus, that the heftier but muted ones were Virgil’s and that the hasted loud ones were Logan’s at the end of the group.

“Roman, where are we going! We can’t see!”

Janus had grabbed his arm and Roman halted. He turned and looked down to his friend. In his head something was revolting. Revolting and trying to get his memories back but it wasn’t working right. Instead, he turned to the side and gripped a torch which had been placed in a torch holder. He didn’t question why he knew exactly where the holder was or why it was hanging rather low but just took it and rubbed the top of it against his palm, flame enlighten immediately. He held the torch up over his head for a moment and looked back to the others before he resumed in walking down the tunnel.

There were crossings and other walls which slid aside when Roman pressed them. Nothing of it seemed unfamiliar to him and he knew that that alone should have freaked him out. Yet it didn’t and he followed the way he somehow knew he had to go. In his focus and the others’ worry none of them noticed that on several stones sat little coal drawings. They didn’t notice that there were little signatures beneath them, one from Roman and another they would not have been able to read, not because the language or scripture was different, but because their brain would refuse to put the letters together to a word.

They walked down into a dead end with a wooden door in the middle. Roman opened it, stepped inside with no hesitation and set the torch into a torch holder to his left as if he had done so a million times before.

As if he had done so before? Roman shook his head. The others entered behind him but he just looked at the room. It was a square room, maybe ten feet long and wide, a worn-down couch was standing against the wall in front of him, a little shelf left to it, with books and pencils and coal sitting inside them. On the wall of the door, close to the torch, was an easel, a blank canvas sitting on it.

“I have been here,” Roman mumbled.

He hadn’t noticed how Janus had stepped to his side and flinched when he said: “I would hope so! Leading us through a tunnel system you didn’t know anything about wouldn’t be something I approve of. Also, when have you even found these tunnels? Why am I not aware of them?”

Roman didn’t respond. His eyes had deviated to the wall to the right and his breath was stuck in his throat. Silently, he walked towards it. Walked to the wall with a portrait hanging on it. With a family portrait. Oil pastels. Vibrant colours and strong gradients, which made the four people in it look like they would come alive any second now.

Janus inhaled sharply as he saw it. Virgil’s eyes went wide. Logan gasped and leaned against the wall.

In the portrait they saw a man with light brown skin, short brown locks, eerily green eyes, and a well-kept beard standing next to a woman with slightly darker skin, dark brown hair in a beautiful bun, brown eyes and in front of them two boys, looking identical with brown skin, dark curls and eerily green eyes. They all were wearing regal clothing, man and woman wearing each a crown which hadn’t been worn in over two decades at this point.

It was a portrait of King Aneas, Queen Rhea, the young Prince Roman and…

“It’s him,” Roman choked out.

Janus shook his head and pressed his hand against his forehead: “No - how – we – how did we never see the resemblance? It- it can’t be! It can’t. It can’t?”

Roman’s head was pulsating and he let himself fall back on the couch. Virgil was beside him immediately, holding his hand and trying to not think too much about what he was seeing right now. Janus kept staring at the picture, at the boy in front of Aneas, with the green tunic and the wide grin with so much more confidence than Roman’s.

And Logan pushed himself off the wall and slowly stepped towards the picture. He looked at the colours at the way they blended into each other and he recognized the technique. He saw the hand putting the colours down on the canvas in front of his inner eye. He saw the same hand holding coal and sketching him. He heard a voice telling him to sit naturally. Heard the voice asking him fondly teasing if he could draw a nude. And he heard himself say in a just as fond teasing way that he could if he could behave himself.

“He drew this. He used to draw me…” Logan whispered and he felt his memory slowly breaking free. “He draws things he sees in his nightmares and burns them. He moves so much in his sleep. He has almost threw me off the bed when we started sharing. He doesn’t like it when he has to sleep alone and he usually comes to check on me when I take a nap. He – he didn’t-”

Logan panted. The day before. The day before Green.

That day-

“He didn’t come check on me when I took a nap.”

***

 “And there you are.”

 ██mus froze. It had been a normal day. He had spent the morning with Logan and had a meeting over the alliance talks with Janus after that. Lunch had been calm and nice, Logan had excused himself soon after dinner to take a nap because he felt a little tired. ██mus had taken the time to get back in his room and relax for a while. He had just wanted to go and check on his husband but got caught up in the view over the gardens, the rose maze, his home.

 ██mus gulped and turned around. His grin was maniacal as he stared into the glowing green eyes of the Dragon Witch.

 “There I am!” ██mus cackled and looked her over with a wicked grin. “What has you come here to my humble chambers, Dragon Bitch?”

 The creature scowled at the name. She stood far taller than ██mus, her greyish skin, the black flames miming hair and the deep red coat underlining how foreign and out of place she was amongst humans. She was a creature of nightmares and the underworld, her name a testament to the creatures she has eradicated.

 “Don’t test me, child. You will pay for your arrogance!” she growled.

 ██mus grinned as sweat began to form on the back of his neck. It made no sense that she was here now. She was only allowed in the castle at certain times. Janus knew the schedule by heart and he would have been with ██mus at all time had one of her visits been close to come.

 “Oh, will I?” ██mus hummed and wracked his brain for the reason why she would be here.

 And the reason took his breath and smile. The creature saw his change and began to grin. She walked towards him, held her hand under his jaw and forced him to look up. He had to control himself to not snap for air.

 “Who was stupid enough to make a deal with you?”

 Her chuckle was wicked and her eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

 “Oh, look at that,” she hummed and let her thumb stroke over his cheek. “Your father’s desperation and your mother’s rage. I didn’t think I would ever see such a delicious last expression ever again.”

 ██mus’s heart stopped. He grappled her wrist and pressed it down from his face.

 “What did you just say?”

 “Last expression, my dear,” she answered unimpressed and pulled her hand out of his grip and began to pace through the room. “I was ordered to kill the last demon blood in this kingdom. I am here to get rid of your treacherous family once and for all.”

 “You killed our parents. You killed my father for making your powers ineffective everywhere but within our kingdom’s boarders.”

 ██mus was glaring at the Dragon Witch who simply raised an eyebrow.

 “Oh child, you should know we can’t do anything against our own kind without a deal. Someone sent me. And someone sent me again to kill you. The last demon blood-”

 Loud and hysteric cackling stopped her words. ██mus was overcome with grief. With disbelieve. His father who had decided to stop all the bloodshed his family had brought over these lands, his father who had never shed a single droplet of blood despite having hungered for it, his father who had been nothing but kind to his people and the other kingdoms had been assassinated for the blood he had been born with.

 But there was also relief. Relief in the fact that contracts with demons had to be followed closely and ██mus knew that she had made a grave error.

 “Already breaking down? I expected more of you, Thea,” she snapped at him.

 He regained his composure and tilted his head to the side. With a smirk he began to match her pacing, both of them walking in circles around each other.

 “Oh,” ██mus hummed, “I am not breaking down, dearest demon. I just think you might have made a deal you can’t fulfil here.”

 “Why would that be?”

 “Tell me what the contract is. Not the contractor, I know the rules.”

 She hissed but complied: “’I, the Dragon Witch, shall end the life of the King of Theana, the last demon blood in the lands. I shall do so as brutally and cruelly as I please.’ They were almost kind this time; They didn’t even tell me to go for your lousy husband.”

 ██mus almost snapped at the comment over Logan but kept his anger to himself and simply huffed with a grin.

 “Your deal is faulty. Because I may be King of Theana, but I am not the last demon blood.”

 “What?”

 ██mus eyes glowed at her rage and he said ever so pleased: “It’s my brother.”

     "̶̨̮̖̹̤̋̌͆̏̕̕W̶̘͓͋̿̽͜ĥ̸̠̤̬̮͇͖̻͓̓̅͛̇̄͒̂͘͜a̸͕͔̦̦̔̿̔́͑̃͌̚t̴̹̃͂̾̏̐̓̂͌!̴̳͖̬͙̝͕̈́̑͊͛͊̌͆̽̚?̴̨͍͕̥̦̪̣̔̐̈́̓́̐̚̚͜͠!̸̨̼͉̫̣̯̯͐"̴̗̬͈͚̞̼̙͓̑͜  

  The Dragon Witch screamed. ██mus jolted back, hands shooting up in front of him and eyes opened widely to see what she was going to do next. Angrily she threw her arms in the air, screeching and revolting under the revelation she just had and went straight forward for ██mus’s neck. He couldn’t do anything but choked as her fingers grappled him against the wall and she brought their faces close to each other.

