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klausinamarink · 10 months

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One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 10)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 next: Part 11 | ao3

time for shenanigans.

Jim’s frustrated.

This whole week has been a major event after another; Joyce’s son vanishes on Sunday, the same happened with Eddie Munson the day after, and the Hollands’ daughter going poof the other day. And then Will’s body had been found in the quarry, which was a cherry pick top on with Benny’s sudden death and the damned MK Ultra stories he can’t get out of his head-

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a deep breath. Exhales it out. Yeah, Jimmy boy, exhale some of that shit out.

He’s sitting in his vehicle on the roadside, just at the intersection of Cherry Ave and Cornwallis Road. He doesn’t really have much to do. Theoretically, he should be sitting his ass behind his desk at the station but what is he going to do?

The goddamn suits and rangers of the state had shown up right after Will’s body was recovered and told him to relax because they got it all covered.

Yeah, right.

In a different time, Jim wouldn’t mind shouldering off the responsibility and leave the big hats to finish it. But he’s not that kind of cop. He doesn’t trust the state to place their greasy hands over the cases. At best, they’re going to fuck it all up.

But it seems that they really aren’t kidding about being involved. When Jim had tried to get into the morgue last night to do a better autopsy on Will’s body, the doors were guarded by, not one, but three rangers. He almost punched them all out, but he had simply shared the most polite conversation he can with them before they politely kicked him out.

He had thought about seeing Joyce earlier this morning, but he would be a heartless jackass to accidentally send her to a public breakdown at her son’s funeral.

Now he’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at nothing on the road, unsure what to do and where to start.

His mind wanders to the notebook sitting in the glovebox. Having already read it front to back, he can admit that Wayne really has a sharp eye for everything. There’s one particular point about Eddie being last seen with a cut on his hand that’s nagging the back of Jim’s memory cave. But nothing solid comes up so he brushes it aside for now.

“How long it’ll take for you to even care out what happened to my nephew before his body turns up next?”

Jim stops his tapping on the wheel and drops his forehead against it, sighing heavily. Wayne really knows exactly what to say that haunts you for the rest of your damned life.

Not so different to what Joyce had fired back at him few days ago.

Will’s body comes back to his mind again. He hadn’t seen him up-close, not with the coroner being defensive on preventing contamination. But Jim’s not an idiot. He had seen enough of Will’s perfectly intact body to call bullshit on the accepted belief the kid fell into the quarry.

Suddenly, he gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

Jim looks up towards the direction of the laboratory. He’s too far to actually see the building but he feels its presence nonetheless. Enough to conjure up the image of Martin Brenner’s polite smile when he said no, we haven’t seen a child here on these grounds.

He starts the engine.

—

From the way Wayne keeps glancing up at Joyce, she senses that her pacing is getting to his nerves.

It’s fair for him to think that. She’s been practically burning through his kitchen floor for the past thirty minutes. Or she thinks it’s been thirty minutes. Hours were quickly slipping and the sun’s already setting outside.

Hours without any word from Will or Eddie. Not even a tiniest flicker from the lightbulbs.

Despite her empty stomach, she can feel bile climbing up her throat. She swallows it down, daring a glance back to Wayne.

He looks up at her again, his hand rubbing the side of his temple. Joyce tenses when she catches his mouth opening as if he’s ready to say something. She’s already had enough listening to the hauntings of her mother’s scolding in her ear and whispers from the townsfolk (including Lonnie and Jonathan) right behind her back. She doesn’t want to hear another one to her face from Wayne.

Just then, through her anxiety, she gets struck by a realization.

“Of course!” Joyce snaps her fingers in a feign of excitement. “They probably went back to my house!”

Wayne gives her a bemused look. “Your house?”

She nods quickly, already pulling the older man up as she reminds him through a long-winded explanation of how she manages to establish communication with Will and later Eddie at her home. Wayne looks all the more confused, but he hurries along with her to his truck. It’s a quicker drive from the trailers to Cornwallis. Wayne follows her brief directions, soon parking on the driveway. Before he even stops, Joyce jumps out and runs to the front door.

She realizes a second too late that she should give him a warning about the current state of her living room. But whatever words she’s about to say withers in her mouth when she steps into the house.

The Christmas lights are gone.

Every one of them that she’s strung up, even a few she had reluctantly pushed to the corners this morning, are nowhere to be seen now. Her only way to speak to her baby, gone.

As she gapes around the room, her eyes land on the suspect, who’s kneeling on the couch and methodically replacing a new layer of wallpaper above it. Right were the letters used to be.

“Lonnie.” She doesn’t know how she finds her voice, but it doesn’t sound like herself. It’s too calm to match the anger burning within her chest.

Lonnie looks over his shoulder, unfazed. “There you are. Thought I had to call the cops when you disappeared this morning. Like mother, like son, huh?”

Joyce clenches her jaw tight at the normalcy of his tone. She glares at him, making Lonnie mockingly throw his hands up.

“Oh, sorry. Never meant to say that. I was just worried about where you went.” Lonnie chuckles. Then he looks over her shoulder and his expression falls. Joyce dares a quick glance and sees Wayne standing awkwardly in the doorway. She cringes inwardly, motioning at the other man to leave. But Wayne doesn’t move. He just crosses his arms and stares back evenly at Lonnie.

When Joyce peers back at Lonnie, his eyes are darkened. She can hear his teeth grinding as he gets off the couch and towers over her. “Seriously? We just buried our son and you run off to-”

“What did you do to the lights?” Joyce cuts him off. Her voice is still and quiet.

Lonnie raises his eyebrows, his temper briefly quelshed with confusion. “What?”

“The lights, Lonnie. Why did you take them off? And why are you ruining the wallpaper?”

He has the audacity to sigh and shake his head as if his heart is breaking. That liar. “I threw them out.”

It feels like the world just stopped. “What?”

“Because your mind’s not right, Joyce. I can’t see you act like this, pretending that Will’s trapped in the walls-”

“Since when have you ever cared?” Frost drips out of her voice. She hopes it turns into icicles and stabs into her ex-husband’s heart. “You never gave two shits about me when I had to bust your ass out of jail countless times and take up the night shifts because you couldn’t hold a job anymore. You never cared how hard or loud you’ve hurt me in front of Jonathan. You never, never cared about Will until you thought about hitting him too.”

“Joyce-”

“And now you show your face up, acting like the grieving husband and father so you can make everyone believe you’ve cared. But you never did. Because I bet it’s because of that sweet money the state’s going to donate to your pocket for acting like the way you are. So what gave you the fucking right to take down all of my lights, tear my wallpaper off, and act like it’s for the sake of my sanity?”

Lonnie throws his arms up, his face looming closer like he always does when they fight. “Because you’re sick, Joyce! You’re acting completely irrational and ruining this house-”

“I’m ruining the house? Is that what you care for now?!”

“Yes! Because this is where you and your son live in-”

“If you fucking dare to move back in here-”

Amidst their arguing, Joyce barely remembers Wayne. She just hopes that he had just left already, seeing no point in watching a couple’s dispute. It’ll hurt, but it would be the best for him. He doesn’t deserve being dragged into more of her messes.

Lonnie’s hand suddenly shoots towards her in a blur. Joyce instinctively flinches away, already feeling the phantom stinging of the previous slaps.

But she doesn’t feel her head snapping to her side or taste sharp copper in her teeth. She peeks her eyes open (she doesn’t realize she had shut them) and sees Lonnie’s arm being held in the air by Wayne’s tight grip.

“If your way to end an argument is to hurt someone, then you’re better to take the loss and leave.” Wayne speaks to Lonnie’s face so softly that his usual gruff tone vanishes for a moment. Oh. Joyce realizes. That’s how his anger sounds.

Lonnie stares at him wide-eyed, a drop of sweat trailing down his cheek. His forearm whitens around Wayne’s fingers the longer they grip into the skin. Finally, Wayne leans away with a curt nod and lets him go, making Lonnie stumble back. He looks at them both before the familiar snarl of displeasure returns.

“You’re both fucking crazy. You both deserve it together.” He spits just before he storms out, loudly slamming the front door shut.

Trembling, Joyce glares through the still-open window as Lonnie starts up his car and promptly drives off.

Wayne scoffs quietly, “Serves him right.”

It should be enough to let her relax and breathe again. But there’s so much of her anger boiling her veins that Joyce grabs her head and curls her fingers into her hair, pulling it harshly so that several strands get ripped out.

This should be enough. But there’s so much of her anger boiling her veins that Joyce grabs her head and curls her fingers into her hair, pulling it harshly so that several strands are ripped off.

She can hear Wayne calling her name. But she doesn’t listen or look at him. She just turns around and stomps her way down into the house. And then there’s a blast of cold air and heavy crunching of leaves under her feet. Before she knows it, Joyce yanks the shed’s door open.

The first thing she sees is a pair of shovels. She grabs them, only for both tools to be somehow tangled with each other. It makes her more mad as she struggles to separate them. But once they’re freed, they get caught against the other tools in the shed.

“You’re kidding me.” She says to nobody in particular except this stupid shed and whatever god is up in the sky who likes making her life miserable. She tries to shove her anger down, but the shovels are stuck again and they’re just banging against the shed, doing nothing but make the buzzing in her head louder and louder and she can’t think of anything other than-

“Joyce.”

She jumps, her shoulders up to her ears. She whirls around, expecting to see Lonnie crawling back to her. But it’s only Wayne, standing just a few feet away.

She glares up at him. “What?”

He looks wearily at her and at the shovels in her hands. “What are you doing right now?” Wayne asks, sounding too gentle like he’s trying to coax a scared animal. Thinking of that comparison makes Joyce even more mad.

“None of your damned business.” She hisses. She turns back to what she’s trapped herself in doing and tries to free the shovels. How is it this hard to get a couple shovels out?!

But she still senses Wayne behind her, even approaching closer. She whips her head back to him, “Leave.”

Just after she says it, the shovels she’s been holding bang against some equipment inside, creating a cascade of metallic crashes.

Her frustration explodes. She drops the handles and kicks at the wall several times hard enough that it almost surprises her it doesn’t collapse. Her hands dig back into her hair as she yells up at the sky. And because Wayne is still here for some godforsaken reason, she yells at him too.

“Just go! You already know how goddamn sick I am! Just go and spit on me after wasting your fucking time for sitting around and waiting for your nephew-”

Wayne takes another step forward and-

He hugs her.

Joyce stiffens at first, a second of shock overcoming her. Then she lets go of her hair just so she can pound her fists onto his chest, attempting to twist away from his embrace. Bad women like her don’t deserve hugs like this.

“What did I tell you about using others to comfort your pain, Joyce? Now I’m going to feel awful for wanting to give you a hug. You see what you’ve done? To your own mother, no else?”

Wayne doesn’t let her go. Instead, he smooths her hair down, careful at the aching patches where she’d just abused her scalp. Something about that motion makes Joyce to drop her arms down. Her breath shudders as she lets her face be buried into Wayne’s cardigan. It smells like cigarettes, old oak leaves, and flour oddly enough.

It sends a crack somewhere through her heart.

She doesn’t recognize the wretched sound coming out of her mouth. It sounds like a dying animal, too rough and guttural as if it wants to cut through her throat. Her small body wracks violently with every sob like it’s desperate to rattle her soul out to leave this earth. She wants to leave, but Wayne isn’t letting her. He keeps her arms tight around her, slightly rocking them side to side like a father does to a child. Just like how Joyce does to Will and Jonathan after a bad day and night.

Thinking about it restarts the cycle of tears again.

After she feels her tears are spent and regains control of her breathing, Joyce taps on Wayne’s arm. He gets the message and unwraps himself from her, though he keeps a hand on her shoulder. The front of his cardigan is nearly soaked through but he doesn’t raise a complaint.

Joyce’s eyes feel swollen. There’s snot and tears running down her face, which she’s quick to wipe away. Once she’s sure she can speak without another threat of tears, she mumbles, “Sorry about that..”

“No need to apologize. Seems you really needed that.” Wayne tells her softly. She looks up at him and there’s a small sincere quirk of his lips. Not a single ounce of malice or pity is shining out of his doe eyes, just complete reassurance and comfort.

It almost makes Joyce cry again, but she holds it together and just sniffs her snot back in.

Silence falls between them, but it’s not as awkward or tense as Joyce expects. It’s more comforting. Maybe breaking down in front of someone who doesn’t immediately taunt her does more wonders than she thinks.

“Do you want to explain why you were wrestling with these shovels?” Wayne asks. A flush of shame comes over Joyce and she looks down to the ground again. Crosses her arms as if it’ll prevent herself from answering.

“Joyce?”

She lets out a shaky sigh. Fuck it. Wayne’s been with her this far.

“I want to go back to the cemetery.”

There’s a pause. She doesn’t look up as Wayne asks, “Come again?”