 "̷̳̩̼͚̲̥͙̩̪͐̈́̃̒̌̆Y̵͍̟̣͙̹̠̝̱̰̆̌̅̍̽̄͒̔̕ͅo̷̧̠̺̔͐͒̆̈̓͝u̴̢̧͖͒̒̎̇̔̾ ̷̖̟̤̲̯͕́͆̒ͅs̸̡͈̦̲̞͕̖̙̤̎͊ͅp̴̬͛̐̎͒̌̕ǎ̴̪̘̼̘̲̗͍́n̵̡̺̪̲̬͂̈̀͒͌̽̕ ̶̫͙̗͍̯͉̍̄̉̓̊̋o̷̖͗̉̏̇ḟ̷̢͇͚͍̹̗̮͚̳̬͒̍͊̒͆̂ ̶̣̣̂͊̇̑̓͒̂t̵̫̩͓̪̥̞̠̥̩͊̋̀̉̿͌̉h̴̫̲̱͋̊̚a̵̙͍͔̥̼̮̹͖̞͑͝t̸͖̉̊̂̔̉̅̔̎̅̕ ̸̻̗̯̜͚̪̤̟͎̲͗́͂̄̕͝͝͠s̶̞͇̾̎t̶͕̥͌͋u̶̧̡͔̠̝̎͝͝p̸͖͋i̴̢̺̝̪͖̫͕̥͐̅ḑ̷̧̪̯̭̏̋̑̑̊̊̓̉̒ ̶̡̛̱̝͍̪̹͕̾̑̓̚͝w̸̧̜̮̰͔͕͕̄̏̑̄͝ò̷̪̩̳̈́̑̎̎̉͒̿̚m̶̧̳̳̫̺̈̈́̈̒a̸̫͓͈̗̦̱̥̽̽̎͛͝͝n̶͖͍͇̓͌̑̇͗̆̊̈́͂͠!̷̝͍͖͎̂ ̴̤̅Y̵̥̱̚ǫ̵̦̦̺͇̫̗̠͛̄̽́̏̉̄͐̍̌͜u̸͈̭̼̥͑̏̚ ̵̧̻̤̓͝ĉ̷͔̖͍̰̘̈́̎͆͜r̷̂̏̂̂̄ͅe̷̢͍̰͇̱̪̻̎̃ͅa̴̡̨͙̟̤̲͆̎͊͘͜͝ͅṫ̴̢̡̼̠̦̞̝̘ḯ̴̢͙͕͑̐̓o̶͎̗̱̘̞̾̎̂̈́͒͝͠͝͠n̴̡̢̮̟͚̩̩̦̽͌̓͗͊͝ ̵̨̨̭͘o̷̠͙̮̮͍̹̯̪̿̋̇̔͌͛̆͆̚f̵̢̪̱͖̥̬͕͈̎̈́͌̆̍̚͝ ̶͕̼̇̀̾̿̔̓̔f̷̮̝̮̟̮̦̔̀̄̇̎͗͘͝͝ơ̵̤̈́͂͐̈́̇̂̔́̓o̴̧͙̥̩̮̓̎͂͊̋͒͘͜l̷͕̳̞͌̄̍̃ị̶̯̈́̆̽͠s̸͚̥̗̝͎̲̖̖̦̟͆̄̓̓̔͝h̴̫̼͑̀̈́͋ ̷̢̪͆͆̌́͋̕l̸̨̧̙͇̱̖͚̠͒͑͂̒̽̽̐o̷̞͙͕̜̰̽͌͆̊̿̔̽͜͝v̵̞̳̜̝͎̅̇̌̾̓͘͜e̵͓̼̥̭̻̭̫͍͕̟̾̽͛͑̊̽̐͠!̸͔͈̘̪̟͓̮͒͂͛̃͆̽̔̏̈́̚ ̷̨̛̰͙̗̈́̄͝Y̶̫̝̩̰̼̬͚̣͌̏̇͐o̸̥͈̲̱͔͆̓̐̃͌̋̾̈͒̉ŭ̷̧̝̈́͐̊̐͘͠ ̸̩̦͚̰̼̖͝k̵̢͙͕̹̺̺͑̓̓͆ͅe̷̯̼͇̖̪̎̑͊͆͛͌̚͝ẻ̵̡̜̰̞͙͎͉͎͓͛̓̈̈́͆̚͠p̷̨̧͉͍͇̙͉̼̯̘̈́͗͋̔̈̂͒̆͠͝ ̴̼̘̏̏͆́̇͘̕͠m̸̨̲̱̻͖̮͇̝̃̉̈́̓͆̉͗̎̓͘e̴̮̗͚͎̬̻̳̋̓̾̀̒̀̍̿ ̴͍̲̙̬̪̮̺̮̈̍̿͜f̶̨͎̈́r̵̺̪͎̼̀̽̏̔o̶̭̼̟̼̻̥̓͐m̵̧̺̯̼̣̙̙̹̱͕̀̅ ̸̧̧͖͉̤͎͙͈̪̌́͌͂́̽̀̽ͅm̶̹̜̘͌̅y̴̡̰̘̣͇̳̯̦͊̌͐̓̿͂́̕͝͠ ̷̧̨̰̘̘͍̪̣̽̈̑̈́́ř̷̫͗̊̆ȅ̶̢̡͚̗͍͈̩̜͙́̽̒̒̽͌w̶̰͚̫̱̼͖̔͋̽̈́́̌͑ȧ̵̞̙̖̻̫͙̤͙̱̮͌ṙ̷̢͓̘̟͚̠̗̼͈̣̊̔̑͆d̸̥̫͙̂͑̈ ̴̧̛̼͓̹̠͔̳̇͂̉̅͌͘͜͜͜͝͠y̷̡̨̢̬̘̹̮̳̱͇͑̾à̶̡̙̝͂̎͊̔͒̀̃͝n̵̪͍̹̫̦͇̟̦̪̖̓̏̃̆͊̿͝d̷̺̘̯͔̱̬̫́̑͜ ̵̨̧͕̮̩̩̞̜̼͚̀̈́̇̂̿̈́͆͝͝y̴͕̜͈̙̆͜ơ̸̧͕̜̻̗͔̖̮̣̣̎͐̒͝u̸̡̼̖̰̇͌ ̴̢͎̘̳̗̈k̷̻̟̦͇͕͎̆̈́̈́̈́͆̕é̶͈͙̏̐̅e̴̢̪͖͇̻͔̥̻̼̓͘p̷̢̺͙̙̐͝ͅ ̸̡̲͎͕̜̳̘̩̙̄̅m̸̧̞̞͚̲͙̓̌̄͐e̷̲̪̜̤̗͕̍͂̉̈́̍̐͝͝ ̸̢̲͖̖̥͕̻̦͕̫̆f̷̧̙͉̭̲̮̗͙͒̇r̸̼͘ͅo̶͇̭̙̟̦͔͔̩͊̈͂̈́̀̓̓͝m̶͈̦͍̟̽͒̀͒͗͌̃͊̎ ̷̟̊̿̃͆͂͊͊m̷̻͕̠̺͓̟͒̎y̸̪͇͇̺̺̪͗̔ ̶̛͎̈́̓̋͂̊̓̕f̸̬̟̩̫͙̠̩̱͍̙͝r̸̳͇̩̱̘̝͓̲̘͂̓̾͊̌͛͑͜͝e̵̡̺̫̲̜͍̠̱̘̺͛̀͊͝͝e̴̪̦̠͙̱͕̗̋̍̄͑̇͝͠d̷̮͖̝̟̩̞̿͂̈̐̇̚ǒ̶̰̻̻̓̈͑̈́̒m̵̧̨͍̖̫̗͔̏ͅ!̵̨̖̲̎̓͗̅͒̚͠"̶̢͔̰̣͊̌͑̈́̆̐̈́͝ͅ

 ██mus yapped for air and she lessened her grip. He took a deep breath and grinned dangerously at her.

 “Shitty being an incompetent demon bitch, huh? Couldn’t be me-”

 She screamed right in his face, the breath smelling rotten and toxic as it hit his nostrils. A clicking sound got lost in the noise.

 “Oh, I will make you pay, wrenched thing, you,” she whispered sweetly and ██mus felt his stomach turn. “I will kill the king with demon blood. He’s not next in line now, but he will be if you don’t exist, won’t he?”

 “If you kill me-”

 “No.”

 Her voice was wicked and smooth. Sugar in a deadly dose.

 “I won’t kill you. I will erase your existence from their minds. I will make your precious advisor, your best friend, forget you. I will make your people, your most treasured people, forget you. I will make your brother, your last living blood, forget you. I will make your husband, the only one who you ever dared to ask for his love, forget you. And you will suffer seeing them, knowing them and not being able to say a single word about it. You will see your brother die as a king he never wanted to be. And it will be all your fault.”

 ██mus’s eyes were wide with horror. From the words he just heard, from the realization he just, but mostly from the look Logan shot him over the creature’s shoulder. And his terror grew as Logan shouted in white rage: “Let go of him!”

 She was faster as Logan charged forward. She lifted ██mus from the ground holding her fingers up to snap. Logan’s look changed. ██mus tried to reach his arm out for him but he was already too high up the ground.

 It dawned them that it was too late.

 “Logan!” ██mus cried.

 “RE-”

 Snap.

***

“REMUS!”

___

Link for AO3, Taglist, Masterlist, and next Chapters are in my first reblog!  

[minister-for-femslash]

The Lovers

Summary: After a close call, Beau and Yasha are forced to confront their feelings and have a long overdue conversation. 

Pairing: Beau/Yasha

Word Count: 7,061

Warnings: Character death (temporary) 

Yasha goes down first.

Two guards are on her, flanking her and as she deflects the first blow with the Magician's Judge, the second is thrust deep in her back.

Beau hears them laugh and turns just in time to see Yasha fall. She knocks back the guard she's been fighting with a quick kick to the chest and charges over. She swings her staff, high and wide, and cracks the guy that stabbed Yasha in the back of the head. He drops dead instantly. The other is already bringing his sword down to finish Yasha off and Beau almost doesn't get her staff up in time to deflect the blow.

She stands over Yasha. Positions herself defensively. Protecting her.

It's awkward.

Yasha's arms are splayed out. Beau can't quite get in the right place to take Patient Defence. The guard flies towards her, swinging his sword. The blade carves through her flesh. She takes more blows than she's expecting. Blood pours down her arms. It streaks across her fingers and her grip on her staff becomes slippy.

She's losing and Beau knows it. But that's okay. She just needs to hold him at bay. She just needs to protect Yasha long enough for Jester or Caduceus to deal with their own problems and throw out a quick healing spell. She can do that.

And then it all goes wrong.

The guard aims for her chest and Beau instinctively steps back. Her foot lands on the hilt of the Magician's Judge. She stumbles. It's all the opening the guard needs.

His blade slices through her throat.

Beau hears someone scream. She thinks it might be Jester and when a brightly coloured lollipop slams into the side of the guard's head, knocking him out, she's certain.

Beau's hands clamp down on her neck. Blood pours out. It's spills through her fingers, down her arms and seeps into her robes. She tries to speak, but nothing comes out but a gurgle and Beau knows, she just broke Dairon's cardinal rule; stay alive.

Her vision blurs and her knees buckles. She collapses down, landing on something soft instead of the cold, hard ground. Yasha. It's the last thought she has before the world fades to black.

-----

The ground feels wet beneath her cheek. There's music, it echoes around her; happy and bright, a song of invitation. Her eyes open and she sees grass, bright and green, and multiple pairs of feet moving past her.

Beau rolls onto her back. There's no pain, not in her chest and not in her throat, but she checks anyway. The wounds are gone, and so is the blood, her robes are now somehow pristine, like the day she first got them, there's no sign of sweat or dirt.

She sits up and checks the rest of her, and is surprised to find she's fine, better than fine in fact, not only have her wounds gone but so have her scars, some of them years, even decades old, including the one on her chest, the one that...

Yasha...

It hits her like a punch to the gut, the memory of the sword ripping through Yasha, and Beau quickly vaults to her feet. She spins round, desperately searching, but there's no sign of Yasha. No sign of Jester, or Caleb, or any of the others. She's not in the castle any more, she not in Rosohna any more. The sun is high, it shines bright and Beau can feel the heat on her skin. The sky is the brightest of blues and there are trees, tall with thick branches and bright green leaves.

In the distance is a large blue circus tent, with a little flag on top that seems to shimmer with a a type of ethereal glow.

More people move past her. They're happy, with large, and in Beau's opinion creepy – too much teeth – smiles on their faces. Some of them are running, one or two are even skipping their way towards the tent which suddenly looks eerily familiar, almost like Beau has seen it before.

The music gets louder and it's gentle harmony washes over her, wraps around her like a soft warm blanket and beckons her forward.

Beau walks towards the tent.

“I wouldn't go in there if I were you.”

The voice causes Beau to stop dead. A sharp chill runs through her and goosebumps rise on the back of her neck.

“Apparently they have a toad man who turns people into zombies.”

And now Beau remembers where she's seen that tent before. Trostenwald. The circus.

She turns and standing just a few feet behind her is a familiar purple tiefling. His red eyes shine bright, and the jewels and diamonds that adorn his horns and his fingers sparkle under the sunlight. He's missing his cloak and his swords, but his smile is exactly as she remembers it, large and just a little bit cocky.

“Hey Molly.”

“Hey.” A deck of tarot cards suddenly appears in his hand and he spins them nimbly between his fingers. “Fancy a reading?”

Beau frowns. “No thanks. You know I hate that crap.”

“You sure? It's an afterlife special, any question answered with complete and total honesty.”

“Afterlife? So I'm dead then?”

“Yeah, but you already knew that, and I don't think it's going to stick.” With a flick of his wrist a card jumps out of the deck and Molly catches it between his teeth.

Beau gives him a slow, sarcastic clap, Molly bows anyway and then holds the card out for her. Beau takes it with more than a little reluctance.

The background is bright yellow, a young man with blonde hair and a stick slung over his shoulder stands on a rocky shore as a wave crashes behind him. His hand is stretched out and in his palm rests a single white rose.

“I don't get it.”

“That's because you're not looking close enough.”