She sighs again. Flicks her eyes up to stare directly at Wayne. “I want to see who was that boy they buried as Will.”

Wayne furrows his brows. Then the realization comes over him. “You-”

“I know it’s stupid and very illegal.” Joyce keeps her hands to herself so they don’t flail around, takes a step away from him. There’s something wrong with her in which every time she wants to be taken seriously, another thing happens that keeps testing Wayne’s patience for her.

She continues, “But I can’t stand it. I know in my heart and soul that whoever they found in that quarry just looks like Will, but it’s not him! If it was, they would’ve allowed an open casket or let me stay with him for a bit before-” Her breath shudders again. “I just want to know what the hell is going on!”

Joyce tears her gaze away from Wayne, staring at the ground as if it’ll rip open and spit Will back to her. “If you want to throw me into jail or Pennhurst for this, then go ahead. If you’re fed up with my ‘delusions’-” she spat the word, “then leave and forget about me.”

The silence drags for a horribly long time that Joyce can see their shadows extending before her eyes. Then Wayne’s feet shuffle out of her view. She closes her eyes, shivering from the cold catching up to her.

Then there’s a little nudge on her arm along with Wayne’s gruff voice speaking, “Alright, better now than later.”

Joyce blinks her eyes open, her jaw falling open at the sight of Wayne back to her side and holding out a shovel to her. While carrying the second, no less. “W-Wha-?”

“You’re right on a couple things.” Wayne interjects her kindly. “There’s some strange stuff happening around here these past few days. It has to do with our boys going missing and we both know they’re alive somewhere. If you’re beyond certain that the kid you saw being buried isn’t Will, then nothing hurts to check.”

Joyce almost wants to laugh. She almost asks Wayne if he’s losing it. But she sees that look in his eyes, the hard determination she’s seen in herself too. It gives her a spark of hope again.

She takes the offered shovel. She has to bite the insides of her cheek to keep some hysterical giddiness from showing. Staring into Wayne’s eyes, she says, “If you’re in this with me, for what we’re about to do, then you need to also help me out if we get caught by Hopper.”

Wayne gives out an exasperated sigh, but his mouth quirks up something resembling a smirk. “Let me double check my bail money first.”

—

As they drive up into the cemetery, it’s gotten dark enough that all of the headstones look like lumps. Undead potato lumps. A morbid joke that his sister Suzanna once shared with Wayne when they were kids and has somewhat stayed in his vocabulary. Once he slipped and said it around Eddie few years ago, who had gladly adopted the phrase.

“The grave’s over there.” Joyce frowns, pointing over to a direction behind them.

“And we’re going to stop here.” Wayne says, parking the truck at the very end of the road where the oldest areas of the cemetery start embracing the woods. “Wouldn’t want to park near your boy’s grave and get caught too soon.”

Joyce makes a small ah sound. Wayne cuts the engine and headlights off and they both get out. He takes the shovels from the truck’s back, along with a crowbar and a flashlight. Joyce raises an eyebrow at the crowbar but says nothing as she takes the flashlight and the lead to their destination.

They hurry further in half-crouches, carefully weaving around the other gravestones. The groundskeeper has night shifts for a reason and lord forbid if there’s any sneaking reporters hungry for pictures.

“Here.” Joyce whispers. There’s almost no need for her to point it out with the too-new marble headstone and bouquets of flowers are placed on the recently-buried dirt.

They stand together on the side, staring down at the ground. A little adrenaline rush of I am actually doing this comes down onto Wayne. He should feel ashamed of himself. That he should have listened to his logical side of not helping a grieving woman’s delusions and now it’ll start a landslide effect of following Al’s forbidden footsteps.

But he doesn’t feel anything. A little nerves, sure. But otherwise? He’s just calm. Nothing towards himself or Joyce.

Maybe he’s like this because a part of him already wants to dig up Eddie’s grave in the future just to hold his boy close for the last time.

Or it’s just the Munson thing.

He breathes slowly, repositioning his grip of his shovel and handing the other to Joyce.

She doesn’t take it. She stares down at the still-fresh dirt with a lost expression. “But what if I’m wrong? That all this time, this is Will and everyone was right but I’ve been denying it?”

“Then you’ll cry.”

She looks up, shooting him a baffled look.

“You’ll cry, either out of relief or grief.” He continues, nudging the shovel’s handle to her. “It’s the best any of us can do. And what happens next is up to you.”

Joyce’s eyes well up again but she shuts them tight, her expression shifting to the hard determination Wayne is already familiar with. She opens her eyes and takes the shovel in her hands. Then she gives him a single nod.

Wayne nods back and plunges the shovel’s blade into the dirt.

It’s less back-breaking than he expects. Benefits of growing up south and spending years at the plant, he supposes. The soil’s still loose enough so it might’ve helped easing their efforts. But his arms and knees start to ache after one and half feet in. Joyce’s already trembling at this point, pausing to catch her breath every minute or two.

“I’m not sitting down until we get to the damn casket.” Joyce pants out before Wayne opens his mouth. He wisely keeps it shut.

By the time their shovels hit polished wood, it’s fully dark and a absolute miracle that any groundskeeper hasn’t heard them. Yet. Wayne snatches the flashlight and kneels down to sweep the soil off while Joyce collapses to her feet.

“God.” She tilts her head back, seemingly regretting the motion as it brings some dirt falling on her hair. “I’d almost prefer Mr. Turlington’s gym classes to this.”

“If this was his grave, we would’ve made him proud. Hold this.” Wayne hands the flashlight to her.

“I can barely lift my arms!” Joyce protests, but she takes the flashlight, keeping the beam aimed at the head of the casket. Wayne feels his hands around the edges, shuffling more of the tightly pressed earth away.

He stands up, reaching out for the crowbar above. He moves slowly, feeling conscious of the fact that there is a young boy’s body inside. Any more quicker and heavier movement he and Joyce make might just break the casket itself.

“Did ya get the casket sealed?” He asks.

“No, finding the right casket itself was expensive enough.” Joyce winces right after she says it, as if paying for a casket by itself is the most shameful thing in the world. She eyes at the crowbar in his hands. “Why do you ask?”

“From what I heard, unsealed caskets are easier to reopen.” Wayne kneels back down, roughly scooping out a few handfuls of one wall so there’s a small pocket of space. He looks again at Joyce, silently asking are you sure about this?

She gives him an unwavering stare that all but replies with yes, get on with it.

Wayne wedges the crowbar to the side of the lid. He silently prays that this action won’t taint his memory for eternity and then pushes down on the crowbar with all of his might.

It takes about what feels like hours before a crack resounds and the casket opens. Wayne grabs onto the newly freed lid, pushing it up until the top hits the earthy wall.

Joyce makes a choked noise, almost close to a sob. Wayne himself recoils at the sight of Will Byers’ too-pale face, eyes softly shut as if he was just sleeping.

But the smell…

Wayne sniffs the air. Continues for a moment, unsure if his senses are messing with him. With his eyes still on the boy’s face, he asks, “Do you smell anything?”

A strained chuckle comes out of Joyce. “What?”

“Do you smell anything?”

Joyce falls silent before she starts sniffing. Then again with more consideration. “..No. Just the dirt.”

Wayne manages to tear his gaze away from the boy and back to Joyce. “Doesn’t matter how much chemicals you put in a body for preservation, the smell of rot comes back as soon it’s buried.”

Realization dawns on her face. Then she carefully crawls over next to him, ducking under Wayne’s arm as he still holds the lid up. Joyce looks down at the body and slowly reaches a hand out to the face of her son. She gently cups the cheek, bringing a terrified expression upon her before it shifts into a frown of doubt.

“Do- Do bodies always feel like plastic?” She asks slowly. Wayne looks at her with shared confusion and reaches out to touch the boy’s face. However, his hand must have been too slow or too quick because it instead brushes against Joyce’s.

She gives out a too-loud startled squeal, her head bumping hard against Wayne’s chin. He falls back, hearing a small groan from Joyce. In the process, he loses his grip on the lid and barely stops it from slamming shut by kicking his leg out and holding it up halfway. The weight’s gonna bruise it for days.

“Ow, oh, Wayne!” Joyce is suddenly fretting above him, rubbing the back of her head. “I’m so sorry! You didn’t mean to startle me that bad, it’s just the nerves and-”

“I’m alright.” Wayne means it, even if his chin and leg might not. He’s had worse than beginner’s level grave-robbing. “It’s my fault I scared ya.”

Joyce’s shaking her head. “No, really, I’m sorry-”

Wayne grunts as he slowly pushes himself up. “Would ya get the lid off my leg first?”

“Oh, of course!” Joyce scampers back, groaning with effort as she pushes the lid off. Wayne pulls his leg back to him, rubbing the bone carefully. Yep, he can feel a bruise coming.

“Wayne.” Joyce’s voice is very still.

He sits up more upright. “What’s wrong?”

Joyce doesn’t answer. Her back’s toward him, the flashlight still shining inside the casket. Wayne scoots closer, peering down to see-

Will’s head turned on the side, no longer attached to his body.

It feels like Wayne’s soul is exhumed out of his body all at once. His first thought is, oh lord I just decapitated a dead kid in front of his mother. But somehow through his panic, he notices that despite the damage, there’s not a spot of blood anywhere.

Joyce reaches her hand in again and picks up something. Holds it up close to the flashlight for a closer look.

It’s a wad of cotton.

Wayne checks the head and neck of the body. Thick wads of cotton sticks out of both ends.

“I knew this wasn’t Will.” Joyce whispers, her tone devoid of anything save a hint of triumph somewhere. “None of his moles match and there wasn’t even a birthmark.”

Wayne stays silent, staring down at the body that is not Will Byers. Who that half of the town came and mourned for just hours ago. All of this for a fake body.

“Wayne?”

Joyce’s looking at him, concerned. It feels terribly juxtaposed. A grieving mother sitting atop of her son’s fake body wanting to know if he’s alright.

“Did they tell ya who found the body?”

Joyce thinks for a moment before replying, “Not anyone specific. I think Hopper said it was somebody from the state.”

Wayne swallows but his throat’s too dry. He lifts his gaze up towards the sky at last. The stars are coming out. “Chief told me that the state’s taking over Eddie’s case.”

They both become quiet for a long time. Until they both catch a faint whistling tune of the groundskeeper. Then it’s a mad careful scramble out of there.

—

Brenner studies the new dummy on the table, taking a glance at the reference photographs laid out on the desk besides McNeil, who stands on the opposite side and poorly hiding his fidgeting.

There’s nothing wrong with McNeil’s works. It’s a masterpiece, much like the previous. Anyone who never touched a human body or kept on his payroll wouldn’t notice the difference.

But Brenner always sees flaws in perfection. That’s the duty in being a scientist. Running through the tests over and over until the subjects are one hundred plus ten percent faultless.

It always leaves a bitter taste on his tongue when he skips over a mistake, even for the sake of studying. He’s being more considerate these days after the disastrous cases with Henry and Eleven.

“Is this accurate to the boy’s measurements?” He asks. McNeil stops fidgeting and straightens up with an air of confidence that should be permanent.

“Yes, sir.”

Brenner eyes the small flock of bats and devilish marionette inked on the right arm. “Is this the only tattoos he has?”

“No, sir.”

“Then where are they?”

McNeil clears his throat, almost looking away from Brenner. “It’s difficult to perfect the other designs when there’s bare references of what they exactly look like. Tattoos are heavily variable, sir.”

Brenner sighs quietly in disappointment. He’ll save this discussion of incompetence much later, preferably once Eleven returns. “Then find the exact designs and make sure they match.” He looks down at the blank intimation of Eddie Munson’s face, thinking for a moment. “And give it the impression that it’s been deceased for longer than Will Byers-”

The door suddenly opens and Agent Sterling walks in with an annoyed expression. “We have an intruder.”

Brenner frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

She gestures for him to follow and he’s lead to the screening room of their security footage. One of them shows the police chief Jim Hopper cautiously walking through the basement level, undoubtedly heading to the room with Eleven’s gate.

Brenner can’t help but chuckle. That man truly wants to know more about what they are doing.

“Should we eliminate him?” Agent Sterling asks.

He shakes his head, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No. Just tranquilize him and send him back home. Place our listening device somewhere in his residence as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

—

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @steves-strapcollection @hellion-child @sidekick-hero @mmmmwaffles94 @hbyrde36 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @plsdontdrinkmylavalamp @bookbinderbitch @gutterflower77 @soaringornithopher @angeldreamsoffanfic @panicatthediaz @renaissan-vvitch @manda-panda-monium @newtstabber @little-trash-ghost @niniel-karenine @tinyplanet95

#once again was planning to bring a whole shebang of shenanigans but that might’ve ruined the pacing #so the more exciting stuff is split off to the next chapter!#anyway nothing like bonding over desecrating a grave and decapitating its fake body with the face of your new friend’s missing son m’right?#eddie and will in the upside down au #wayne munson #joyce byers #jim hopper #martin brenner #stranger things #klaus writes

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renardsarcastique · 8 months

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Regarding Episodes 7 & 8 of Hazbin Hotel

Let’s start off with episode 7. I really loved this episode and I think it just might be my overall favorite. The pacing of the set up towards the big battle was just right. I loved the emphasis on fighting for love to win because that becomes prominent in the finale.

Now, episode 8. This is where I have a problem with this season being only 8 episodes. We had this wonderful build of of getting an army to help fight, and also the use of angelic weapons to use to fight, but no time to actually explore it. Out of a 25 minute run time, take away 5-10 minutes of the first part with them talking about the night before, and take away the last 5 minutes of the episode for the aftermath and the secret reveal at the end. What does that leave you? 10-15 of actual battle time. That is NOT enough to fully convey this huge premise we’ve been working towards and the fights, while definitely exciting and humorous respectfully, should have been drawn out.

I would have loved to even had 9 episodes where then episode 8 could have really focused on the characters on the 24 hours before the extermination. Really get behind the whole crew. Hell, even Sir Pentious’ confession to Cherri could have been done in that episode rather than during the battle.

Then, in the theoretical episode 9, we could have focused more on the battle aspect. Adam and Alastor’s fight could have been drawn out a little more, we could have seen more of the cannibals helping or taking joy in eating angels (was Rosie even helping in that fight or was it just the townsfolk who came?), we could have seen a more tense fight with Adam and Lucifer (although I will always chuckle at Lucifer being himself). Then the characters could have had proper time to grieve the loss of their friends. I know they focused on Sir Pentious, but I mean, what about Dazzle? Or in theory Alastor at the time?

Also the ending of the episode was super rushed and I could not figure out for the life of me what time had passed???? My gripe is that they’re building this hotel, but then Alastor has his breakdown in the old radio tower, but then is literally shown in the next scene with the crew. And there’s the kicker- when they were building the new hotel they clearly made a space FOR Alastor with a new radio tower, so did they come to realize he was alive? Did Husk or Nifty know because they’d know if Alastor had truly died something would have happened with their deals being done?

The ending song is great, but the latter half doesn’t fit the narrative visually, and for me it took me by surprise.

I Hope some of this is answered in season 2, but I just wanted to share my thoughts.

#lucifer hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel #hazbin lucifer #hazbin angel dust #alastor the radio demon #charlie morningstar #lucifer morningstar

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bleachbleachbleach · 1 month

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8/12 - 8/18/2024

I wrote a version of Renji 11 what is at this point several years ago (RIP me), and have since just been throwing random stuff/required additions into that Note with no rhyme nor reason, so it took over two hours this week just to sort it all out. But! It is sorted!

Modern-era Renji 11 consists of 3 new scenes and 3 already-existing scenes. I wrote 1.5 of the new scenes. As far as how well I think this Chapter is going, I dunno. As a narrator, Renji’s kind of like, oh hey, here’s a thought I had. And here’s another one! Which feels legit but I’m not sure if it allows the reader to understand which pieces of information are actually important for following the narrative.

You know those reblog memes that like, ask people to identify hallmarks of your writing? The concept is fun, but it wouldn't work in practice because 0.02% of anyone who might see that post would have any familiarity with my writing. SO. I WILL SIMPLY TELL YOU. My hallmarks are that I love an interstice—love having things that should be on the cutting room floor not on the cutting room floor—but am also a firm believer in stories not needing to have every scene the characters experience to exist on the page. This combination means there’s a good chance that actually relevant, defining scenes simply do not exist and only the interstitial nonsense does. I think in certain stories this can be a real thing that works. I think it can also have the effect of nothing hanging together, making any sense, or meaning anything, without certain bits of key information/certain scenes that I simply did not include because they exist in my head and therefore exist everywhere right. I think that’s where this chapter is.

Maybe the remaining 1.5 new scenes will help ameliorate that, but I feel like that’s asking a lot of them. And then, theoretically, you’d think fixing the existing scenes would go more quickly than writing from scratch, but I don’t know that they will. Because the story leading up to this point has changed enough that the characters are in very different headspaces and perceptions of each other than they were when I first wrote those scenes. Well, that’s not true—Kensei and Renji are in a very different place with each other. Renji and Hitsugaya need to have the exact same conversation but, you know… better. And FRANKLY, I do not know whether entirely overhauling Kensei and Renji will be harder or easier than merely line-editing Hitsugaya and Renji. =_=;;

I’d really like to finish Renji 11 by the end of next week, and then take some time to finish out the revisions on Rukias 7 and 10, which are the most related to Renji 11. Then I’d like to go back to do final line edits on Chapters 4, 5, and 8 before heading into the big mess of revision that is Hisagi 9, because those revisions will be most related to Hitsugaya 12.

I’m not anticipating getting much done in September, because I have a major work deadline September 30th, and the rest of autumn will probably be kind of garbage, too, and I probably won't exist. But I would love to finish Part II (so, Chapters 12 and 13) by December. Well, speaking honestly, my original hope was that I would finish Part II by May, but here it is, August, and I am still working on Chapter 11. So: I would LOVE to finish Part II by December.

—

I did a low-res mockup of the fic banner several months ago (okay, this might have been last November). I pulled out some high-res assets to work with on Friday and played around with a new design I thought was fun, but it turns out design-wise the old mockup looks much more polished. Or it would, if I were using higher-quality materials. XD So I’ll probably go back to the old design. The only reason to continue with the new one is that it reflects the clusterfuck spirit of everything that happens in this fic, but I kind of like the way the old banner puts a pretty bow on the clusterfuck lurking beneath the surface. Maybe I’ll solicit opinions once I’ve made a more serious mockup of the first version.

#'[pivotal fic scene]'s a nothing part captain'#'it's nothing 'til you don't got one. then it appears to be everything'#^ i'm part of that rare and exclusive club where that's one of my most-quoted lines from a famously quotable show #where that line probably shouldn't feature in my or anyone's top 10 #but here we are #stories for the sea

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dwarrowdams · 8 months

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7 Snippets, 7 Mutuals

Thanks to @otemporanerys for the tag!

I'm tagging @angry-jager, @sinelaborenihilsr2, @serendipitys-teapot, @kalliesa, @dispatchwithlove, @diaphanouso, and @westernlarch

1. Measurements - romantic walk in the Presidium

This was their last night together, and she wanted to drink in as much of him as she possibly could. She was staring, but she was leaving tomorrow, and it wasn’t worth bothering to hide it. Besides, Garrus Vakarian deserved to be admired, especially in his current attire.

He caught her gaze, his mandibles flaring in a smile. “See something you like?”

“A lot,” Liv said, hoping he didn’t notice the quaver of emotion in her voice. “I wasn’t kidding when I told you you’ve got great proportions. I’m just lucky I got to design for you.”

Garrus chuckled. “Thought I was in for a miserable time when I got chosen for one of the gala outfits, but these have been some of the best months of my life.”

“Mine too,” Liv said, surprised by the veracity of the words. “Not just because of the career opportunity, but because I got to know you and spend time with you.”

2. Measurements - closed-off sitting room tryst

She undid the first couple buttons of his shirt, sliding her hands beneath to feel the vibration of his subvocals. "You feel so good," she said. "It's almost a shame you can't undress all the way."

Garrus made an amused sound. "For someone who worked so hard to design this, you're awfully eager to get me out of it."

"I'm not vain enough to think my designs are the only things worth admiring," she said as she ran a hand over his keel. "Your body deserves attention all by itself."

3. Alterations (sequel to Measurements) - my beloved fertility cycles headcanon

“You know about turian fertility cycles?” he asked.

Liv nodded. She’d done her research, which Garrus had supplemented in some of their previous conversations. “Is there something else I should know about them?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sort of. There’s usually one time of year where things are…more intense. There’s not as much daylight on Palaven, so it’s safer to, ah, procreate, so everything’s escalated. Sensitivity, stamina, attraction…”

He paused, shaking his head. “Spirits, I know how ridiculous this must sound, Shepard,” he said.

“Not at all,” she replied. “Lots of humans go through the same thing, or at least something like it. It’s not a coincidence that I’m most easily aroused when it’s theoretically most likely I’ll get pregnant: it’s evolutionary. Sounds like something similar happens with turians.”

4. Fealty (squire!Garrus fic) - squire oath

“Do you, Garrus Vakarian of Palaven, pledge yourself to serve as a squire of Fenghuang, undergoing the training and duties required to serve and protect the royal family to the best of your ability?”

“I do.”

The queen nodded to the princess, who stepped towards Garrus and pressed her mouth briefly to each of his mandibles. Her lips had barely brushed him, but they felt impossibly soft, and he yearned to feel them again, only if for a moment. He took half a step towards her, ducking slightly as he pressed his mouth to each side of her face, fluttering his mandibles gently against her skin. He could’ve lingered there for hours, his mouth pressed to her skin, her body less than a hand’s breadth away from his, but he stepped back, facing the queen again.

She nodded in acknowledgment. “The oath is sealed with the royal ambassador as witness. By the power vested in me as the sole ruler of Fenghuang, I am pleased to be the first to address you as Squire Garrus Vakarian.”

5. Fealty - sparring that totally doesn't awaken anything in Garrus

She pushed him against the wall, her body pressing into his to pin him into place. He hesitated for a moment, struck by the way she was holding him down, the way her body felt against his, before gripping her wrists and flipping their positions. She tried to duck out, but he stopped her, planting his knees on either side of her hips. He counted—one, two—but she struggled free, crouching beside him. He bent towards her, ready to tackle her to the ground, but before he could move, she swept her leg out, knocking his feet out from beneath him, and he fell to the ground. He tried to sit up, but she was already on top of him: her shin holding down his thighs, her torso pressed flush against him. Even if he had a chance of moving, he didn’t want to, not now that he felt both the power and the softness of her body, pressed against him with only a few layers of fabric between them.

The tap of her hand on the mat pulled him from his thoughts: one, two, three.

She’d beaten him, and had done so admirably.

6. Fealty - Princess Liv gets emotionally vulnerable

“I wanted to talk about last night,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I wish it had gone differently, but it meant so much that you were there for me when I was upset. I’m not great at trusting people, but after last night, I feel like I can trust you.”

He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You can, Princess,” he said. “With anything.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For showing me that it’s safe to let other people know how I feel.”

“Princess,” he began, but he didn’t have an end to the sentence. What could he possibly say to this incredible, vibrant human who cared so deeply about others but didn’t feel safe when expressing her own feelings?

7. steampunk AU - Garrus catches a thief, but oh no she's hot

“You don’t need to bother with that [sign language],” she said, turning so that he could see the metal device curling around her ear. “Don’t think I could keep up for very long anyways, not with these [candlesticks] in my hand.”

Her voice was sharper than that of the human nobles he’d spoken to, but somehow, it suited her.

“What are you doing with those?” he asked.

She chuckled, her mouth curving into a grin. “It’s the middle of the night and I’ve just climbed in through your window,” she said. “D’you think I’m here to polish the silver?”

Garrus’s eyes lingered on her mouth, pink and full and practically begging for attention. If he took half a step closer, he could touch them, run his finger over the seam and—

No, he couldn’t, not when she was in the process of stealing from him.

#hush Bree #measurements fic #fealty fic #fun fact: i based the squire oath on my court reporter oath #also I don't have a proper title for the steampunk AU bc it'll be a good while before that sees the light of day #I do love the breaking and entering as a meet-disaster (opposite of a meet-cute) though

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system-of-the-world · 3 months

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Everyone has 2 attributes and there are atleast 7 hidden attributes.

The system is simple, 'every' living thing has a damage attribute and a health attribute. It doesn’t matter what I use to hurt you or where I 'hit' you when I do so, I deal X damage.

You get enough of a material (quartz) you can increase the base attributes or the hidden ones, based on color of the material.

Using a classic formula of n+1 to increase an attribute of n to m

So if I have 1 health, first of all I should live in perpetual fear, but second of all I would need two [units] of material to increase it to 2. A unit is a Cubit, and is standardized as a literal cube about the size of a standard D6.

Base Attributes the System lets you know the values of before increasing them: Health (how much damage can be sustained before dying) Damage (how much damage is dealt when intending to harm)

Hidden: Recovery (how much health is regained in a 24 hour period) Strength (how much weight can be carried before giving out) Vitality (how slowly does one age) Speed (How far one can go in an hour) Agility (How far/high one can jump) Generosity (The proportion of material returned upon death, divided evenly amongst visible attributes (so if you see 10, you would need Generosity 1000 to return all material you have ever used upon death))

(for the purposes of a story, Hiddens which can be discovered) Absorption (How much damage is reduced when damaged) Satiety (A modifier to the number of calories and milliliters of water the body requires to survive each day.) Rectify (An ‘exotic’ hidden attribute that seems to have slightly different rules. Allows one to reattempt past actions on death.) (It reduces the attribute based on a number of factors, such as how far back one goes or how many attributes are retained, etc.) (the quartz which is used to gain this attribute is expended despite going to the past, attempting to find the quartz used will result in finding nothing.)