Beau sighs and brings the card closer. The image shimmers and changes, the blonde man transforming into a blue tiefling in a pretty yellow dress, the stick turning into a large serrated lollipop and the white rose becoming a diamond that Beau is certain is worth at least three hundred gold. The words at the bottom of the card read 'The Jester.'

“Revivification?”

“Told ya', it isn't going to last, so take your chance while you have.” Molly fans out the cards in front of her. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything?”

“Is Yasha okay?”

Molly hums, he clicks his fingers and another card jumps out of the desk. This one hangs in the air between them, slowly rotating. Beau can see that it's blank and she frowns. Molly, however, stares at it intently and with a click of his fingers the card sparks, flames shoot out, consuming it, devouring it and leaving behind nothing but ash and smoke that rises up towards the sky.

“Yasha is Yasha. But she's alive, I'll take that,” Molly says.

“Yeah, me too.”

“You did good, protecting her the way that you did. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks. I just wish I could've done the same for you.”

“Oh that's... That's -” he gives a dismissive wave of his hand - “water under. It wasn't your fault.”

“You sure about that. 'Cause I was right fucking there and I couldn't do anything. I should've been faster or smarter or something. You shouldn't be dead.”

“Ah, but death is never the end. It's just the beginning of a different journey.”

Beau rolls her eyes. “Come on, are you really trying to sell me that bullshit cliché?”

“It might be a bullshit cliché, but it also happens to be the truth, which is nice for me.”

“So you're good?” Beau asks.

“As much as anybody can be, yes.”

Beau feels the overwhelming urge to hug him and so she does. Molly squeezes her tight, lifts her off her feet.

“I miss you,” Beau whispers.

“Of course you do. Who wouldn't?”

There's a loud crack and a roll of thunder, the sun fades and the sky turns grey. Lightening streaks across the sky. It hits the tent and it quickly bursts into flames.

“I think that's your exit,” Molly says.

Beau's body becomes heavy, her legs begin to shake as she struggles to stay on her feet. She looks at the cards in his hands and presses her lips together. She's tempted, incredibly tempted. She reaches for Molly and grabs his hand, and for a moment he's the only thing holding her up.

“Will I see you again?”

“I can practically guarantee it, just not anytime soon, I hope.”

“What if I don't want to go back?”

“Don't be ridiculous. She's waiting for you. Here. Take this -” he presses something into the palm of her hand - “she won't be able to tell you, so you'll have to tell her. Bye Beau.”

“Bye Molly.”

He lets go of the her hand and Beau drops. She closes her eyes as she hits the ground and then just falls right through. Falls, and falls, and falls.

-----

Beau gasps.

The air floods back into her lungs. Her heart suddenly kick starts, once again pounding in her chest, and a warmth slowly spreads through her.

Something is wrapped around her; large, muscular arms that seem to cradle her.

“Beau, Beau!” Jester's voice is high, panicked. “Be okay, Beau. Please. Please be okay.”

A hand grasps Beau's own and squeezes it tight, and she slowly opens her eyes. Her vision is blurry and she has to blink, once and then twice before it begins to clear. Jester leans over her, her face so close that Beau has to pull back. Jester's eyes are wide and Beau thinks she can see tear stains on her cheeks.

“Beau!”

“Hey.”

“You're alive again.” Jester throws herself forward and hugs Beau's waist.

“We were worried there for a minute, I thought I was going to have to find a new first mate,” Fjord says.

The Mighty Nein are crowded around her, each with their own look of concern.

“I'm okay, I'm good.” Beau tries to lift herself up and the world immediately starts to spin.

“I got you,” Yasha whispers in her ear.

Beau feels Yasha's arms tighten just slightly and she's pulled back down, being cradled once again, and Beau doesn't hate it. Her heart beat quickens, for just a second, there's this flutter. Yasha's grip is comfortingly strong. “We should go.” Yasha stands up and Beau is gently lifted into the air.

It's not the most ideal situation, but being carried by Yasha is definitely a good way to travel, so Beau doesn't complain and just rests her head against Yasha's chest. She's tired, exhausted even and her eyes close. When she opens them again, the first thing she sees is their tree with it's vibrant green leaves, perched on top of their roof. Yasha has carried her all the way back to the Xhorhouse and she missed it.

Veth rushes ahead and opens the door so that Yasha can carry her across the threshold, and then lay her down on the small sofa in living room, her feet hanging off the side. Jester quickly grabs a cushion and places it behind her head, before she sits on the floor next to her, her tail swishing from side to side.

“I was so worried, Beau,” she says. “You didn't come back right away, like Veth and Caduceus did. I thought it didn't work.”

“Yeah, sorry, I was...” Beau stops. She thinks of Molly, of his smile and of the card that he thrust into her hand. There's no card in her hand now, and then she looks at Yasha, who has disappeared into the kitchen and is currently pouring water into a bowl, and decides that there's no need to mention Molly. “Just being stubborn, I guess.”

Jester laughs. “Well, I'm glad you're back.”

“Me too.”

Yasha comes back with the bowl of water and a cloth. She sits on the sofa, right next to Beau's hip and as she dips the cloth into the water Beau pulls back slightly and tries to sit up because letting Yasha carry her back is one thing, but this, this is making her feel babied, like she's a burden.

“I'm fine.”

“You're hurt,” Yasha says.

“No really, I'm good.” Her hand instinctively goes to her neck. The wound is gone, completely but her robes and her skin are covered in dry blood. The slashes on her arms and chest are still there.

“Please,” Yasha says. “Just let me help you.”

Beau softens a little.

“I can cast cure wounds, but I'd need to sleep first,” Jester tells her.

“No it's... It's okay, I'll cooperate.” Beau slowly removes her robe. Her wounds throb and pulse with pain, and she grimaces as she throws it over the side of the sofa, where it's quickly scooped up by Caduceus and she's left in just her tank top.

Yasha gently pushes it up and her fingers brush against Beau's waist. Beau's mouth goes dry as Yasha's hands move across her stomach, her fingers almost dancing around the wounds.

“Am I hurting you?” Yasha asks.

“No, you erm -” Beau clears her throat - “you have a very soft touch.” It's so cheesy and Beau regrets the words the moment she says them.

Yasha laughs. “Good to know.”

And now Beau doesn't feel so bad.

“Hey, Jester,” Fjord says. “Do you want to come and give me a hand with this?”

“Okay, sure.” After another quick glance at Beau, Jester jumps to her feet and follows Fjord upstairs.

Yasha waits until it's just the two of them before she takes the cloth and presses it against Beau's skin. There's a flash of pain and Beau's body tenses, her stomach muscles twitching, and Yasha freezes.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It's okay.”

Yasha moves slower this time. She deals with the wounds first; taking so much time and so much care that Beau barely feels the damp cloth moving across her skin. Yasha's eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, her tongue poking out from between her lips. She looks so intense, so beautiful that Beau can't help but watch her.

With the wounds cleaned as best they can be, Yasha moves on to wiping the blood from Beau's neck and chest, the water in the bowl slowly turning a deep, dark red. Yasha's hand rests on Beau's hip, her grip tightening slightly as she concentrates.

When Yasha is finished she drops the cloth into the bowl and places it on the floor. She doesn't move back and she doesn't remove her hand, instead she looks up and Beau is caught off guard by the intensity of her gaze.

“Thank you, for what you did,” Yasha says.

“No p...”

“But please, don't do that again. I don't think I could stand losing you. I definitely couldn't stand being the reason you're gone.

“Yasha....”

“Promise me.”

“I can't promise I won't die.”

“Then promise you won't die for me.”

Yasha stares up at her and Beau can see tears forming in her eyes, it makes her want to promise, to say yes to everything and anything that Yasha wants, but she can't. She can't because she knows that it's a promise she won't be able to keep, if Yasha's in trouble she'll jump into the fray without a thought, she knows that now.

So she doesn't promise, instead she places her hand on Yasha's cheek. Beau leans forward, making her intentions clear and that's when Yaha finally pulls back.

“I should let you rest,” Yasha says.

“Right, yeah, okay.” Beau watches as Yasha practically rushes from the room before she throws herself back against the sofa.

'Fuck.'

She stays on the sofa for a few minutes, her cheeks burning with embarrassment before she decides to head upstairs and at least try to get some sleep.

Jester is already in their room, perched on the edge of her bed, drawing in her journal. “Hey Beau, are you okay?”

“Yeah fine, I'm just tired.” Beau flops down onto her bed and immediately closes her eyes.

“Shouldn't you be downstairs with Yasha?” There's a wet smacking sound and when Beau opens her eyes she sees Jester puckering her lips in an over exaggerated kissing motion.

“Yeah. I don't think that's going to happen.”

“Why not? She likes you, I can tell.”

“Well, she clearly doesn't like me enough. I think I'm going to get some sleep.”

“Okay. I'm going to stay up and draw for a little while. Look.” Jester turns her journal around and she shows Beau the drawing. It's not finished, but Yasha's face is very clear, contorted in agony as she holds something not yet drawn. “It's you and Yasha.”

“Jester that's -” Beau takes a breath and smiles - “really good.”

“Thanks.”

Despite Beau's best efforts she doesn't get a lot of sleep that night, she just tosses and turns, and the sound of Jester's gentle humming, which most nights she finds relaxing, even comforting, is tonight just an obstacle to her sleep, and when the humming finally stops as Jester herself falls asleep, it's replaced by the incessant whistle of the wind outside.

When she does finally fall asleep she's plagued by a nightmare; Jester's drawing, in technicolour and surround sound. Yasha screaming, it's a horrifying sound, even in her dreams and when she wakes up, her ears still ringing with it and Beau knows that there's no way she can go back to sleep now, despite still feeling exhausted.

Beau takes a shower, allowing the hot water to wash away her last few aches and pain. She looks down at the scar on her chest. Beau has no memory of the sword being driven through her, but she can remember the guilt and the shame on Yasha's face afterwards, the way Yasha couldn't quite look at her when she cast healing hands.

'Maybe we missed our chance.'

When she gets back to her room, her robe has been laid out on her bed, cleaned and dried, and Beau makes a note to thank Caduceus next time she sees him. She's just pulled it on when she sees it, a small card resting on her pillow.

“What the fuck!?” Beau quickly picks it up.

It's a tarot card and she immediately feels a little queasy. The card is not new, the colours are slightly faded and there's a crease in the corner. The image isn't as dramatic as the one Jester drew, but it's the same moment in time; Yasha cradling Beau's blood soaked body. “Jester! Jessie!”

Beau heads downstairs.

She finds Yasha in the kitchen with Veth and Caleb, the three of them are cooking and it smells good, whatever it is, but Beau doesn't stay to find out. She doesn't even acknowledge them, she just keeps her head down, even as she can feel Yasha's eyes on her and heads outside.

Jester is in Caduceus' vegetable garden.

“Jessie, is this yours?” She shows Jester the card.

“Wow. That's really good, Beau. Where did you get it?”

“It was on my pillow. You didn't draw it.”

“No. But I like it.”

“Oh.”

Beau looks at the card again, that queasy feeling gets stronger, and something wedges in the back of her throat. The image has changed, it's black, with a moon in the background, and instead of her and Yasha, it's a young couple, a woman in a long flowing white robe being held by a man dressed in black. They're kissing.

“Right okay,” Beau mutters to herself. She runs her fingers across the card, smoothing it out and then gently places it into the pocket of her robe.

“Hey.” Yasha stands in the doorway. Her voice is quieter, sadder, if that's somehow possible. “Caleb's found something.”