Generosity has lead to the creation of Chop Shops, places where they force feed death rows with as many cubits (term for the amount of quartz (literally a cube of material (think an average d6 size))) so as to get back as much material as possible from them. Then, the clean-up. If the amount of quartz returned is even enough, or perhaps too much, blood may congele and turn into cubits. Or they may need an operating room if portions of the body are simply converted into quartz. Of course, they won't know what the case will be until the demise of such individuals.

The simplicity of Health and Harm has rendered armor and most weapons obsolete. Warfare is simply waged from the greatest distance possible. Guns were not created because they dealt more damage than a bow, they were created because they affected a farther range faster. The idea of melee weapons being useful is generally laughable at this point, as your fist deals the same damage as a sword would (which they never invented because they had no use for a blade designed for conflict). Yes a stick increases your range, but so does a rock you throw. The setting features almost exclusively little to no armor, thrown or collapsible (if the character is being exotic/eccentric) weapons at the closest and a lot of guns.

Three ‘religions’

Science, simply believes the system is natural like physics.

Dualism, the belief that the system (which will be renamed at some point) is the physics of things with a soul and physics is the system of the unliving. Basically two patterns created by two gods. (Some believe both should be explored from the viewpoint that they have different rules like a science adjacent to physics, some believe that the combination makes humans greater than everything else, some believe it just because they can or see a symmetry/pattern to it, some believe that means that any ‘flaws’ were deliberately placed to be exploited, some believe that exploiting any theoretical flaws is like spitting in the face of the gods (like the neuron thing for the system or FTL drives for physics))

Finally “This is god’s proof that we and other animals have a soul, and that we were blessed with the ability to comprehend god’s majesty in a unique capacity to the rest of their creations.”

Quartz naturally grows from the earth, though it is not comprised of any known element, and the only deviations between the various types are their coloration.

Not all flavors of quartz are equal, some varieties are ‘infinitely’ more common than others. Like, neither of us would probably see a Cubit of Vitality quartz that isn’t on TV or like, behind insane security, but we would use atleast 28 or so Cubits of health quartz at this point in our lives.

Quartz will grow faster where there is more quartz, sorta like a self-propagation thing. Though it is still on the timescale of geology, so mining it makes it so there is less of it in the long term in a weird way.

A character who is a suicide bomber four times atleast, exploiting the system through a harvested and sustained neuron.

“Even if all you are is a clump of brain jelly struggling to not desiccate outside of your beaten in skull, you’re still fully there. I think it’s interesting, that’s not how a mouse works after all, they would be permanently impaired, but not us, not the great Human race. Even a baby would bounce back in a day, assuming a bit of it survived long enough. That is why only one of us is dying today.”

"Not all life is embraced within the system. Insects and Microbes for example, as there does seem to be a size requirement in the first place. They affect our bodies, much like breaking one's arm behind a boulder, but they do not deal any lasting damage to us so long as a single neuron remains, our soul can stay tethered to our form. Such is our right, our province granted by the system."

"Yes…as my colleague says. Evolutionary paths, once an animal becomes ingrained into the system, seems to fundementally follow different rules. Starting with behavior, as the prior rules of survival no longer apply, we believe is one reason why Humans have evolved to be so intelligent. Ingenuity and understanding of the system being viewed now as 'desirable' traits by some of our ancestors. Next are physical changes that are rather quick, in the grand scheme of things, due to these new behaviors. Things which capitalize on the system, such as the quills of bears or the fore-leg blades of tigers. In Humans, we believe it was a change to how our brains reward survival, the amount of serotonin gained from absorbing enough cubits to increase an attribute is second to no other known behavior, not even eating or…well mating."

"Which leads us to our current issues, there are less and less coming out of the mines and…the efficacy of reclamation facilities is beginning to diminish with the new waves of…'premature deaths'. If we want to maintain our supply…we personally believe that their is an epidemic of quartz consumption and primarily recommend reducing the extraction to sustainable levels."

"But, knowing that you don't want to hear that…[the speaker sighs on the audio recording]…the only other solution is to increase the supply…taking from our neighbors or nations abroad…"

[Three months later the first world war broke out]

"No, I don't want to know where this stuff comes from. If it comes from a chop shop, I don't wanna know. If it comes from the mines, I don't wanna know. If it comes from the dander of the shaper, I don't wanna know. All I need to know is when the doors are unlocked and which ones the workshop worked on today."

[The planned mc, a 'duster' or 'scrapper']

#creative writing #worldbuilding #unorganized thoughts #oc #seeking opinions #initial thoughts

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catofadifferentcolor · 1 year

Text

Random Old Guard Thoughts (1/?): Movie Timeline

As I've often stated, loudly and repeatedly, I tend to hyperfixate on details very few other people would consider important. Case in point: What is the timeline of The Old Guard (2020)?

I don't mean the pre-canon timeline - what these characters were doing at any given point in the last thousand years, though that too is something I've given far too much thought to - but the actual timeline of the events of the movie.

Now, we can pretty safely say the events take place in early 2019, as:

In the scene outside the mine in Val d'Argent, Nile's phone gives the date as Sunday, April 21.

The Frank Ocean song "Godspeed" Nile listens to at Camp Leatherneck was released in 2016.

The years in which April 21 falls on Sunday after this song was released are: 2019, 2024, 2030, and 2047.

Presuming that the movie is set during the War in Afghanistan, which ended August 20, 2021, this leaves 2019 as the only possible year the movie could take place. (Or, since the war went on for nearly two decades and the Doha Accords were not signed until February 29, 2020, it could have been intended to be set in a possible near-future at filming, but that seems against the general historicity of the movie/comics.) This is also the year the movie was shot during, so it seems most likely.

Sunday, April 21, 2019 is coincidentally Easter, which seems like a good date to set events involving resurrection and immortality, as well as to sneak your unwilling human test subjects into your usually bustling pharmaceutical company headquarters. (Though why you'd carry out your morally dubious research in your HQ is another matter.)

Seems simple enough. However, the incident in South Sudan takes place during a full moon - there's a nice lingering shot of it early in the movie, so it's not just some stage light shining through a window - and the last full moon before Easter 2019 is Friday, April 19. (Good Friday, coincidentally.)

We do have a bit of wiggle room. The moon rising at 6:19 pm in Juba on the night of Thursday, April 18 probably looked close enough to full to count. The one rising at 5:25 pm on Wednesday, April 17 might've too. But the question remains: even if we push the rescue operation back to the night of April 17-18, is it even possible for someone moving covertly to get from a contested war zone in Central Africa to another in Central Asia in time to make it to Northern France the next night?

Because the way I see it:

Sunday, April 21 is the hard date. Andy, Nile, and Booker leave Val d'Argent around sunrise on this day (6:31 am) and drive to Copely's house in Surrey. Google tells me this is a 774 km drive, which should take 8:45 hours. There must have been some sort of border check regardless of whatever passports were used as the UK never was part of the Schengen Area - and possibly a stop for weapons after. (Even if we shave off a few hours speeding on empty holiday roads, London sunset was 8:06 pm that day and there's nothing to imply Nile and Copley waited overnight to stage their rescue. Andy and Booker can't have been in the labs longer than four hours.)

Andy, Booker, and Nile leave Goussainville at night. If they took the most direct route to Val d'Argent (and I don't see why they would), that is a 465 km drive, which should take 5 hours. They arrive at the cave in daylight - between 7 am and 9 pm that time of year - and Andy leaves again for the town at dark. This tells me their arrival in Val d'Argent is sometime Saturday, April 20.

It is night when the guard are attacked in Goussainville. This is likely the morning of Saturday, April 20, but can be any time between sunset (8:50 pm) the day before and sunrise (6:54 am) that morning.

Andy and Nile are shown arriving at Goussainville in daylight. This could, theoretically, be any number of days before the attack, but given the clothes it's probably Friday, April 19. Also, unless we dream each other isn't an every night thing, Nile would probably have gotten Quỳnh's story earlier if it wasn't.

It is daylight on a train in Central Africa when Andy, Booker, Joe, and Nicky first dream of Nile. This could, theoretically, be any number of days after the mission in South Sudan, but I get the feeling it's meant to be the morning after - which, accounting for the moon, would be Thursday, April 18.

Is it physically possible to travel from South Sudan to Afghanistan to France in, at maximum, 39 hours? Probably. If you managed direct flights it would be something like 15 hours total plus a couple hours driving. But can it actually be done? Can you jump off a train in the middle of nowhere, find a single woman on a military base in another country with nothing but a picture and half a name, and get yourself and your companion to another continent in what's realistically more like 30 hours? All while keeping out of sight of an ex-CIA operative and, presumably, the US military?

I don't know. It sounds like the start of a Top Gear special - and initially I was going to argue that it couldn't be done. I was going to argue that the South Sudan mission had to occur during the March 20 full moon for the timing to work... but maybe not. Maybe it can be done. I'd love to know.

Which, I suppose, is a long way to travel to determine the date of Nile's first death: some time between sunrise in Central Africa and sunset in Central Asia on Thursday, April 18, 2019.

#the old guard #tog #random thoughts #rant #thoughts

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that-tall-queer-bassist · 2 years

Text

Easiest Cookie Recipe ever

(Use to buy good grades, better social standing, and social interaction) (quick for holiday party potlucks)

My mom stole this off pintrest years ago, and its since been our family favorite!

So since it's holiday season, and i made them this morning, I'm sharing it with y'all :) It has 4 ingredients, takes 7-8 minutes of baking time per sheet, and each batch makes a little over two dozen cookies that are beloved by everyone we can get to try them.

Warning before the actual instructions/recipe, this is written very nuerodivergently and in common terms. It's step by step instructions after the ingredients, with sassy comments galore. I highly suggest reading all the way through before making.

Ingredients:

Box of chocolate cake mix (supposedly pillsbury devil's food works best. Or maybe just any devil's food. Idk she said blue box i can't read minds)

two eggs

1/3 cup of oil

about 2 dozen, or 2 and a half dozen rolo's candies. (aka 24-30)

Steps:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees farenheit

Wash your hands

Line cookie sheets (1-3 for one batch) with parchment paper (VERY IMPORTANT)

Mix the eggs and oil into the cake mix. (a medium sized bowl is preferred for one batch.)

It will take much longer than you expect to mix thoroughly.

Mix with a spatula until the entire thing is evenly mixed. Looks gross and sticky and dark brown and should almost be like oily play dough.

It will take much longer than you expect to mix thoroughly. Keep mixing. I promise it will work (spatula is for scraping the sides and bottom of the bowl, this ones sticky.)

Wash your hands

Unwrap all of the rolo candies. Helpful to do it before you need to.

Take a spoon, and get a small spoonful of the dough.

Use your hands*, and mush the dough around one rolo until it has a core of caramel goodness that will later melt.

Should be around the size of a ping pong ball, and no larger than a golfball unless you want unevenly cooked cookies.

Space them evenly on the parchment paper (Staggering works well. doesn't matter if they touch during baking when they spread, but try your best.)

Wash your hands. (your hands will be gross at this point)

Bake for 7-8 minutes Exactly.

They never look done until they're over cooked. Take them out at 8 minutes max. If you're not sure, break one open at 5 minutes and see if the dough is uncooked. It never is. idek how.

Wash your hands

Let cool for about 5 minutes, to give the caramel time to solidify enough, then lift the parchment paper up to unstick the cookies from the pan.

Let cool for another 10 minutes.

If you ignored the parchment paper rule, lets hope you like doing dishes and used lots of cooking spray on the cookie sheets :) (you will be spending an hour scraping caramel and burnt sugar off the pans. I told you it was important.) (Oh, and all of your cookies left their bottom half on the pan. Also happens if you don't move them after 5 minutes of cooling.)

Optional - Sprinkle powdered sugar on them for extra holiday flair. (It makes them look pretty instead of brown lumps)

Yay! Cookies are done! It's chocolate, with a caramel inside that will surprise anyone who didn't make them!

Can theoretically be made without gluten,and/or milk. It has not been tested. Fuck around and find out? (and lemme know if you do!)

*FOR ANY OF MY FELLOW NUERODIVERSE PEOPLE

If the stickiness of the dough on your skin bothers you (or is just too sticky to work with) you can use margarine on your hands like a lotion to keep it from sticking. It feels worse to me personally, but I figured I'd say it anyways just in case. Dawn dish soap makes the margarine and cookie dough come off the fastest by breaking through the oils.

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faroreswinds · 2 years

Note

I was looking at the statistics on the score tracker and honestly, I think team Veronica was just playing smart. (I assume your previous post is about Summergard losing, forgive me if this is boring). The score trackers vote margin percentage shows that after Summergard had a multiplier she would get a very large margin over Veronica - hour 4 shows her with a 55% margin, after her next multiplier hour seven shows her with a 44% margin, etc. This then tapers off for each multiplier she gets (1/4)

down to 19-21%, with the later half of day two having her only gain a 13% to 9% margin after her multipliers. Meanwhile, Veronicas scoring stays consistent, needing between two and three multipliers to catch up, and getting somewhere between a 4% and 8% margin every time she overtakes, but sometimes as low as 2%. When Summergard got the 12am utc multiplier, in order for her to get the final multiplier she needed to push Veronica into disadvantage for two consecutive hours, something she (2/4)

had consistently done through the entire match. However, her leading margin after this multiplier was... 6%. Meaning Veronica only needed a single hour of disadvantage to barely overtake Summergard (with a whopping 1.015% margin, which is 𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮 close to hitting same instead). Summergard gave Veronica the final multiplier at an 11% margin, and Veronica overtook her and won with a suprising 7% vote margin. (3/4)

Tldr; statistics show that Summergards team spent a lot of flags early on and had far less left at the end, causing a multiplier back-and-forth during the final hours that caused them to lose. Team Veronica hit incredibly hard during the final multiplier, she most likely had a lot of people on her team with flags and max ballots saved for this hour. (4/4)

Nah, don't worry anon, I like this kind of stuff!

I think you are right. If Team Edelgard had planned a bit better, they should have won. It should have taken Team Veronica two rounds to take the lead, so theoretically she should have lost.

But the margin of Edelgard's lead was not big enough to take the full grunt of Veronica dumping all their points into the last round, throwing off the previously established pattern and allowing her team to take the win.

I also suspect some of Team Edelgard got confused by the "1 hour left" and dumped too early. Heaven knows I've made that mistake before. It's... sort of a baffling way to count down but that's just how FEH do.

Thanks for sharing, anon. :)

#feh #anon asks

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yandere-daze · 2 years

Note

THANK YOU FOR THE RESPONSE FOR MY ASK AND HONESTLY I CAN'T AGREE MORE..... and I'm also here with another thought abt a certain type of reader!

I'm really curious about a reader that barely plays the game, but when they do open it they could play it for, let's say, 7 hours straight!

at the same time, they don't really have a definitive favorite, so they'd change the characters in their home screen and room regularly. being in the next character position just practically depends on the readers mood.

if I were to put myself as an example, well, I'm a valkp so I'd put them if I'm in a good mood! sometimes I'd changed to mama and arashi too, and other times I'd use a generator then constantly click on the character to see how they'd interact (and then respond like I'm actually talking to them but that is a bit embarrassing)

andd right now in jp I'm mainly having midori and koga in my home screen cause they have my current in game 5* (aka the favorite among the ones I actually have), I just think it's gonna be funny with how their dynamic cld be (my condolences to midori, probably)

I'M SO SORRY IF THIS IS TO LONG WAUGH I LOVE MY SCRIMBLOS SO MUCH.......

from 🖼️ anon ☆!!

Welcome back, 🖼 anon!! I´m happy to hear that you liked my response!! Please do feel free to share any and all thoughts or ideas you may have, no matter how minor, it´s really interesting to read ^^

gn reader

tw yandere, obsession, possessiveness

A player that alternates between not playing at all and playing hours on end and doesn´t have a favorite character either

Oh you would be the death of them if you did someting like that, lol

The first time you´re alone for so long they get really worried and wonder why you aren´t coming back. Are you not interested in them anymore? Did they do something wrong that drove you away? Or did something happen to you at home? Were you safe???

They´re all worrying about you and one day, you just open the game again and it feels like a huge crisis was just averted. They would still love to know why you were gone for so long but at least you´re back now and they can spend more time with you! They´re so happy, their enthusiams probably increased from the withdrawal they went through for so long.

They almost don´t notice that you spent several hours playing the game, time goes by so quickly for them because they´re with the person they love most! But after some time, they do notice that you´ve been playing for way longer than is healthy so some of them may get a little worried for you. If you happen to have Nazuna or Yuzuru on your home screen you can definitely expect a voiceline from them telling you that it´s okay to take breaks sometimes and that they wish that you take proper care of yourself. It won´t help anyone if you get sick from playing too much, okay?

And then they freak out when you´re gone for a long time again kankfabf Should they not have said anything after all? Should they just have enjoyed the time they had with you???

Honestly this cycle keeps repeating for many many times until they eventually realize that this is just the way you play the game and that you´ll most likely return to them again. Which doesn´t mean that they don´t miss you when you´re gone :/ They´re all visibly tense during your absence, some more pessimistic ones wondering if this time you will leave them for good

And then there´s another factor they aren´t too happy about: No one knows who your favorite is! No one knows if they´ll finally get their turn this time because you keep changing the idols on your home screen or the ones you use when playing a life. Theoretically it´s nice because it gives everyone a better chance of getting to interact with you and get some time in the spotlight but no one is really happy with this.

Sure, you´ll choose them sometimes, but that´s not enough. They want to be special to you and not chosen by some random generator or something! They don´t want to share you with all the other idols who couldn´t possibly love you as much as they do! They´ll definitely try to use the time you give them to impress you to the best of their abilites. Maybe if they try really hard or show you their appreciation in their voice lines, you´ll grow fond of them and only put them on the home screen from now on?

They´ll certainly try!

#🖼 anon #ensemble stars #enstars #yandere ensemble stars x reader #yandere enstars x reader #ensemble stars x reader #yandere ensemble stars #yandere enstars #enstars x reader #ensemble stars self aware au #yandere self aware au #yandere self aware ensemble stars au #gn reader #yandere #cw yandere #cw obsession #cw possessiveness #yandere x reader

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noxsoulmate · 2 years

Note

13 from the hand holding prompt for Tarlos pleasssssssse

💜💜😘💜

Did this suddenly turn out really, really long for a quick prompt? Maaaaybe 😁 and obviously, I had to combine it with the @tarlosweeklyprompts bingo

Please remember that these aren’t beta-read. I might hand these to my beta one day and then put better versions up on ao3, but until then you’ll have to live with my mistakes 😅

Tarlos Weekly Prompts Bingo

Square 7: NSFW: Makeup Sex

Hand-holding

13. linking hands together during sex

TK was so incredibly tired. He hadn’t slept well in a few days, and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the reason was. Well, no, that was a lie. He kinda knew what the reason was but there were so many factors that it was hard to point out just one of them.

… and maybe even that was a lie because it all came down to this: Carlos and he had gotten into another fight. Another one that could probably be solved quickly if they would just talk.

They did talk, that was the terrible part of it. They talked – well, texted, to be fair – about the necessities of life; what was needed from the next grocery run, the laundry that had to be taken care of, a reminder to call a mutual friend whose birthday it was that day. They talked – but they hadn’t yet talked.

TK’s mind was scattered and it showed in the way he couldn’t really focus. He wanted to talk to Carlos but of course, right after their fight, their week-long stretch of mismatched shifts had begun. They’d promised each other to never go to bed angry and to not leave the house in a fight, and in a way, they’d kept that promise. They’d agreed to put a stop to the topic – a thing that was usually almost impossible for a hot-head like TK. But this was Carlos, this was the love of his life, so of course, he would make sure to not let him leave for a shift while still angry.

They’d stopped fighting, but they hadn’t solved the issue yet.

And they hadn’t slept in the same bed since that fight six days ago. Which was always the time when they would really talk, would open up, would meld into each other, and forgive. They had forgiven each other, in a way – but the whole topic wasn’t solved yet. But TK was ready to just let it drop for good. Meld into Carlos’ arms and tell him it was okay, that he wasn’t angry anymore… because, yes, for once, it wasn’t TK’s fault they’d been fighting. For once, it was because of Carlos.

Not that TK really cared anymore. These six days had been hell. And he knew it wouldn’t have dragged out for so long if only they’d had time together. But they hadn’t. It was a miracle if they even saw each other, but usually, it was in a way that one would come home while the other would be leaving. Just enough time for a quick kiss and a, “Stay safe, I love you.”

Theoretically, TK knew this didn’t really count as fighting anymore – but it also wasn’t solved and that was the worst. It was an in-between, and it showed in the way their text messages stuck to the important things instead of endless rows of emojis; it showed in the tense lines of Carlos’ shoulders and his worried gaze whenever he would come home and TK had to leave. Was Carlos seriously fearing the worst? That TK would run again? Well, given his track record, Carlos probably did worry – but he had no reason to. Which was one of the messages TK sent him, telling him that they would talk once they were finally both back home but that he loved him and that Carlos should stop worrying. But he knew his man better than that and knew it wasn’t enough.

Mostly though, the unsolved issue showed in the way TK couldn’t find any sleep, neither at home in their empty bed nor at the station. And judging by the dark lines under Carlos’ eyes, it was the same for him.

So when TK got home that night – the last one of their alternating shifts, with Carlos already home alone for a few hours and both of them having the next few days off – he simply let his bag drop to the floor, not caring about it for the moment. All he could see was his fiancé, standing in the kitchen, cooking; looking up at him the moment he got inside, the insecurity written so very clearly, very deeply in his gaze.

He knew they needed to talk, needed to get this whole topic out of the way. But for now, all he could do was drag his tired body over there and basically slump into Carlos’ arms. His fiancé was surprised, TK could tell, but it didn’t take long until he was hugging him back, squeezing him tight when he noticed that TK wasn’t going to pull away.

“I love you,” TK murmured into his ear. “So fucking much. So please, could you please stop worrying that I’ll leave you over a little fight?”

Carlos sucked in air, drawing back from the hug. Not far, just enough to still be in each other’s arms but able to look at each other.

“I wasn’t thinking that–”

“You were,” TK interrupted softly, lifting one hand to smooth out one of Carlos’ worry lines. “And I’m so sorry I wasn’t this blunt with you sooner. Or that we couldn’t find a quiet minute.”

“We agreed we were good,” Carlos argued, but it was weak at best and TK only needed to lift one eyebrow for him to sigh. “Okay, yes, you’re right. Maybe I was a bit worried. But… not really, you know?”

“You mean,” TK began, strengthening his hold around Carlos’ waist. “Your brain and your heart knew I wouldn’t run, but those dark little voices still reared their ugly heads?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Carlos confirmed, resting his head on TK’s shoulder. “God, that was stupid, I know–”

“Yes, and no,” TK assured him, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Yes, it was stupid, because I didn’t put that ring on your finger for nothing. I’m done running away. But also, no. Your feelings will never be stupid, least of all to me. I care about all your worries.”

When Carlos leaned back up, their lips found each other in a comforting kiss, one that spoke of all the feelings that were so alive between them, all the want and all the love and all the devotion.

“What would you like to do first?” Carlos asked when the kiss ended. “Food? Shower? Bed?”

“Yes, please,” TK groaned, “In that order, and with you never further apart than an arm’s length.”

Carlos chuckled and pressed one more kiss to his lips, then turned and continued preparing their food. It was delicious as always, even though TK had to eat with one hand, refusing to let go of Carlos’ for even a second. After cleaning the kitchen together, they shared a shower, spending more time hugging and kissing than actually getting clean.

Not caring about how tired he’d been when he got home, TK was unable to let go of Carlos when they stumbled into their bedroom. It was then that he realized, it wasn’t that they needed to talk about the whole topic once more. They didn’t need to discuss it into oblivion, didn’t need to even agree on the topic.

No, all they really needed was this. A moment just for them; a moment in which they could get lost in each other again, making sure to remind them that a little fight, a disagreement, would never again be strong enough to separate them. They didn’t need to talk… at least, not with words.

Instead, they let their bodies do the talking, reassuring each other that they were still one, that they were still a team. That they still loved each other, no matter what. TK made sure to write it into Carlos’ skin with every brush of his fingers, every touch of his lips, every nip of his teeth, and every lick of his tongue. And Carlos returned every message in his own way. By rolling on top of TK and pressing him down into the sheets – just like he liked it. By caging him in with his body, surrounding him fully, leaving not one part of him that wasn’t in contact with Carlos’ skin – just like he craved it. By linking their fingers together, lifting TK’s hands over his head, leaving him completely at Carlos’ mercy – just like he loved it. Every single time. Their fingers stayed linked together no matter what, neither of them letting go as they took each other apart, only to put each other back together in the end.

And as they lay there, together, catching their breath, fingers still linked, TK pressed a soft kiss into Carlos’ heated skin. “I love you more than life, babe. You’re never getting rid of me again,” he promised, and when Carlos pressed a kiss against his lips in return, TK was sure that even the dark voices inside his fiancé’s mind had finally gotten the message.