A piece of parchment has been laid out on the kitchen table, it takes up the entire thing, the burnt edges hanging just over the side.

“It's blank,” Beau says.

“No. The information is merely hidden.” Caleb takes something mushy, almost liquid out of his pouch, he smears it across the parchment and then holds his hands above the table and recites a few arcane words that Beau doesn't understand. The parchment starts to glow, thin, gold lines snake across it, forming patterns, creating an image and in the middle, sits a little red cross. “It's a map.”

“Well, it's good to know I didn't die for nothing. That's nice.” Beau laughs and quickly looks around the table, but nobody joins her.

“A map to what?” Fjord asks.

“I don't know, but the Bright Queen sent us to that castle, so whatever it is it must be important to the Dynasty. I think we should go there.”

“And where is there exactly?” Fjord asks.

“You see here -” Caleb points to a portion of the map that looks like mountains, the red cross in the middle of them - “they could be the Penumbra Range, near Bazzoxan.”

Beau looks over at Yasha, who's head drops slightly. “Maybe we should -” Beau sighs - “give this to the Bright Queen and let her people handle it.”

“What?” Caleb looks at her, confused. “Whatever this is it's powerful enough for somebody to keep hidden. Maybe we can use it to bring down the Assembly.”

“We don't even know what it is.”

“Well, we will if we go there,” Jester says.

“I just don't think a maybe is worth the risk.” Again Beau looks at Yasha, who's gaze now seems permanently fixed on the floor.

This time the others notice her looking.

“Oh Yasha, I'm sorry. I didn't think!” Jester exclaims.

“It's fine. Caleb's right. We should go there, it might be important.”

“Are you sure?” Beau asks and Yasha finally looks over at her. “If it's too much...” They hold each other's gaze for a moment.

“I'll be fine,” Yasha says, but she doesn't sound sure.

-----

The travel to Bazzoxan is much easier this time. The moment Essek sees the map he immediately agrees to take them, something that Beau files away for later, he even knows exactly where in the Penumbra Range the red cross is and drops them right at the entrance to what is a perfectly formed tunnel with a stone door.

“Are you coming with us, Essek?” Jester asks.

“I'm not really a fighter, but good luck.” And just like that he's gone.

Beau walks towards the door and studies it. There's something carved into the stone, a small square that's split into four. She traces it with her fingers and it suddenly disappears. “Oh shit.”

There's a click and the door slowly opens.

Beau steps back.

“Hey, you got it open. Well done.” Fjord claps her on the back.

“Yeah, totally meant to do that.”

One by one they head into the tunnel. Fjord goes first, using the Star Razor to light their way and Beau is right behind him. The tunnel winds downwards, heading deep into the heart of the mountain. It's a trek, Beau doesn't have the same sense of time as Caleb, but she's certain that it's hours, and the further down they go, the thicker the air around them becomes.

It reminds Beau of the days they spent walking to Xhorhaus.

Yasha is at the back of the group and Beau can't help but glance over her shoulder, just to check on her. Her pace slows, she doesn't mean for it to happen but after a few minutes the rest of the Mighty Nein have passed her and she finds herself falling into step with Yasha.

“Hey, are you doing okay?” Beau asks.

“I think so.”

“Well, if you're not, you can just let us know and we'll leave.”

“Thank you, Beau.”

The two of them walk side by side as the tunnel continues to wind downwards and they stay close even when the tunnel opens out into a small room.

The ceiling is low, so low that Caduceus has to dip his head to get inside. The walls are made of stone, smooth and polished, this room hasn't been carved out by nature, this is man made, maybe even magically enforced. There's a small wooden door in the corner.

In the centre of the room is a skeleton, it's flopped on it's side, it's arm outstretched like it's trying to grasp at something. It looks like a Drow, but it's been here a while so it's hard to tell, the skin has become thick and leathery, stretched tight across the bones. There's no obvious sign of death, no wounds or marks.

Veth tries to search the pockets, for gold or something valuable, but the dark black robes fall apart immediately, almost disintegrating in her hands.

The rest of the Mighty Nein investigate the room, Caleb casts detect magic, Caduceus Eyes of Grave, Fjord even tries Detect Invisibility, all of them trying to find something about this room. They search for traps or secrets panels, but there's nothing. It's just a room.

The only thing Beau does find is a crack on one of the stones, it's small, so small she almost doesn't notice it. It might be natural, the type of wear and tear that comes over time but the rest of the walls are so pristine that it stands out. Beau studies it, runs her fingers over it.

“Beau, are you coming?” Jester asks.

“Oh yeah, sure.”

Veth checks the door for traps and when it comes back clean they step through one by one.

The next room is just as plain and empty as the last. There's only one difference, instead of a skeleton in the middle of the floor, there are tiles with symbols carved into the stone. They're in grid formation; nine across and five down. They seem familiar not quite runes but close.

“What are they?” Jester asks.

“I don't know. But I don't think we should touch them,” Caleb says.

Beau joins him and the two of them study the symbols for a few minutes, some of the images repeat, appearing twice, some even three times. But most only appear once. There's a pattern of some sort, Beau's sure of it, she just can't see it. Neither, apparently can Caleb because after a few minutes he drops to the floor and begins to ritually cast detect magic.

Beau steps back, she takes out her staff and grips it tight, and then, after a few minutes leans against it. She can feel Yasha's eyes on her, burning into her, and she tries not to look, but it's difficult because she wants to look. Needs to look. She lifts up her staff and begins to twirl it, tossing it from hand to hand just to have something to do.

In the end she steps away, just to get herself a little distance, a little breathing space. The door to the previous room is still open and she steps back through, going back to the small crack on the wall. She leans in close, pressing her face against the stone and peering through the crack. There's something there, something underneath the stone.

“Beau.”

The sound of her name causes her to jump just slightly and she spins around. It's Yasha. Of course it's Yasha. “You shouldn't go off on your own.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know, but you should stay with the rest of us. Please.” Yasha is so open, her fear and pain written all over her face and it's just too much for Beau.

She turns away and looks at the crack. “I found something.”

Yasha walks over and gets close enough to see what Beau is pointing at, but not too close. “It's a crack.”

“Yeah. There's something behind it.” Beau throws a punch and the stone crumbles to dust.

She's right, there is something behind it. It's another rune, but this one is split into four, just like on the door, and there's a symbol in each one, some of which Beau saw in the other room.

“What is it?” Yasha asks.

“I think...”

Suddenly the floor beneath their feet begins to shake and there's a loud click. Something shoots out of the wall, thick stone, just behind Yasha.

The skeleton is crushed, it's bones exploding into dust.

Yasha starts to move, she has time, she can easily dive through, but Beau sees her look back and she stops, allowing the stone wall to slam shut on her.

They're trapped.

Beau quickly grabs her staff and holds steady waiting for whatever comes next, and Yasha does the same, pulling out the Skingorger. They wait, and wait, and wait, but nothing comes. No big scary beast with poison tipped fangs, no secondary traps. Nothing.

“I don't think anything's coming,” Yasha finally says, slowly lowering her sword.

“Why does that not feel like a good thing?” Beau walks over to the wall that's trapped them in and pushes against it. It doesn't budge. She taps it with her fist, then kicks at it with her foot and finally a whack – not at full force – with her staff. It's solid. “Fuck! That's... Fuck!” She checks the edges for any gaps, somewhere that she can stick her staff, or one of Yasha's swords in to try and force the wall back open but it's shut tight.

“We're trapped,” Yasha says.

“We're trapped.” Beau sighs. She falls back against the wall and flops to the floor. “I got us trapped. Fucking...” She groans and clenches her fist.

'How to make yourself feel like shit with one stupid decision by Beauregard Lionett' she thinks. It's a feeling that she's more than a little familiar with so she should be use to it, able to cope with it, but the hot, angry tears fill her eyes anyway. She can feels Yasha staring and quickly covers her face with her hands. It takes a deep breath, then another, and another, just to get herself under control. “I wish Jester was here.” She sees the flash of hurt in Yasha's eyes. “No, I mean... Because Jester could send a message to the others.”

“Right,” Yasha says, but the hurt look hasn't gone.

“The two non-magic users getting trapped together, it's not good. I'm not going to speak for you but without something or someone to hit, I'm not much use.” She drops her staff on the floor.

Now the hurt look falls from Yasha's face, replaced with something akin to sympathy and Beau's not sure which one she hates more.

“That's not true. There are plenty of things you're good at. We'll figure this out.”

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

“Do we -” Yasha turns away from her - “need to talk?”

“About what?”

“Last night.” Yasha's voice is so quiet that Beau almost doesn't hear her.

“I'd really prefer it if we didn't.”

“Okay.”

They go quiet and Yasha paces, as much as she can in the small space. Beau watches her, tapping her staff rhythmically against the ground. A tension has settled between them, it hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and weighing down on them. Beau feels like she's going to choke on it.

“I hurt you,” Yasha finally says.

“What?”

“I hurt you.” Yasha turns to look at her. “I almost killed you.”

“That wasn't you.”

“But it was. Me. I can remember every moment I was under his control. I can remember the faces of every person I killed. I can remember every swing of the Skingorger, I can remember blood and screaming. But most of all I can remember you, on the cathedral floor with my sword in your chest.”

“Yasha.”

“There are moments that I look at you and I...” Yasha sighs. “And then I remember that scar on your chest. I put that there and I can't forgive myself for that. Can you understand?”

“No, I can't.” Again Beau can see the tears in Yasha's eyes. “But then I wasn't mind controlled by some fuck who made me kill a bunch of people, so...”

Yasha smiles, but it's a sad smile.

“I'm sorry,” Beau says. “But you could've talked to me, you know?”

“I tried. On the Balleater, when we were making those statues with Jester. I didn't seem like you really wanted to talk, so I -” Yasha shrugs her shoulders - “stopped.”

“Shit.” Beau remembers that conversation and she also remembers why she deflected the way that she did. “Fuck.”

“I guess you're still angry with me.”

“No. No, Yasha, that's not true.”

“Okay.”

Beau sighs, because she knows if she wants Yasha to talk then she has to be willing to talk as well, and that's something that she's not good at, she's been trying, ever since she met the Mighty Nein she's been trying and she's probably getting better, but her ability to stick her foot firmly in her mouth is still there and she doesn't want to do that, not with Yasha, and not right now.

“Okay, here we go.” Beau stands up. “Seeing my father again, I erm, I didn't handle it very well.”

“I think you handled it fine.”

“Thanks, but I was going to make that deal with the hag because I wasn't okay and then it didn't happen, thank you Jester, and being back on the Balleater, being Fjord's First Mate again, I felt a little more stable, like the ground was once again solid under my feet and I didn't want to talk about anything difficult, in case it got shaky again. Does that make sense?”

“It does.”

“But that was my shit and I shouldn't have put that on you. I'm not angry with you, Yasha, how could I be? I know it wasn't you. I had Obann in my head, it was only for a moment, but if it wasn't for my training I'd have done what he wanted. I know how powerful he was. I can't blame you for anything you did while under that fuck's mind control.”

“I blame me.”

“I know.”

Beau takes a few tentative steps forward, giving Yasha the chance to pull back if she wants, just like last night. But this time Yasha doesn't. Beau takes her hand and places it on her chest, right over her scar. “Made by you, yes, but healed by you, as well. You didn't choose to stab me, you did choose to make amends, so you may not forgive yourself, but I forgive you.”

“Beau.” Yasha's crying. The tears stream down her face.

Beau has said all that she can, there's only one thing left for her to do. She hugs Yasha. She squeezes her tight because she knows that she can and Yasha sobs into her shoulder.

Beau isn't sure how long they stand there, it's a long time, long after Yasha has stopped sobbing and long after what would be the time for them to both step away.

“Thank you, Beau.” Yasha mutters into her shoulder.

“No problem.”

Yasha pulls back, not completely, she keeps her arms wrapped around Beau's waist and now they're staring into each other's eyes. Beau can hear the sound of her own heart or maybe it's Yasha's, or maybe it's both of their's, the two of them beating in sync.

It's Yasha that leans in this time and this is their chance, Beau is almost certain of it.

“Beau! Yasha!” Jester's voice pierces through the room.

The two of them step apart just in time to see Jester's head poke through a newly created hole in the wall. “Hi. Did you guys get stuck in here?”” There's a paint brush in Jester's hand, she waves it as she talks.

“Ask them what happened,” Caleb says, his voice echoing from somewhere behind Jester.

“What happened!? Were you guys making out?”

-----

Caleb discerns that the sigil behind the stone is a cipher, which Beau already knows, but she chooses not to say anything because she's the reason her and Yasha got trapped and why bother drawing everybody's attention to that.

“You need the cipher to solve the puzzle, but if you find the cipher you become trapped,” Caleb says, as they head back towards the puzzle, and with the new information it only takes Caleb about fifteen minutes to solve it. He presses each of the symbols in an order that Beau, having seen the cipher, sort of understands and there's a loud creak.

The wall just behind the symbols shakes. A jagged crack shoots down from the ceiling, chunks of rock tumble to the ground and the wall slowly opens inwards.

A bright light shines out and inside is a Beacon.

They head back to Rosohna using Caleb's teleportation circle. They don't tell the Bright Queen about the Beacon, choosing to hide it in the Bag of Holding as they make their way back to the Xhorhouse. Beau isn't sure she agrees with the decision, but she understands why Caleb wants to talk to Essek about it first, having more information can never hurt so she doesn't really argue. She does however linger at the back, not really participating in the debate the other's are having, and when Yasha joins her, their hands brushing together with every step, Essek and the possibility that he's stolen another Beacon becomes something she just doesn't give a shit about.

Their half way home when Yasha shifts a little closer and very gently takes Beau's hand. Beau doesn't look over, but she does smile as their fingers interlock. If any of the other's notice – and Beau is sure she sees Jester turning back to look at them every few minutes – they don't say anything.

The debate continues back at the Xhorhouse, the group sitting in the kitchen and drinking the tea that Caduceus makes. Beau contributes a little, but she's distracted, Yasha let got of her hand the moment they stepped through the front door and now they're on different sides of the room, but neither of them seem able, or maybe just not willing to stop looking at each other.

When they finally go to bed, Beau catches Yasha's eye and she's sure she sees a little longing there before they both slip into their own rooms.

“Beau and Yasha trapped in a room!” Jester is sitting on the floor, at the edge of her bed, her tail swishing wildly. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” She sings.

“That doesn't rhyme,” Beau says.

“But it's true though, right? You guys were kissing.”

“No.”

“Beau! You have to kiss her.”

“We were interrupted.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine.”

“You could go and kiss her now.”

“Now. Now, I'm going to sleep.”

Jester huffs and quickly climbs into bed.

Beau climbs into her own and tries to get comfortable, but it's difficult, something rough rubs against her leg. She pulls back the sheet and sees a tarot card resting on the mattress. She recognises it instantly, the image of the couple with the moon behind them, the crease in the corner, the frayed edges, it's the one she smoothed out. The one Molly gave her.

She grips it tight, this was in her robe, Beau remembers putting it in her robe. She climbs out of bed and ignores the questioning look that Jester gives her. Her robe is draped across the back of the chair and she quickly rummages through the pockets, but the tarot card isn't there, instead all there is is a blank piece of parchment.

“What the fuck?”

“Are you okay, Beau?” Jester asks.

Beau stares at the tarot card and the picture slowly changes; the man and woman in long flowing robes fade away, replaced by an image of Yasha, her features soft, her eyes brimming with tears, and of herself, Yasha's hand pressed against her chest. “Okay, I get it, I get it.” She looks over at Jester. “I need to go and talk to Yasha.”

“Yeah you do.”

Beau heads to Yasha's room. She knocks on the door and hopes that Yasha hasn't fallen asleep. A few seconds pass and there's no answer, and Beau accepts that whatever she needs to say is probably going to have to wait until morning. She's already heading back to her room when the door opens and Yasha appears.

“Beau?”

“Er, yeah, hey. Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was out on the balcony. Did you need something?”

“I did actually. Can I come in?” She points to Yasha's room and when Yasha doesn't respond she tries to smooth it over. “Or we can go downstairs? Downstairs is good?”

“No, you can come inside.” Yasha steps aside and Beau, not wanting the opportunity to slip away, quickly heads inside.

Yasha closes the door behind them. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I just... I need to show you something.” Beau hands Yasha the tarot card and then waits, and waits, and waits. “What do you see?”

“Where did you get this?”

“Molly gave it to me, I think.”

“Molly?”

“Yeah. The other day, when I, well, when I died. He was waiting for me, on the other side, at least I think it was him, I might have been hallucinating, it was all a little weird. But it definitely seemed like Molly and he gave me that.”

“Molly,” Yasha whispers and looks back at the card again.

“What do see?”

“I don't see anything.”

Beau slumps. Her arms fold across her chest and she nods her head. “Yep, yeah. That's... That what I thought.”

Yasha continues to stare at the card. “Why, what do you see?”

“Me?” Beau's instinct is to lie, to save herself the embarrassment, and probably Yasha as well, but something stops her, something Molly said. “I see you and me. Honestly, I was kind of hoping you would see the same.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“I lied. I see you and me. The day I flew for the first time.”

“Oh.”

“What does it mean?”

“Well, I think it means that I should kiss you,” Beau says.

“Okay.” But it's Yasha who makes the first move. She gently places her hands on Beau's waist and pulls her closer. Their bodies press together. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Beau smiles.

Yasha leans forward and gently kisses her.

[ownworldresident]

We Are Our Own Heroes. Chapter Four: Tentative

Book: The Royal Romance, seven years post-TRR

Premise: Six years after a tragic loss, Liam and his adopted daughter meet Cassandra, an artist with her own troubled past, and the three find in each other the friend they never knew they needed.

Disclaimer: Setting and some characters belong to Pixelberry. I am just borrowing them and will return them when they feel better.

Themes: found family, (power of) friendship, healing

The Master Masterlist (link)  |  Our Own Heroes Masterlist (link)

Liam

“We’ve completed the background check you asked for, Sir.” Bastien announced from the door of Liam’s study. Liam sighed, and looked up.

“And?”

Bastien held up a manila folder. The guilt and uncertainty he felt mixed with relief at how thin it was.

“There is nothing to suggest Miss Rice has any harmful intentions.” He entered the study and placed the folder carefully on Liam’s desk. “She is Cordonian, originally from Portavira, studied fine arts and theatre abroad, and works as a temp and freelance ghostwriter for—”

“That’s enough, Bastien,” Liam interrupted. “I didn’t ask for this to pry into her private life. I just want to know whether I can trust her.” He winced at the double standard he was presenting; this wasn’t just curiosity, he reminded himself, it was assurance he and Emily would be safe. Blind trust wasn’t something he could afford.

“I believe so,” his bodyguard said, more conversationally. “Her only criminal records are parking tickets.”

Liam smiled. That was common enough. There were a lot of questions he would have liked answers to; where she had studied and why, what kind of art did she pursue, where was her family…

“Does she…” Liam’s brow creased as he considered the question, then mentally apologised to Cassie for the invasion. “Are there are partners or ex partners that could provide some risks?”

“None.” Bastien said, and when Liam looked up at him, his bodyguard shrugged.

Deciding not to pry further, Liam ended the discussion.

“If you believe she can be trusted, then I believe you.” Liam lifted the folder, removed the clips, and opened a cupboard to retrieve his shredder.

Cassie

Cassandra screamed.

The lonely peak she stood upon absorbed it and the sky answered with a sheet of lightning and close crack of thunder. Beyond the waves below the peak there was rain coming, and not a day too soon. The electricity in the heavy air vibrated through her very bones. She stamped her foot down on the craggy outcrop, balled her fists tight, and screamed again.

When the front hit, it was with a rush of cold air that buffeted her face. White peaks of the restless ocean splayed before her. They became dotted with heavy rain; she stared hard to commit the feeling and energy to memory, to burn it into her mind. There was so much anger there, but she didn't know whether it was her or the vengeance of the skies that conspired to keep her darkness.

The rain crested the peak, and for a lightning filled moment Cassandra raised her face to the broken skies with eyes shut and arms flung wide. Then thunder cracked around her, rolling against her ears, and, heart pounding, she fled.

By the time the world was awake, Cassie was heaving long breaths in front of her easel. The echo of the storm outside resonated on the canvas, with a vast expanse of swirling masses that floated at the edge of being distinguishable things.

She grinned, stepping back from her new painting. It was a story she was trying to tell, she was sure, and this part was more darkness in form than of it.

---

Cassie

Above the main city were lines of terraces stacked up onside a low mountain. Parting the upper and lower levels was an open space more familiar to locals than tourists, overlooking the main city and the bay. Cassie stood at the edge of the cobbled space, lost to the world as she stared over her city. It wasn’t the pier or the outcrop, but the dark swirling storm was as beautiful here as it would be there. There were several perfect views here for painting, in fact. Lifting her hands to make a rough square with her thumbs and forefingers and squeezing one eye shut, she imagined the image captured from different angles. Too perfect. This might be a real place, but even the organic, eclectic mix of buildings with colourful rooves… set on a backdrop of a low grey sky… there wasn’t enough grit or imperfection to translate.

Leaning her elbows against the half wall, she tried to imagine the view with a fire or collapsed building, something to put more conflict in the image. That dream kept her occupied while she waited.

“Cassie!” A young voice she knew called out behind her, and she turned to see Emily running to meet her. The girl stopped a few feet away and Cassie stood to attention to salute her.

“Hey, Em,” she said as Emily saluted her in return, “I like your shirt.” She nodded at the image of an open ocean and a few clouds. Emily looked down, then up again.

“Thanks.” Emily turned back as Liam reached them, smiling when she saw that he was.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting.” He smiled, but his posture was stiff. Cassie wondered what was going on behind it. Maybe she was reading too far into things.

“Not at all,” she replied, energy closer to that of Emily than of Liam. “I arrived early anyway.”

“Good.” Liam lifted an arm to point down the street. “There’s a really nice café down this way. I thought we could get lunch? If the weather holds, we might be able to sit outside.”

“Sounds perfect.” Cassie kept an eye on Emily as they walked. She looked back every so often at her father. Liam didn’t seem phased by the habit, instead walking with an absent half smile for the first part of their walk.

“How was your week?” Cassie asked after a time, not sure where else to start. Liam exhaled, and turned to her.

“Busy,” he said, still smiling, and didn’t give her much more than that.

At the café, which was more of a restaurant, Emily chose a table beneath an outdoor awning. She bee-lined for the tree-shaded playground adjacent with the decisiveness of a child who played on her own a lot. Liam watched her for a moment, and Cassie noted the dark crescents beneath his eyes.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Liam said after a time, looking over at her. His smile was tired but a little more relaxed. It was an interesting study to watch them, Cassie thought, seeing how they interacted in public, and she wondered if they were much less guarded behind closed doors.