Yes, still slowly working my way through all the asks, thanks for being patient 😘 if anyone wants to, feel free to

Send me an ask and get drabbles in return 😊

(credit to @creativepromptsforwriting for the prompts as well as @tarlosweeklyprompts for the bingo board)

#noxy writes #tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #angst with fluff #hand holding #makeup smut #fluff #wip game #wip weekend #911 lone star #tarlosweeklyprompts #tarlos weekly prompts bingo

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the-lady-amphitrite · 2 years

Text

— A FAIRYTALE BEGINNING | chapter 7

heart to heart

pairing: Loki /f!half-Asgardian!Reader

word count: 8,615

summary: winter or summer, you'll always find your way home

in this chapter: a cheek kiss from Loki, Reader being bi, overt references to missing/modified memories and lost time, more background lore, brief soulmate/soulmate bond discussion

author notes: i said i would post this tomorrow while i was at work and i lied. to be fair though, this chapter took way longer to write than i expected. the next one should (theoretically) not take as long to finish writing. the c plot in this one thickens. have fun!! and remember that if you want to read about the lore for this series to check out the end notes on ao3.

( previous chapter | read on ao3 | series masterlist )

You sigh as you dip your aching legs into the ice-cold water of the Sleipa River, the river that runs along the back of the palace.

Today’s weaponry lesson had been long, not to mention brutal while your father sought to test the limits of the god-sense you had told him helps you fend off attacks. He had wanted to see if he could figure out what your godhood is outside of the general concept of ‘war goddess’ that he believes you are.

Your father has trained you since you were old enough how to hold a knife and how to defend yourself with one. As the years passed and you grew, he also taught you how to handle short swords. And once you were old enough to be trained in the art of warfare, he taught you how to wield other weapons as well. Yet no one, not even your father, had been aware of your affinity for weapons. Not until that day so many months ago when you had wielded a bow like it was an extension of yourself.

So after today’s tactics lesson with General Hjǫrdís, your father had asked if you were willing to test out the extent of your ability. To see if there is a central point to the ability, a pattern in how it works to be seen, or a link to be found between your god-sense and your affinity with weapons.

The hours following hadn’t revealed anything you weren’t already aware of with your developing abilities. In sparring sessions with a partner, you performed far better, with little consideration for the weapon you were wielding. On your own, you tended to fare less well and lose far more often (not to mention far sooner, to your own annoyance).

Yet there were a few glimmering moments when you were on the retreat — moments away from losing a one-on-four sparring session — where your frustrations over your incoming defeat became overshadowed by something else. The desire to fight. The desire to prove that you are worthy of protecting the ones you love. Just as your family has done so in the past. And in those short, glimmering moments, your defence had turned into offence.

You ultimately had lost, but your father had praised you for turning the tide on your opponents even as briefly as you had. He revealed that that session was not one you were meant to win, as your opponents had been full-fledged einherjar rather than einherjar trainees. The defeat had stung a little less after his admission, but the loss still lodged itself in you as you stared up at him.

You are the only child of Týr Hymisson and Kára Leifsdóttir.

Your father is the General of Asgard’s Armies, a title earned not by nepotism but by his own merit. He is the God of War Formalities and Justice, and guardian of war-oaths. His words have stopped the bloodlust of war-makers in their tracks, his skills with weapons have put an end to marauders and reavers from the crown of Yggdrasil to the roots, and his mercy has tempered the sorrows of even the most vengeful of war-grievers.

Your mother is known as the Raven-Feeder, a kenning that speaks loudly of the sight of her on battlefields. Whether it’s by blade and shield, or by talon and tail, the stories of her battles are legendary, even to the old gods. She is not a goddess, but if she was, there is no doubt by anyone who knows her that she would be a Goddess of War.

On their own, they each are legends. Together, they leave you with a legacy you desperately wish to uphold.

It’s hard to remind yourself that you’re still just a child. You’re not expected to go to war and defend the Nine Realms of Asgard for another decade at the earliest. Not to mention that since the war against Jǫtunheimr, the Nine Realms have been at peace; no wars or coups from within the Nine Realms and no incursions from enemies beyond Yggdrasil’s reach.

The sudden gust of a hot breeze makes you grimace. It’s an unwelcome sensation, a contrast to the recent winter cold that has left this water so frigid here in the depths of the winter months. You glare up at the clear sky, hoping that whichever season or weather god that is pushing more summer-like weather down on the realm can feel the daggers you’re mentally throwing at them.

“You know they can’t see you,” Loki says, laying next to you on the stone walkway. She’s hiked the legs of her trousers up, letting the water chill everything up to her knees like you. Her eyes are closed, her hair splayed out like erratic halo spikes, and her hands are folded across her stomach as she lazily kicks her feet back and forth.

She’s placed her holotablet between the two of you and turned on music from some new Dvergr group that she’s discovered. It’s good music; less folk and more blues than the usual Dvergar groups you know of, the ones that are more popular and mainstream (and the ones most people know). The rhythm of their instruments, coupled with the lyrics, leads the song to have a melody that coaxes you into swaying side-to-side as the first song of this album ends and the next begins.

“If I glare hard enough, maybe they will,” you grouse. It’s a stubborn reply, and you watch one corner of Loki’s mouth curl up into a smile at your response. She turns her head towards you, opening her eyes halfway to look at you.

“And here I believed that you would be adamant for summer to arrive so that you might abscond off to the winter-wilds with the other Drekasál,” she says.

“I hate summer because it’s too long, and my family never wants to do anything fun while we’re up there,” you lament to her. Then you say softly, “I wish you and the others could come with us.”

The gentleness in her expression at your statement wraps its way around you like a warm blanket on a chilly day. Without her having to say the words, you know she wishes the same thing, and yet she says them all the same.

“I wish we could too. Summer isn’t as fun while you’re gone.”

You’re tempted — and not for the first time — to ask your family if you could stay here for the summer. Just this once, you’d like to spend the summer with your best friend and the small circle of friends you’ve carved out here in Valaskjálf.

“You’ve never explained why you and the others go to the winter-wilds each summer. You’re not like the dragons native to Nornheimr that breathe ice, so being too hot doesn’t seem like it would be a reason to leave each summer,” she muses.

She’s right. Nor are your people like the dragons native to Múspellsheimr since none of you can breathe fire. Only a small percentage of Drekasál have venom — the only other weapon one of your people might have besides tail, talons, and teeth. You’re not among them. In fact, you’re certain none of the Drekasál on Asgard has such a weapon at their disposal either.

The venom — or lack thereof — is another of the many differences between your people and the other dragons of the Nine Realms. With a whip-thin tail, a row of short spines that parade from the crown of your skull to the base of your tail, and two tall, elegant horns that spiral from your head, you can’t imagine a Drekasál ever being confused for anything other than what they are.

“I don’t really know,” you confess, turning your gaze to the other side of the river. “Every year we go north and spend the summer months there, but nothing is different. Mamma and Sveinn are the only ones I really see unless we visit one of the few villages up there. Sometimes I might see Gauti and Lady Ásta, but I never really see any of the others. I don’t think us being a conflagration will change that either.”

Her hand slides over the back of yours. She tucks her fingers in the space between yours. You look down at her, surprised by the action if the way your heart jumps into a faster rhythm is any indication. She’s staring up at you with wide dark eyes, smile gone.

“Stay,” Loki commands softly. “When the others leave, stay here.”

Despite the command, you can hear the plea she’s leaving left unspoken.

When the others leave, stay here with me and the others instead of going with them again.

Her plea leaves you speechless as it wraps its way around your heart. Something about the Princess of Asgard wanting you to stay instead of leave for the summer months again while it’s still the middle of winter makes you feel… loved. You love that your best friend will miss you (and seems to be preemptively missing you even) when there are still months to go before summer arrives and you’re meant to leave.

“I want to,” you tell her, not wanting to promise her you will. A promise would mean you know that you could. You don’t know if you can. The last thing you want to do is to hurt her with a careless promise.

With her free hand, Loki taps her holotablet’s screen. The music comes to an abrupt stop before she tucks it into her pocket dimension. You’re surprised when Loki pulls her feet out of the water, then turns so she can lay her head in your lap and takes your entwined hands so they lay over her stomach, your hand tucked safely between both of hers.

She closes her eyes, asking, “When do you leave this year?”

“I don’t know,” you tell her, taking your free hand and combing them through her dark hair. “No one’s said anything, but I don’t think I’m leaving anytime soon, darling.”

The endearment slips out, and you clamp your mouth shut as you feel your face warm up when your words catch up to you. Loki calls you ‘darling’ often when she’s not calling you Firefly, no matter which of her forms she’s presenting, but you’ve never once returned it with an endearment of your own. All of them have always felt a bit… off for her. Clumsy and incapable of conveying the nebulous tangle of emotions you have about the godling.

(Not that you’ve ever even tried attempting to untangle them. Any time you think about prying those feelings apart and examining them, you make yourself do something else.

Loki is your best friend. What more do you need to understand about what you feel for her than that?)

To your relief (or is this disappointment?), Loki doesn’t say anything about the endearment. She relaxes as you continue to comb your fingers through her hair, occasionally letting your nails scratch gently against her scalp.

You find yourself relaxing as you continue to finger-comb Loki’s hair and listen to the sounds all around. There’s the gentle lapping of the river against the stones of the palace, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the high humming of the skiffs beyond the trees, the chirp of the birds that never leave even in the dead of winter. You can even hear in the distance (very, very faintly) the sounds of several sets of wingbeats.

That would be your conflagration returning from day trips to villages across the realm. It’s nothing more than a routine check-in by the generals to the einherjar stationed in each, but everyone had gone beside you, Gauti, and Lady Katla. You and Gauti are still considered too small to carry a full-grown Æsir, so you both remained behind to go about your usual routines while the others were away. Lady Katla had also remained at Valaskjálf, watching over you and Gauti for most of the morning before returning to her duties as Frigga’s handmaiden after you left for your other lessons.

Several minutes pass, the sounds of their wingbeats growing louder before all nine of the Drekasál come soaring over the trees in an arrow formation. You wave up at them, but they’re gone so fast you’re not sure anyone in your conflagration noticed you down here with Loki. Even if they hadn’t, you’ll see them all at dinner after your lesson with Frigga.

“How long until class?” you ask Loki, returning your hand to her hair. She pulls her holotablet from her pocket dimension to display the time.

“Forty minutes,” she says before returning it. She looks up at you. “What are you thinking, Firefly?”

You still your hand, tilting your head to rifle through ideas before tentatively asking, “May I braid your hair?”

Loki smiles at you before sitting up, scooting closer while you turn so only one leg remains in the river as you set about braiding her hair.

The two of you spend the next half hour working on your Kree, working rapidly through a conversation about the recent theatre production for the play The Glass Wolf. You’re in the second year of your studies for Kree now. Conversational basics are easier now than they were a year ago, though conveying some ideas is more difficult due to the language lacking words for those thoughts.

When you finish tying off the last braid, Loki conjures up a small mirror. She turns her head from side to side, looking at the three braids descending each side of her head and the large braid that adorns the top. It’s one you’ve both seen the valkyrjur wearing. A smile breaks across her face as she turns her head back and forth a few more times, admiring the look.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly. The mirror vanishes, and she turns to you. “Thank you.”

You go to tell her, ‘You’re welcome’, but before you can do more than smile, she leans in and kisses your cheek.

It’s brief, barely more than a whisper across your cheekbone, but the world stutters to a halt in your mind. The smile on Loki’s lips looks softer as she pulls away. You swear it somehow steals the breath from your lungs, leaving you speechless. The warmth that threads through you and wraps tender hands around your heart compels you to look away, leaving you staring down at the river water with a smile that grows with each passing second.

Loki reaches over, taking your hand and tugging you to your feet. She says, with that same soft smile, “We don’t want to be late for our lesson.”

You follow her, and a strange sense of loss fills you when she drops your hand. Part of you realises you’re going to miss her more than you usually do when you go to the winter-wilds this year. The rest of you can’t put into words why that might be.

The two of you head down the familiar tapestry-covered hall, side-by-side in comfortable silence. You stare at the tapestries absent-mindedly as you think about the ever-encroaching summer.

You stop suddenly.

Isn’t today your father’s birthday?

You remember (very vividly) buying the magical quill for him just a few weeks ago. The same day that you’d first seen Loki in her masculine form. And then it occurs to you that, just a few days after that, both Loki and Volstagg had their godnaming. You remember how it had taken weeks for Thor and Baldr to adjust to being referred to by their godhoods by others.

And yet, you so clearly remember how but a few hours earlier (after a rather harmless prank involving two goats, a golden platter, and a light fixture), Hallr had referred to Loki as the Goddess of Mischief. Loki had seemed so at ease with it when you clearly remember her having reservations about the title in the first few days following her godnaming.

Has it truly only been days since the godnaming then?

You stare down at your empty hands, palms up as you feel flickers of something… forgotten show you the shape of the quill box in your hand. You recognise and don’t recognise the faint echoes accompanying the phantom shape.