“I seem to remember me asking you first.” She stretched, warm in the sun. “I should be thanking you for reaching out.”

Liam laughed, short and genuine, then nodded. “Why did you reach out?”

“I like your daughter, and you seem nice.” Cassie shrugged, then grinned. “Why did you?” Saved from having to answer by the arrival of their food, Liam thanked the server, and called Emily over. When the ball of energy arrived and they started eating, Cassie found herself plagued by questions from her about what she did and who she was and offered as many answers as she could. When Emily discovered she was an artist, she became more interested in that than her food.

“Would you like to see some of my work?” Cassie asked, already pulling the ever-present sketchbook from her bag and handing it over. Emily reached for it, nodding profusely.

“Yes please!”

“Fingers.” Liam reminded her, and Emily glanced at her hands, wiped the sauce from them with a napkin, then took the sketchbook and started flipping through.

“I wish I could draw…” she commented absentmindedly as she flipped through the pages. Liam looked surprised, and Cassie wondered whether she had expressed that wish before.

“I could teach you, if you like,” she said, and Emily looked up, grinning.

“Thank you!” She glanced at her father, who nodded, smiling, then turned back to the pages. Liam began to speak but was cut off by Emily’s laugh.

“You drew Drake?” Emily looked up again, wide-eyed. Cassie shrugged. She had written the man’s name in the corner of the sketch.

“I met him at a bar the other day.”

“His face looks exactly right.” Emily lifted the page for Liam to see. “Doesn’t he?”

“Do you know him?” Cassie frowned as Liam inspected the page.

“Very well.”

“Are you dating him?” Emily’s innocent question caught her off-guard, and both of them sent her questioning looks, though Liam’s was tinged with amusement.

“Definitely not.” She reached for her coffee, then realised how forceful her answer had been, and added, “He seems like a nice guy, but no.”

Far from relaxing, Liam seemed even more surprised, and looked away from her when she caught his eye, which confused her. Had she given the wrong impression? If he was offended he would say something, she believed him frank enough for that. Maybe not in front of Emily.

As soon as the latter had finished her food and waited the several fidgety minutes that her father requested, she raced off to the playground again, scaling the climbing frame with ease and dancing across the top as if she’d been born there.

“Dating?” Cassie asked Liam for clarification.

“She gets some… interesting information from her school friends. And movies don’t help either.” He shrugged, but there was a little unease in his manner.

“Must bring up some interesting discussions.”

“Sometimes.” He smiled, then frowned, focused on something on Cassie’s shirt. “Your necklace.”

Cassie looked down to see that the small chain had come free from her shirt, and reached up to touch the smooth diamond shaped flag: black, grey, white and purple.

“Do you know it?”

“I do.” He smiled, nodded as if with some new understanding, and sat back.

Her orientation wasn’t something she had come prepared to openly discuss, so she was glad Liam was aware of the community. She tucked the flag back beneath her shirt and let the subject end there.

Left alone with Liam, it wasn’t lost on her that barely any of their conversation centred on him as a person. She had no trouble being open about most parts of herself, and they talked about general topics, but Liam only spoke of things she could discover easily enough in a newspaper, or seemed near inconsequential to disclose.

They parted in the middle of the afternoon, when Emily returned, exhausted, to bury her face in Liam’s side. Taking that as a queue to let the girl go home and rest, they walked back to where they had met up, Emily half leaning on Liam, though Cassie half suspected it was for dramatic effect.

Cassandra

Cassie spent the next few days busy and inspired, her confidence bolstered by her time with Liam and Emily. The large canvas was still blank, but she had moved it behind a couple of finished pieces and was focusing on the smaller ones, less daunted by it being empty. An overcast day had cast some more drama over the beach she frequented, and she had spent some time photographing it to paint at home and letting the salty wind and light rain sink into her to remember the feeling.

She didn’t see Liam at Emily’s training, but did see him at the game, and they had agreed to meet afterwards. Her team didn’t win, which left them a little downhearted after three straight victories but didn’t curb Cassie’s optimism. They left much less dejected, and while she packed up she ran through ways to help them in their next training session. Liam and Emily met her outside.

“Ready?” asked Liam, and the lower guard in his smile heightened Cassie’s spirits as she nodded in response. Emily dragged her feet, and Cassie knelt to face her.

“You tried your best, Em, right up till the end, and that takes a lot of courage.” She ducked her head a little to Emily’s tired, downcast face. “There will always be losses. What matters most is how we come back from them.”

Emily’s frown lifted into a tiny smile. “That’s what Dad said.”

Cassie looked up to Liam, whose eyes crinkled as he watched them. “That’s because your dad is a very wise man.” She stood. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Emily turned back to Liam, smiling again.

“You too, Panda.” He turned toward the emptying car park. “Ready for that movie?”

Nodding, Emily started again toward the car.

“Wherever your mother is now, I’m sure she would be very proud.”

Cassie knew it was a mistake the moment she said it. Emily stopped, and though Cassie couldn’t see her face, she felt the shock. Liam schooled a patient expression, approached Emily and squeezed her hand. She looked up to him.

“Dad?”

“It’s okay, Emily.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, voice low and soothing. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.” Cassie clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes darting between the two as her heart dropped. “I shouldn’t have said… I’m sorry…”

Liam turned to her now. “Give us a few minutes?”

Cassie nodded, staying back from the two and wringing her hands. The mask of Emily’s father broke when they made eye contact and some of the pain seeped through. Familiar pain. Liam picked up his daughter and walked away.

The official story read that Emily was Liam’s god-daughter, and he had taken her in after her parents had died in an accident. It explained the hypersensitivity to loud noises Emily had displayed in the past and perhaps her need to keep Liam within her sight.

Around the time the media excitement had been dying down, Cassie arrived back from studying abroad. She had followed the attempt on Liam’s life, the ensuing turmoil, and a bit about Emily’s sudden appearance, but hadn’t realised how much Cordonia had been obsessed with it until she landed. It had seemed disproportionate to the tragic circumstance, confirmed when Liam gave a public statement reaffirming some facts and refuting a few less accurate reports, and requesting privacy. Cassie’s friend had been disappointed, but it had been a long time since they had spoken.

——

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[nightingale101]

Don’t take the money.

So slowly writing chapter 2, i figure i might as well post the first chapter here.

~~~

Somebody broke me once, Love was a currency A shimmering balance act, I think that I laughed at that And I saw your face and hands, Coloured in sun and then I think I understand

~~**~~

This was different. Those other times, love had burnt like an uncontrollable fire, consuming everything and everyone in its path and burning itself out in the process. It was all consuming, a fire they had lit under his skin that turned everything it touched to ash and ruin. But with V… with V it was different. It was…. Warmth

One

Sweet Disposition.

 A moment, a love

A dream, a laugh

A kiss, a cry

Our rights, our wrongs

   “I don’t understand. They- Grayson said - at the oil fields”

 “he either lied or wasn’t high enough up the Chain to be in the know.”

 “But I-“

 “Focus, We have to move. Reinforcements are probably on their way here as we speak.”

 “I know- I just.”

 “It’s alright, we can figure this out. Together, as a family.”

 “yeah. Ok... one thing at a t- oh shit, that alarm. Fuck”

 “We have to move. Now. Do you think you can help me carry him, V?”

 The voices came to him from far, far away, a lifetime away it felt like. filtering in through the inky blackness he currently found himself drifting in. afloat, lost, confused.

 He didn’t know them. At least he didn’t think he knew them, he couldn’t remember. Well, he really couldn’t remember much of anything right know. He wasn’t even sure he knew himself. He wasn’t even sure what his name was. Where was he… How did he get here… why was he here... why couldn’t he remember?

 V… was that a name...? Was that his name? No… No he didn’t think so, but it was confusing. He knew V… He was sure of that. He wanted to… save them.

 ~~**~~

 He didn’t know how long he’d been there. floating in the dark, it seemed timeless. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours, it could have been a year as far as he could tell. He wasn’t sure where he was, or why, or how he got there. But he remembered his name now.

 Johnny.

 ~~**~~

 The voices still floated to him though the darkness. Not as clear as the first time, but he caught the occasional word through the muffled haze that seemed to surround him.  

 Plan. Silverhand. Night City. Dying. Border. Wake up. V. Bleeding. Badlands. Lucky. Wake up. Please.

 There were more than the first two voices now, although he couldn’t tell exactly how many. Some of them seemed to blend together and he couldn’t distinguish one voice from the other. He heard the first voice, the voice he now could recognize as V, the most often. She often talks to him alone, or at least he doesn’t hear anyone else while she’s around. He wonders if this means he saved her. If he could just remember what happened.

 ~~**~~

 He knows who he now. He is Johnny Silverhand. Deserter. Rockerboy. Terrorist. All round bastard.

 He remembers all of it. Alt. Arisaka tower. Rouge. Smasher. And V. God he remembers V. A pang of guilt clutches around his heart when he thinks of her. That’s new he thinks. He hadn’t really felt guilty about something before. Everything was inconsequential to him before, someone else’s problem.

 He remembers It felt like torture to him. Watching her slowly get worse, her body and mind slowly being taken over by him, with nothing he could do about it. He remembers when he stopped the elevator, taking control of her arm to push the button, the fear in her voice. And he remembers his own fear, when she’d passed out, and he couldn’t reach her, no matter how hard he tired. But, he could still hear her voice… she was talking to him, wherever he was. Which means she was alive, right? He’d… Gone with Alt? is this what being a part of her was like? This… nothingness... but something. And still being able to here V.

 He doesn’t remember anything after speaking with V in Cyberspace. Seeing her red digital form, arguing with him of all things. She didn’t want him to leave, wanted to find a way for them both to live. One moment they were talking… and then he was here. Nowhere.

 ~~**~~

 He was starting to feel things again. and everything… Hurt. There was pain firing in all his nerves all over his body. His head was throbbing, sharp pain spikes were running down his back and adding to the dull ache in his legs…. His... legs...? Was this phantom pain from his non-existent body? Like what he had felt when he first lost his arm. Was he feeling the injuries that his body would have sustained from that last fight at the tower...? Or- no. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea that he actually had a body again. Because that would mean V... was... and he didn’t want to think about that. As long as she was alive, it was all worth it. He’d given his life for hers, and he couldn’t think of better thing to lay down his life for.

 ~~**~~

He’s… confused. He has a body, he’s pretty sure of that, can feel jolts of pain running down his spine, way to vivid to be phantom pains. But he hears V talking… wherever he, they, are, she’s here, and talking to Panam. He tries to pay attention to their convocation.

 “… signs of improvement.” Panam was saying. “but no guarantees, V.”

 He thinks they’re talking about him. Whatever is going on, he thinks he’s getting better too. He didn’t feel like he was floating anymore. He felt anchored. Secure. Still in darkness, but he didn’t feel like he was floating endlessly. He was more aware of his body; of the pain he was feeling. Or whoever’s body he was in, because as far as he knew his body was a skeleton and some rusted metal buried under the oil fields.

 “I know…” came V’s voice, she let out a sigh. “One day at a time, right?”

 V sounded exhausted. She sounded like she did when he’d taken her to the Pistis Sophia, after she’d woken up, a pain in her chest and barely being able to walk. Like she was running on empty, holding on by a thread that was threatening to snap at any moment and send her plummeting to the ground.

 “Right. And anyway. We should talk about you.” Panam said.

 “one thing at a time, Panam.” V responded, “Besides, there’s not a lot to talk about on that front anyway. Mitch is still chasing down his old contacts, isn’t he?”

 “Yes, but that’s not really what I meant.” Panam continued. “I meant, how are you doing? I know you haven’t been sleeping and-“

 “Time is short… Sleeping seems like a waste.”

 “If you don’t sleep, you’ll burn out so much faster. You-“

 The conversation faded to the background as his thoughts sawm around his head. V. It was odd not knowing exactly how she was feeling, what was going through her head. When he was in her mind, her thoughts and feelings flowed into him, and he could reassure her without even speaking, steel her nerves, calm her racing heart. He wanted to reach her now. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to speak to her…

 “…V” His voice was so small he thought as the blackness surrounded him, not his intention at all.

 “Johnny!?” he heard V say, her voice full of concern but also hopfullness, and then the nothingness came once again.

 ~~**~~

 When Johnny Silverhand woke up it was sunrise, the pale orange light stung the edges of his vision. His eyelids were heavy, like he hadn’t opened them for so long that they resisted the unfamiliar movement.  It took an enormous effort to even open them at all, and even more effort to try and keep them open. His whole body ached. Every inch. From his legs to his head. From dull aches, to sharp jolts, he felt it all. Even moving his eyes too look around like it hurt.

 He was in a tent. He recognized it as an Aldecaldo tent, like the one V had awoken in after she’d passed out in front of Panam. He was vaguely aware of frantic voices around him, but he was more focused on breathing, the ache in his chest as his lungs rose and fell. The fact that he was even breathing at all.

 And then she was there.

 “V…” His voice was hoarse, and his throat felt like it had been fucked by a sandpaper covered dick. But it was worth it, her face lit up with a smile the second he spoke.

 “Johnny… Oh my god.” She sounded so relieved, he heard her dragging something to his side and she sat down next to him. With the most effort he’d ever needed to do anything, he turned his head slightly to look at her. His neck protested, loudly.

 “I don’t…” it was taking all his effort to stay awake. He felt Vs hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance.

 “It’s okay.” She said softly, as he was rapidly losing the fight with his eyelids.  “just rest… we can talk later”

 ~~**~~

 The next time Johnny woke up he felt marginally better, as in he didn’t feel like he had been runover by semi-truck, just a minivan. He wasn’t sure what time it was, sometime at night he thought, Judging from the lack of light in the tent. When he turned his head slightly, he could make out a person sleeping, or at the very least laying down, on a cot opposite him.

 He moved his hand to reach out to them, not entirely sure why, but just knowing he wanted to. With a protest of pain that shot out from his wrist, up his arm, and down his spine; his hand slid off the cot and thumped onto the floor. It felt like trying to move a waterlogged post, slow and impossibly heavy. He almost imdently wanted to bring his arm back up onto the bed, to a more comfortable position, but quickly decide that was way more effort that he was willing to put in right at this moment and would probably make him pass out again. He settled on moving his fingers, enjoying the feeling of his nails scraping though the carpet, or mat, or… whatever was on the floor of the tent, he couldn’t be bothered looking. He became aware that he couldn’t move his other hand, or his other arm in general. His arm that in his original body would have been his cybernetic arm. He hated that feeling. He let out a sigh.

 He saw the person on the other cot stir and begin to sit up, it was V.

 “Johnny.”

 “Hey... V.” he croaked out. She stood and walked over to him, taking a seat by his side again. “I ...” he began, but wasn’t sure how to finished that sentence, or even what he wanted to say. she reached for something next to him, a bottle of water. She placed a straw in it and brought the other end to his lips. He drank. It made throat feel significantly better. When he was done, she put the bottle back down, somewhere just beyond his sight.

 “Its okay.” She picked up his arm and placed it back on the bed, resting it across his chest. “first off, how are you feeling?”

 “Fucking preem.” He said, throat still protesting slightly, “Apart from the fact that I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck or ten”

 “Yeah, I figured...” V responded, her eyes looking over his body, as if she could see the pain. It was quite for a moment.

 “V…” He said softly, breaking thought the quiet, she looked at him. “What the fuck happened… I don’t... I don’t remember”

 She let out a sigh and looked up at a ceiling. He could see her eyes dart back and forth as she got her thoughts in order. The last time he’d seen her do this, they were on the roof above Mistys, making one last choice, and he was feeling sick to his stomach. But at this moment, it felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was. “Johnny, what’s the last thing you remember.”

 “talking to you… inside Mikoshi and then… Nothing.” His voice came out more of a hushed whisper than he would have liked.

 “okay… its… right.” She began.  She slapped her hands down on her lap, he wasn’t sure why, maybe to psych herself up. “so, while we were talking in Mikoshi, before we came to a decision, Alt appeared. Do you remember?

 He shook his head slightly. He knew he’d already came to a decision; he would die so she could live. It was V who was still wrestling with the choice. V continued. “She said there was an anomaly. Something that she didn’t account for, and then you disappeared. Just… Blinked out of existence right before my eyes.”

 She paused to take a shaky breath.

  “She then told me a location inside Arasaka Tower to go to, close to where we were, If I chose to go back to my body... which I obviously I did... and in that room was the anomaly. In that room was you.” She looked at Johnny. “Your body.”

 He swallowed. “I don’t understand…. Grayson said…”

 “He lied” V said. “Or he just genuinely didn’t know. But this” she placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart. “This is you. Not a clone, or a replica. You.”

 He let that sink in for a moment. He’d known that he was in a body. He just hadn’t thought it had been his body. At least it was slightly less concerning that he couldn’t move his left arm now. The prosthetic must have been damaged. “...How?”

 “Cryogenically frozen.” V said. “honestly, lucky you still have all of your fingers and toes. Cryo freezing’s a crapshoot even these days, I couldn’t imagine how it was back then.”

 Lucky to even be alive, he thought, from what little he knew about the Cryo technology from 2023, but leave it to Arasaka to have the top tier technology squirreled away in their basement. “so, is that why I feel like I’ve been run over?”

 “Maybe partially.” V said. “but, near as I could tell... they froze your body right after they used soul killer on you. So all your injures from the tower, they’re still fresh.”

 Oh. That made more sense now. He did fall out of a helicopter, and get his ass handed to him by Smasher. “so... Alt just uploaded my mind back into my body? And I was good to go.”

 V smiled at him, a sad smile. He decided he didn’t like it. “not exactly… Johnny when I got to you, you were dead. You had no pulse, you weren’t breathing. Me and Panam just barely managed to get you back. We didn’t know if you were going to wake up…. I didn’t…. you scared the hell out of me.”

 “It’s payback…” He said. She was upset, and he hated that it was because of him. Her hand was still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. Despite the protests from his arm, he moved to place his hand over the top of hers, letting his fingers come to rest between hers. “For when I thought...”

 “its not funny Johnny.” She sounded annoyed, but she didn’t move her hand.  “You’ve been in a coma for nearly a month.”

 A month his mind echoed. He could feel himself slowly slipping back into unconsciousness, but he was suddenly aware of the implication of sleeping for a month. The moment V’s mind was placed back in her body, she was a ticking time bomb, and the clock was set for six months. And now that was down to five. She didn’t deserve that. His chest ached as guilt wrapped itself around his heart.

 They were quiet. His hand was still over hers, their fingers interlaced. She had begun to move thumb, gently and slowly stroking the side of his palm. He in turn began to move his thumb, caressing the back of her hand. Her hands were so much smaller than his and they seemed much more delicate, but he knew they could be just as deadly as his own if she needed them to be. He wanted to ask more questions, but more than that he didn’t want this moment to end, just being able to touch her- actually touch her. And just enjoying this. This unspoken thing between them.

 He was in love with her. He’d been aware that for a while now, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started. He thinks it might have started bubbling in his chest around the time he took her to the Pistis Sophia, when he’d committed to saving her.

 He’d been in love before, he knows that. Alt. Rouge. And even Kerry at some points. But this… This was different. Those other times, love had burnt like an uncontrollable fire, consuming everything and everyone in its path and burning itself out in the process. It was all consuming, a fire they had lit under his skin that turned everything it touched to ash and ruin. But with V… with V it was different.  It was…. Warmth. Like a fire you had built to keep the winter chill at bay. it surrounded you with its warmth and comfort so that whatever storm you were taking shelter from, didn’t matter.  It still burned with ferocity, like all fires did, but it didn’t feel like it would consume him and everything thing in its path. It felt... safe… like he needed this fire to survive, and not like he need to survive this fire.