Loki calls your name, concern lacing through that single word as she stands in front of you.

You blink, disentangling yourself from your thoughts and returning to the present. You lick your lips, swallowing hard as you try to collect your voice.

“What month is it?” You ask her. Your voice sounds a bit hollow, a bit hoarse, a bit haunted.

True to form, your best friend (instead of asking why you’ve asked) answers, “Tomorrow is the first day of Harpa.”

Harpa. The first of the summer months.

Your brows furrow in confusion, mouth opening as you go to say, But Sóldauði isn’t even over. How is it Harpa?

You feel something rise in you, a wave of something that feels… it feels foggy.

You blink, brow smoothing out. Suddenly you can’t remember why you thought that today was your father’s birthday when the end of Sóldauði was months ago. It’s so silly to think that you had forgotten so much time!

The niggling feeling that you have refuses to fade. You can’t come up with the reason why it refuses to go away. The longer you focus on it, pressing against the fog, the more you’re certain that something… something…

Nothing is wrong. Time isn’t missing.

The words slam into your mind, heavier than the fog-like wave that had risen. They sink talons in, gripping tightly as the fog swirls heavier and thicker.

“What is it?” Loki asks, stepping closer to tuck your hands between hers as she tilts her head to look you in the eye. The contact breaks whatever is happening, fog dissipating and the talons disappearing.

“I—,” you choke out, stopping because you don’t want to explain to her the strange occurrence happening in your mind. You shake your head. “It’s nothing, nevermind.”

She tilts your chin up so you’re looking at her again, rather than the floor your eyes had fled to when you dismissed your words.

Her index finger is curled beneath your chin, thumb resting right below your lower lip. The sudden — rather intrusive — thought that you want her to run the digit across your lip springs to the forefront of your thoughts. The placement of those two fingers, the hand that holds both of yours, and the half-lidded look she’s staring at you with. Its enough for all of your thoughts to stutter to a complete halt.

“It cannot be nothing if you felt the need to ask, darling,” she almost murmurs. “Talk to me. What is bothering my brave Firefly?”

Several pieces — none of them related to your seeming loss of time — suddenly click into place as a strange yet wildly familiar feeling floods you. You realise (quite suddenly) the truth behind the tangle of what you feel. All because the Princess of Asgard, your best friend, called you hers.

Oh.

You’ve never put much thought into when Loki says it before; it’s become common enough over the last year for her to say you are her friend, her dragon, her sparring partner. You’d accepted it, embraced it even, without ever realising why you did so without much thought. It had even begun to feel different without you ever being able to explain why.

It feels like that day on the barrels, when you had observed her masculine form for the first time with a scrutiny that you never gave her other forms because you had grown so used to seeing her that way. It feels like so many of those moments recently where the sun’s warmth has pressed its way into your skin from her touch, leaving you momentarily shy and wordless.

Quite suddenly, and without any warning, you understand that the way you care about Loki isn’t as platonic as you’ve always assumed. The remarks made by both Thor and Baldr finally make sense. And then you realise that, were she to kiss you, you would kiss her back.

The unsteady beating of your heart seems to dance faster. You feel powerless to do anything but answer Loki in the wake of your little revelation.

“Truly it was nothing, Loki. I was only struck by the strange notion that today is my father’s birthday. Silly, right? Since Sóldauði was months ago and all.” You give her a half-smile and a shrug, trying to play off the matter that she’s focused on as you grapple with your realisation that has your heart spinning wildly.

Instead of shrugging it off with you, Loki frowns and moves her hand from your chin to cup your cheek. You know by her expression that she’s searching for the dissonance between your words and actions. This does nothing to help quell the quickening pace of your heart or the flustered feeling that warms your whole body.

You know this isn’t a moment to express to Loki how you feel, no matter how much your heart craves to know how she feels about you in return.

She says your name very softly, lacing it with a deep sense of worry before asking, “Do you remember my birthday?”

“Yes,” you reply instantly; the use of your name instead of ‘darling’ or ‘Firefly’ drives home how serious this moment is from Loki’s view. To prove that you remember, you lift her right hand and point to the long, serpentine bangle that covers most of her forearm. “Your birthday was in the middle of Eldingarnætr, coinciding with the first blizzard of the year. I commissioned you this bangle of a jǫrmunetinn straight from Niðavellir because you love stories about them and snakes. I asked the Dvergarnir specifically for nornaseiða uru, so you could enchant and disenchant the bangle without harming the integrity of the metal. You were delighted by the gift, among other things.”

A smile curls the edges of her lips, even as you watch her pick apart your words. “As I recall, I only said thank you for the bangle.”

“I saw the way you looked at me. You looked — ” you looked at me like I had hung the moons and stars around Asgard. You looked at me, and I never wanted you to look away. “… happy. Really happy.”

“I was, truly.” She drops her hands, and you let go of her arm. Her expression becomes more serious in an instant. “You remember my birthday but not your father’s, even though my birthday is later. You’re missing other memories, aren’t you?”

You freeze, wondering how she knows without you saying it. Part of you shrinks in, wanting to hide away the truth. Another (much larger) part wants to reach out to her, to confide in her so she can soothe you. You relent to that part of yourself.

“I don’t remember much of the time after your godnaming, especially this spring.”

The concern on her face deepens.

“May I look into your mind? I wish to see if I can find any anomalies that might be causing this,” she says. At the sight of your panicked expression, she hastily adds, “I won’t look around, you have my word.”

It surprises you how easily she promises not to go looking around your mind. Were this any other day, you wouldn’t mind her being in there, nor would you worry that she might look around a little more than necessary. You know Loki. You trust her with everything.

Except, for the first time, you have something you want to keep to yourself for a while longer, despite how much you wish to share it with her. Your little revelation is still too fresh (and too nerve-wracking) for you to feel comfortable letting her know about it just yet.

You gather it and a few other bits, locking them away in a chest in your mind. Loki will be able to sense it, but you know she won’t press you about it until you’re ready to share them.

You lean your head forward, closing your eyes. Loki’s hand — slightly calloused from all the weapons training — rests softly against your forehead. An ice-kissed breath seeps into your mind, her seiðr gently working its way across the surface of your recent memories. She lingers over a few seemingly at random before moving on. After a few moments, the feeling disappears, and her hand leaves your forehead.

You open your eyes, expecting Loki to have a semblance of an answer, only to be met with a guarded, mildly frustrated expression from the princess.

“I didn’t see anything I could understand,” Loki says, shaking her head. “Mamma will have answers. Shall we go?”

Without waiting for you to agree, she takes your hand and pulls you along behind her at a clipped pace.

You hope that Frigga can answer the gap in your memories. Not just for your sake but Loki’s as well.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

“Lady Kárudóttir?” a voice calls out from behind you.

You blink, your eyes focusing on what’s in front of you as you’re pulled back into the present from wherever your mind had wandered off to as you stood here.

Here. Where is here exactly?

Before you is a window taller than you are, segmented by pale-grey wood; beyond the window is an expanse of shining white, bordered in the near distance by ruffled shapes in dark greys. It takes only a moment for you to realise they’re pine trees. A tree that isn’t found within the city of Asgard, only in the winter-wilds themself.

You’re in the winter-wilds. Summer has come, and Harpa has gone while you wander the permanently-snowy lands of the realm’s far-distant north. The last few months are blurry with various events, but you do (vaguely) recall your departure from Asgard with your conflagration.

You remember (a bit more clearly) your arrival at Bliksalir, the hall your mother had been gifted by your father after they became heartmates. It’s located in the heart of the winter-wilds’s tundra. The entire conflagration had stopped there after the long journey north to rest for the evening. It had surprised you the next morning when your mother and uncle had essentially told you to wander where and with whom you please this summer. You seemed to have surprised them when you chose to leave with Gauti and Lady Ásta after breakfast.

You had only spent a few days with them before you had flown off, exploring the winter-wilds and observing the world for the first time on your own. The scant few villages that existed in the tundra had been more curious about seeing a lone dragonling wandering, but they had all left you alone.

Eventually, you had turned south, leaving the tundra of the winter-wilds at the height of Miðár for the forest of the far north. To your own surprise, you had run into Lady Katla and her heartmates — Lord Ivarr Gunnarsson and Lady Brynja Rúnadóttir — just a week later. Lady Katla had invited you to return to their hall with them, to spend some time with them before you continue your wandering. That’s where you are now, where you have been for the last several hours.

The knot of tension relaxes, unfurling now that you remember where you are. There’s a question that rises, only to disappear like a wisp of smoke as soon as the words pass through your mind. None of them stick, so you can’t help but assume that the question wasn’t important.

You turn, looking at the wide bench table that rests in the middle of the room before sweeping your eyes across the room swiftly and returning your gaze to the table. Lady Katla sits there patiently, the pieces for a game of hnefatafl laid out and the game clearly in the midst of being played.

You aim a broad smile at the drekakona, saying, “You insist that I call you Lady Katla, and yet you would be so formal towards me?”

Lady Katla lets out a huff of a laugh. “You were so lost in thought, you didn’t hear me the first three times, drekabarn.”

You duck your head with a sheepish grin. “My apologies, my lady. I’m not sure where my mind wandered off to.”

Lady Katla lets out a soft hmm, staring back at you with searching pale eyes before gesturing with long fingers back to the other side of the bench. You take your seat, staring at the board after she tells you it’s your move. You pick up one of your defenders at random and move it. Lady Katla stares at the board for silently before moving one of her attackers. For several long, silent minutes this is how the two of you play. You moving your defenders as you try to get your king to safety, and Lady Katla moves her attackers to try to capture your king.

“Have you given thought to my question?” Lady Katla asks suddenly, breaking the silence filled only by the sound of the fireplace.

“Which question?” you ask. When you look up, you find Lady Katla’s eyes still on the board, scanning it as she chooses her next move.

“Eldgard. Have you ever thought about visiting?” When she looks up you shake your head. “You should. I think it would benefit you to.”

“Benefit me? How so?” You ask as she moves her next piece. You quickly counter it, hearing a surprised noise made by the drekakona at your move choice. You watch as she toys with her necklace pendant, the shining rune-carved metal catching your eye as she twists the chain. You can only assume it’s a mindless gesture from how often you’ve seen her do it over the years.

“How much do you know of our laws, our history? I doubt it’s much since you’ve been raised on Asgard. Have you ever even left the realm? Met other dragons outside of our conflagration?” Her rapid-fire questions send your hackles up. The implication that you don’t know anything simply because you’ve been raised here on Asgard stings. Does she believe your mother and uncle have shirked teaching you about the laws that govern your life? You are a Drekasál first and foremost, not an Æsir. You carry their power, but you are not one of them.

“I know plenty,” you bite out. “I may not have ever left the realm or met other Drekasál, but I assure you that I’ve learnt plenty about our people.”

Her eyes narrow, and while they don’t shift to ones that imitate her dragon eyes, the action causes you to shrink in on yourself.

“Careful, drekabarn. You might outrank me but your attitude towards simple questions leaves much to be desired still.” Her words sound like a warning. Your jaw tightens as you look down at the hnefatafl board, shoulders stiff. “I was under the impression that Lord Alfarr had covered Asgard’s shared history with our people by now. Is that not the case?”

“He did.” Your tone is clipped, so you take a breath to even it out before you continue. “We’ve covered the beginning of the Æsir-Drekasál alliance up to just after the end of the war against the Kree Empire during All-Father Buri’s reign.”

“Did he not bring in guests for any of the lessons? He’s well known for bringing a few in,” Lady Katla comments, leaning back in her seat. She still hasn’t moved her next piece, her eyes still on you.

“Our Kree tutor, Doctor Kheiron, attended several lessons.”

“No Drekasál?” You shake your head in reply, and her brow furrows. “Odd. I thought… hmm.”

“Thought what?” You watch as she leans against the table, covering her mouth with one hand as she continues to fiddle with her pendant in the other.

“Normally he asks for one of our conflagration to attend his lessons as well. We can’t add much that he doesn’t already know, but none of us were born on Asgard. We lived elsewhere for centuries before deciding to make the realm our home.”

“There were others on Asgard before the war, weren’t there?” Your question is softer, more hesitant. Her eyes turn back to you, staring solemnly before she nods. You had had a feeling that might be the truth for the last few years. That something had happened after the war against Jǫtunheimr for Asgard to have so few Drekasál. “Where did they go?”

Her hands drop to the table, a bittersweet look on her face as she tells you, “Most of them were lost on the battlefields. Others left with the then-Prince Njálsson after he announced the late King Randvísson had taken a fatal blow. Our prince was soon to be our king, and many decided to return to their Wing rather than remain abroad.”

“What about you? Or my family? Or the rest of our conflagration?” You ask. She places the tip of her index finger on one of her attackers, rocking the little einheri figure back and forth. She’s quiet for so long you’re almost certain she won’t answer, but then she lets out a sigh and begins to speak again.