 He wanted to tell her, but as the thought crossed his mind, he felt his grasp on consciousness slip. “V…”

 “You should rest..” She said, she had the softest smile on her face. “Its late. And we’ll have all the time in the world to talk when you’re stronger.”

 He thought that sentiment was laughable, as his eyes slowly fell shut against his will. He’d always been weak.

[lit-in-thy-heart]

For the ask game, the scene in marigolds where they rescue Gwaine from the rock and Merlin summons the fucking massive dragon and Pelleas helps them and Lancelot threatens to haunt him if he double crosses them 🤣🤣🤣 ICONIC

dfghjkl ah yes the scene that would have been lancelot clutching adoption papers had his hands not been full with gwaine 🤣

ngl the merlin shouting in the background was actually partially inspired by six days but obviously in a different context (and that scene is also one that springs to mind for you because i still can't, it legitimately had me in hysterics) but merlin screaming in the background whilst other people are trying to have a conversation is something i love :D

i feel like lance haunting people would just be him appearing when they're on the toilet or something and giving them a withering glare. he's not really the type to follow them around with unholy screams and i think that's very original of him

tysm for the ask!!! 💕💕

(the scene is under the cut)

In all Gwaine’s nightmares, it had been light when he had been about to drown. Clouds had formed a shield around him, preventing any rescue, and he had been helpless as the tide had gradually crept forward like a legion, struggling against bonds that he could see but not untie. This, somehow, was worse. The moonlight ricocheted off the water’s surface and refracted in numerous directions, illuminating patches of the sea that left Gwaine completely at a loss as to the vastness of it. Even though he knew dry land was close, the rock – now at a higher level than his head – obscured his view and, wherever he looked, it was all darkness and glimmering scales where the moonlight dipped its fingers into the sea. Wherever he looked, he was alone.

The cold was digging its nails into him and trying to draw blood but instead injecting fatigue and Gwaine, knowing nothing but the certainty of his fate, closed his eyes once more. He relaxed his muscles as his mouth became submerged in the water, diluted salt trickling into his parted lips, his nose only millimetres from joining it. At least Anselm wouldn’t be able to use him to control Merlin. At least he wouldn’t be able to fail Merlin and Lancelot again. At least it would all be over.

‘Gwaine! Gwaine!’

Apparently hearing the voices of the people you loved in your final moments wasn’t just a comforting myth, because Lancelot’s voice was piercing the rolling fog in Gwaine’s head quite successfully. It was odd that he could also hear Merlin roaring spells in the distance, too, because Gwaine didn’t really associate Merlin with violence. Merlin and his voice belonged to the tentative dawn and amongst the chorus of birds that came with it, belonged with the rustling leaves in a gentle breeze and the jewelled grass, not to the furious fire that could take apart whole armies. Just like Lancelot and his voice belonged to the stark sunset and the whispers of tendrils of clouds, belonged with the constellations that covered the heavens in a thin layer of protective dust and the bleeding colours of day, not to the agonised desperation that could cause the sky itself to fissure.

Still, any last thoughts of them brought Gwaine comfort.

There was a blunt shout from behind but Gwaine didn’t react, wanting nothing more than to sleep. His nose ducked below the surface and everything around him became muffled as his ears were cushioned by the water.

It might have been for minutes or years that Gwaine was suspended there, tethered to the rock, before he was hauled from the water with someone calling his name in a strangled voice between obscene swearing.

An arm was wrapped around Gwaine’s waist to support him as he instinctively tried to inhale and began coughing, his whole body convulsing in the attempt to dispel the water. After the threat had seemingly been combated, his legs gave way but he was caught before he could fall and drawn close to a hammering heart.

Gwaine could feel the next words stir within him, transmitted by the vibrations of his rescuer’s vocal cords, as he drifted to the fringes of consciousness. ‘Merlin! Merlin, I’ve got him!’ Something angular dropped onto the top of Gwaine’s head, movement grating against his scalp. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ve got you, you’re safe.’

‘Lance…’M’sorry…’

Lancelot, feeling Gwaine’s body go limp, rested him against the rock, hand fumbling for a pulse in panic. Glancing towards the shore, he could see that Merlin was gradually advancing, his face contorted with rage in the flashes of it Lancelot could catch as flares embedded themselves in bandits. Lancelot had seen Merlin use magic before, of course, but never so violently; from the moment they had broken from the cell, Merlin had been ruthless in the damage he had dealt. The streaks of fire penetrating the atmosphere provided Lancelot with a little visual aid and, satisfied that Gwaine was still breathing, he used his own body to prop up his partner, hands groping for the shackles.

Merlin was going to kill him for discarding his sling – if the pain in his shoulder didn’t kill him first – but Lancelot gritted his teeth and focused instead on trying to free Gwaine. Which, apparently, was going to be harder than he’d first thought. The waves were slapping against higher and higher points of Lancelot’s back and he pushed one leg between both of Gwaine’s to steady him further. His fingers clawed at the iron uselessly, trying to pull apart the cuffs around Gwaine’s wrists, but it was futile. Frantically, Lancelot turned his gaze back towards the shore and latched onto Merlin’s formidable figure, who was in the middle of throwing back the bandit posted to guard Gwaine, whom Lancelot had darted past in the darkness.

‘They’re chains,’ Lancelot cried out when Merlin was close enough, voice cracking, ‘chains, not rope. I can’t get them off.’

Merlin splashed through the water as quickly as he could, fingers grazing Lancelot’s as he examined the chains. There was an explosion of light as Merlin muttered an incantation and winced, his hand going to his chest. He brushed off the twinge and checked that the tether had been severed, glancing towards Lancelot. ‘We have to get him out of the water and get him warm.’

Lancelot was already in the process of doing so; he had laid Gwaine out on the rock once more and was angling his body to drape Gwaine over his uninjured shoulder.

‘Lance, no, your shoulder—’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Lancelot replied, straightening his posture and hooking his left arm around the backs of Gwaine’s knees. ‘Unless you have a better solution?’

‘I’ll take him.’

‘Over my dead body,’ was the sharp response. ‘You’re not meant to be lifting heavy objects and I’m pretty sure a human body comes under the category of “heavy objects”. Do you still have the cloak?’ Lancelot added as he began to wade back to shore, nervously keeping an eye on the castle’s silhouette.

Following the knight, Merlin untied the cloak from his waist. ‘I can do a drying spell,’ he offered. ‘I don’t know how much it will help, but anything is better than nothing, right?’

With a nod, Lancelot spun around when his boots made contact with dry land and watched Merlin place a hand on Gwaine’s exposed back. His eyes shone and, as they faded, he arranged the cloak over Gwaine’s form. Lancelot trapped the material between his hand and Gwaine’s legs, looking towards the castle again. ‘It’s not going to take them long to figure out where we’ve gone. And Gwaine took more blows than he can probably handle back in the throne room…’

Lancelot broke off before he added to his panic by recalling the images that had shot by only moments before – of Gwaine seemingly lifeless in the water, his slurred speech, his helplessness. This was the second time in just over a fortnight that Lancelot had felt his heart contract with terror at the sight of Gwaine’s lifeless form, but he was no less used to it. Stilling for a moment, Lancelot registered the faint sound of Gwaine breathing and relaxed slightly. They had to get him to Camelot.

Merlin’s hand was resting on his uninjured shoulder. ‘It’s alright. I’ve got an idea. We need to start moving towards the mainland.’

‘It’s not something stupid or dangerous, is it?’

‘Not for us,’ Merlin assured him, giving Lancelot’s shoulder a small squeeze. He kissed him gently before dropping a kiss in the midst of Gwaine’s now-dry hair. ‘We’re going to be okay. Start moving. I’ll catch up.’

Lights – pinpricks of bronze blood against the night sky – were eddying towards them from the direction of the castle. ‘Merlin—’

Merlin pushed his shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine. Go. Get Gwaine to safety.’

Hesitating momentarily, Lancelot started forwards as the lights behind them expanded. With his right arm hanging limply by his side, he contracted the muscles in his left arm to more firmly support Gwaine and glanced over his shoulder. Merlin had turned away and stood with his legs slightly apart, his head tilted towards the sky. The words that emerged from his mouth reached Lancelot clearly, but that didn’t help him decipher their meaning.

'O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!’

Although, picking up on the word ‘drakon’, Lancelot could hazard a guess as to what would be involved. Merlin repeated the phrase, more insistently this time, and the guttural quality to the syllables that stretched over Merlin’s tongue sent Lancelot’s skin erupting into goosebumps.

He turned his mouth towards Gwaine’s motionless body, the faint smile grazing the muscles concealed by the cloak. ‘Gwaine,’ he whispered, ‘you are going to kick yourself later for missing this.’ It might have been his imagination, but Gwaine seemed to shift slightly against him. ‘But don’t worry, my love, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re better.’ He paused before pressing a kiss to the cloak. ‘Rest well, now, my love, it’s all going to be fine, I promise you.’

Raising his head, Lancelot looked back at Merlin, who was still standing stubbornly in the place that he’d been left. He was also still shouting and didn’t notice a figure streak past until they were halfway towards Lancelot. Breaking off his call, Merlin fired a ball of flames at the figure but they swerved to the side and stumbled to a halt beside Lancelot, who had ceased all movement.

Reflexively, Lancelot reached down and removed the knife Gwaine had given him from his boot, biting down on his lip to avoid crying out, and held it out. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ he threatened.

‘Put the knife down, I’m here to help you.’

Still holding the knife, Lancelot squinted at the tangled hair. ‘You’re the one Gwaine had to fight. You were going to kill him.’

‘Anselm would have killed me.’ The bandit let out an impatient noise. ‘Look, I don’t know what batshit thing your friend is doing over there, but whatever it is, it’s only going to hold the others off for so long. And you can’t carry Gwaine by yourself.’

Desperately, Lancelot looked between the bandit and Merlin. Finally, he shoved the knife back in his boot. ‘Fine. But if you hand us over to Anselm, I will haunt you so hard—’

‘I’m not going to hand you over to Anselm. Gwaine told me to get out if I could, so I thought I’d take advantage of the chaos you caused. Give him here.’

With a grunt, Lancelot lowered Gwaine and draped one of his arms over his shoulder, motioning for the bandit to support the other side. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Pelleas.’

Lancelot took a step forward. ‘Right, Pelleas, we’re heading in the direction called as-far-the-fuck-away-from-here-as-possible. Merlin said he’d catch up with us, and I trust him—’

‘Merlin?’

Lancelot silently swore. ‘Did I say Merlin? I meant Will. Will said he’d catch up with us—’

‘Is that a dragon?’

Lifting his head, Lancelot watched as the stars were obscured by a large mass before a creature landed beside Merlin and was unable to conceal a smile. ‘A fucking massive dragon, I think.’

Pelleas frowned at him. ‘There’s a difference?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The smile on Lancelot’s face faded as a strong stream of fire issued from the dragon’s jaw, directed at the bandits approaching Merlin. ‘Thank you for your assistance, but we’ll be able to take it from here. And, if you want my advice, run as far away from here as fast as possible and don’t look back. And breathe a word about Mer—Will to anyone—’

‘I won’t,’ Pelleas hurriedly said. ‘I won’t.’ He ducked out from beneath Gwaine’s arm. ‘If—If Gwaine wakes, tell him I forgive him.’

With that, Pelleas melted into the darkness.

Lancelot tried not to think too hard about the ‘if’. Merlin was running towards them and Lancelot hoisted Gwaine up, their cheeks brushing together. ‘No pressure, my love, but it would be really helpful if you could wake up right about now. I’ve never had to mount a dragon before—’ Lancelot waited for an interjection in the form of a dick joke, but it didn’t come. ‘Well, not a real dragon, because Merlin’s magnificence doesn’t count.’ He paused again. ‘I can’t believe that I’m making dick jokes and you’re too unconscious to make note of it. Anyway, I’ve never had to mount a dragon before, let alone with an unconscious knight relying on me. So, if you could wake up…’

As he moved his ear to Gwaine’s mouth to check that breath was still hitting his cheek, weak words were shaped by the breeze. ‘’S’my method. Humour‘s a d’fense mech’nism.’

Lancelot drew his face away. ‘Yeah, well, you weren’t around to use it.’

‘Right here, ‘n’t I?’ Gwaine struggled to open his eyes: the lids flickered but remained steadfastly closed. ‘Right though. Mer’in does have a dr’gon dick.’

Laughing as tears collected in the corners of his eyes, Lancelot shook his head. ‘I can’t believe all it took was a dick joke to revive you.’ He pressed his lips to Gwaine’s forehead. ‘I fucking love you, you know that? And it’s all going to be okay. We’re going to get you back home and patched up and everything is going to be fine and no harm is ever going to come to you again and—’

‘Lance…’

Whatever Gwaine was about to say, though, was interrupted by Merlin’s arrival as he skidded to a halt in front of them, one hand on his chest with the other holding an orb of light. In the fragmented illumination, the corners of his mouth were twisted in pain and his breathless words were ragged. ‘Kil—Kilgharrah can take us to the woods just outside the citadel,’ he gasped out. ‘And he’s also helpfully offered to torch the place.’

‘Pelleas…’ murmured Gwaine.

Lancelot buried his mouth in Gwaine’s hairline. ‘Pelleas got out, my love, it’s alright. Save your strength.’ Catching the start of Pelleas’s name in Merlin’s tone, Lancelot cut him off softly. ‘Later, Merlin. There will be time then. What do we need to do?’

Sparing a moment to give Gwaine a tearful kiss, whose mouth flickered minutely in response, Merlin turned back towards Kilgharrah. ‘We just need to get on his back. We can—We can sort Gwaine out when we’re settled and secure.’

At the sound of his name, Gwaine finally managed to open his eyes. He was confronted with blazing fires and a very large shape a little way off and, blinking drowsily, he leaned closer into Lancelot. ‘’S’at the fuckin’ massive drag’n?’

‘Perhaps don’t call him that,’ Merlin fondly said, voice just carrying over Lancelot’s reminder of what he had just said to Gwaine. ‘His name is Kilgharrah and he is the last dragon.’