“Lady Leifsdóttir loves General Týr, she’s happy with him. Lord Einarsson is very traditional when it comes to his views on soulmates, and thus remains here for her. I stay because Frigga is here, and so my brother Tórbjǫrn remains as well. It’s not a secret that Ásta stays to be near Gauti’s father, whichever Æsir that might be. The rest have their own reasons.”

Questions spring to the tip of your tongue, begging to be asked, but the look on her face stays them. So you redirect your question, asking, “What’s it like? Being able to see colour?”

She lets out a happy-sounding hmm as she finally moves her attacker.

“It’s beautiful. I’ve been able to see since the day I came of age. So many of my first experiences were with my twin at my side, so having my first experience with colour being his face?” She makes vague, nonsensical gestures with her hands before letting her hands fall back to the table with a smile and a shrug.

“Oh,” you say. You’d been hoping for something… more. You’re not exactly sure what ‘more’ might be. Maybe about what it had felt like for her bond to snap into place, or maybe how the world seemed the same and yet so different once she could see colours.

But then you decide to ask anyway. Lady Katla has (compared to some members of your conflagration) always been far more forthcoming when you ask her questions. So you do, asking her first about her soulmate bond and then about how she had adjusted being able to see colour. The conversation continues on about soulmates, with each of your questions being answered the best that Lady Katla seems to be able to.

Eventually, you reach the one question you’ve never dared ask your mother. You hesitate before asking, worried about how Lady Katla might take your question when you ask it. A gentle hand on your shoulder makes you look up at Lady Katla’s face.

“You can ask me whatever it is,” she tells you.

It takes several long heartbeats for you to ask, “Why can’t we find our soulmate before maturity?”

Lady Katla blinks, clearly caught off guard by your question. She takes a long drink from her tankard before sitting forward and refilling it from the pitcher of sweet mead on the table. She takes another drink (this one more of a sip) before answering your question.

“I don’t know.” When you don’t ask another question, she realises you’re waiting for her to explain further. “There’s only one theory about it that I know of. The caster, whoever or whatever they were, made it that a condition of the spell when they cast it. I assume that’s something a magic user can do anyway, I don’t understand magic.”

“It is,” you confirm. “Conditional parameters can be bound to a spell during incantation. You can add them as you’re casting, but you can’t take any that you’ve added away once they’ve been added to the spell.”

You pause and then add, “It’s different if you’re using seiðr though. Seiðr’s a lot more fluid than magic, and works more on a god’s will or intent than an incantation.”

Lady Katla blinks, seeming to take in that statement. To make your point, you hold up your hand and create a simulacrum of the brooch on her cloak from earlier. She gasps, prodding the copy in your palm.

“Remarkable. You could show everyone the way you see the world by doing that,” she mutters. You shrug, letting go of the seiðr threads as you drop your hand back on the table.

After that, you ask yet another question about soulmates, this time about pairs living outside of Asgard, and the conversation carries on. Amid all your questions, your game of hnefatafl gets abandoned as the two of you relocate from the table to the plush seats near the fire. Your conversation eventually shifts from questions about soulmates to Lady Katla asking about your studies and the two of you swapping stories.

You’re relaying the end of a story about a prank you’d helped Loki pull on their brothers, when you hear the sound of the hall’s front door being opened. A booming voice calls out for Lady Katla, and you watch her face light up in the way it only does for Tórbjǫrn. She abandons her tankard on the table, flying out of the room shouting her brother’s name.

You follow along slowly, leaning against the rooms doorframe as you watch the drekakona tackle her brother into a hug. As you stand there, you watch how the two of them interact. Two soulmates who, for a moment, revolve only around one another. There’s a quiet longing in your bones that you’ve never felt before as you watch the two of them.

Next year you will visit the Weavers for the little prophecy they give all Drekasál after they’ve turned fifteen. It’s a small step (a very small one) to becoming a drekakona rather than a drekabarn. It will be at least another five years after that before you reach maturity. Before you can begin the quest to find your soulmate. So close when you consider how long your life will be, and yet so far at the same time.

You close your eyes, a smile on your face as you listen to them before quietly turning around and returning to your seat by the fire.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

As you crest the top of the mountains just outside the City of Asgard you cease beating your wings. It’s more than an hour until dawn begins. Below you, the city is dark, occasionally broken by the few open shops, the braziers littered around the city, and the movement of torches carried by patrolling einherjar and valkyrjur.

You glide down, aiming to land on a terrace at the edge of the city next to one of the lone braziers. Using your seiðr, you muffle the sound of you landing on the stone. Tucking your wings close, you shift back into your Æsir form and tug the hood of your cloak low. You don’t want anyone to see your face as you take off down streets and stairs towards the Palace of Valaskjálf.

The streets are quiet as you quickly make your way down the largest of the City of Asgard’s boulevards. The silence of the early dawn hour is broken by only a few sounds; the soft clicks of your shoes against the stone road, the sharp clacks of a horse headed in the opposite direction as you, and the steady sounds of the bakery you’re passing by as they prepare for another day.

You’re coming home early. None of the others have even started their journey home and wouldn’t for at least another week. You’ve missed the city. You’ve missed the noises, the smells, the sights. You’ve missed your father, your friends, and your cousin. You’ve missed the sounds of their laughs, the tenor of their voices, and the sight of their faces.

You’ve missed Loki, and strangely enough, the nebulous feelings that the youngest royal constantly arises in you.

Missing each of them (Loki especially) is why you chose to come home now, in the middle of Haustmánaðr. Your mother and uncle won’t be arriving for at least a couple more weeks, at the beginning of Ískristalmánaðr. They’ve always brought you home then, so you can’t imagine them coming home any sooner. It gives you time to bask in these last, lesson-less weeks before things pick back up. You’re not looking forward to returning them just yet.

You approach the end of the boulevard quickly, coming up to the left entrance of Valaskjálf. Two einherjar are stationed at this entrance, watching you as you approach. As you get close, you pull down the hood of your cloak, letting them see your face in the torchlight.

“Lady Kárudóttir!” the one to the left exclaims when he recognises your face.

“Einherjar,” you say as they both bow their heads to you. “Where might I find my father?”

“He should still be in his quarters having breakfast, my lady,” the one on the right informs you. You nod, passing by them both with a quick ‘thank you’. You head inside and up to your home within the palace. There’s almost no one up and about just yet and (with a quick minor illusion to hide your appearance) you make it to your destination without any problems.

Once you (quietly) close the doors, you drop the illusion, shifting your seiðr to muffle the sound of your shoes. You make your way down the main hall, listening for any sounds of your father. Approaching your family’s private dining room, you hear him speak. With a smile on your face, you pause outside of the doorway, listening in.

“How is she?” Týr asks.

Before you can wonder who he’s speaking to, you hear your mother’s voice. The light distortion tells you he’s speaking with her through his holotablet.

“I still don’t know. No one’s seen her since she left Lady Rúnadóttir’s hall over a month ago.”

“Are you worried?” he asks. You know from experience that he’s asking if he should be worried too. He’s always followed your mother’s lead when it comes to you. Your seiðr and appearance make it easy for you to pass as an Ásynja, but you’re not. Not truly. You are a Drekasál, and you are all that comes with being a dragon at heart.

“No, not yet. She’s sharp, she’s stayed in her dragon shape when she’s alone like we taught her to.”

We. Your uncle must be right there with her, even if you haven’t heard him.

“Send me a raven when you hear something, will you?” Your father requests. You can hear the undercurrent of worry in his voice. Too late, you realise perhaps you should have spent more time with the other Drekasál rather than wandering alone for all those weeks.

There’s that soft, fond-sounding short-hum noise your mother often makes when speaking to your father. It’s how she agrees with him, so you can imagine the nod that always accompanies the noise.

Once their goodbyes are said, you disenchant your shoes and walk around the doorway. You chirp out, “Good morning, Babba.”

The fork your father had lifted clatters back onto his plate as he surges to his feet. With a joyful shout of your name, he opens his arms, engulfing you in a hug. You let out a soft laugh as you press your cheek firmly against the cold metal of his armour’s breastplate. You’ve missed how warm his hugs always are.

After several moments he releases you from the hug. The two of you sit together for a quiet breakfast, and he asks about your summer.

You tell him about how you spent most of it wandering the winter-wilds alone, about your extended stay with Lady Katla, her heartmates, and her brother. You tell him about your trips into the villages scattered across the winter-wilds, about the Æsir living there and how they always treated you warily but kindly. You show him the sketchbook you had kept on you the whole summer, sketching out the various plants and wildlife you encountered to show to Frigga when you see her next.

Every story you tell him is met by your father’s rapt attention. He asks curious, pointed questions. Each one draws more details out from you as you continue to whittle away the time before he has to leave for his office for the day.

When that time comes, he hugs you again, telling you to enjoy yourself now that you’re home. Before he walks out of your family’s suite, he even leaves you with strict instructions to relax. It makes you laugh, but you promise him that you will.

When the door shuts behind him, you head towards your room and pick up the holotablet you had left here for the summer. You have a lot to catch up on now that you’re home.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

When you finally leave your family’s suite, it’s late in the afternoon. It’s still summer, but despite that, you know that Loki has kept up their daily meetings with Frigga. If not for seiðr lessons, then at least to help care for the All-Mother’s garden.

You flip through the pages of your sketchbook as you step into the lift just down the hall, descending from your family’s rooms to the ground floor. It’s strange how the quiet hum of the lift as it descends is both so familiar and yet so loud. The quiet of the winter-wilds is so different from the quiet here in the palace. It’s always an adjustment when you return at the end of each summer.

Outside of your father and the two einherjar you encountered on your way in, no one else in the palace knows you’re home yet. You told your father over lunch that you want to surprise your friends this evening, much as you’d surprised him this morning.

He’d let out a chuckle at that, looking like he wanted to say something about that decision, before telling you that he’d told your mother that you’d shown up at home. You’d grimaced, apologising to him for not letting her know that you were headed home.

“You’re a dragon,” he’d said in resignation. “I’ve learnt from your mother that I have to give you more freedom than I would if you were just an Æsir child, much as I sometimes wish not to.”

Lunch had ended on that note, accompanied by a hug and him saying he would see you at the dining hall for dinner. After he left, you had gone out to the pavilion and taken a seat against one of the columns. This pavilion is higher than the one your conflagration uses, letting you see even farther out across the city. You took in the bright sky and gleaming city, the late summer sun warming you while you waited out the afternoon.

The lift lets out a light ping as it reaches the ground floor. You step off, holding your sketchbook (now shut) to your chest as you check both sides of the hall before setting off towards your seiðr classroom. There’s a genuine excitement you feel about the chance to show off your sketchbook’s contents to the seiðkona. She was thrilled by them last year, and you’re hoping to replicate that moment again when you arrive at the door in a few minutes.

When you reach the door to her classroom, you stop, clutching the sketchbook tighter as you stare at the door for several moments. You knock on the dark door with the side of your fist, waiting only a few moments before the door glides open.

No one stands on the other side. When you walk in, you see Frigga and Loki at the table on the other side of the room. Their heads are bent over an open book, quietly speaking as they take turns pointing at the pages.

You stand there quietly, a gentle smile curling up the edges of your lips. Your eyes are trained on the Princess of Asgard as you note the changes in her appearance from your summer gone. She’s less than four months shy of her sixteenth birthday now. It’s hard for you to believe that you’ve only known her for seven years; you feel like you’ve known her your whole life. You want her to notice you, but you’re just as content to stand here and watch her.

When Loki finally turns her head, her face immediately lights up at the sight of you. When she says your name, your smile turns into a grin, and she all but sprints across the room to pull you into a tight hug. You laugh as your feet leave the ground, wrapping your arms around her neck as she twirls the two of you a few times before setting you back on the ground.

You go to pull away once your feet are firmly on the ground, but Loki’s arms tighten their hold, tugging you closer as she tucks her face against your neck. Something in you flutters, and you press your forehead into her shoulder.

When she pulls away, she places her hands on either side of your neck, thumbs resting on your cheeks as she looks you in the eye. Her dark eyes glitter with happiness as she asks, “When did you get home? We weren’t expecting you home for weeks.”

“This morning, before dawn. I decided to come home early.”

Loki lets out a light laugh, pulling you into another hug. This time her arms wrap around your shoulders, but she tucks her head between her arm and your neck. You wrap your arms around her, letting your hands rest against her back as you tuck your face into her neck. You feel like you’re basking in sunlight again, warming you from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes.

Here in her embrace, you finally feel like you’re home.

After Loki finally decides to release you from the hug, you and Frigga greet other. You hand over the sketchbook you had dropped, watching Frigga scour this summer’s drawings and complimenting you on the pages. She makes no remark about how you’ve shaded the different flora and fauna, but you recognise the look as the one you often catch on Loki’s face. It’s a sharp sort of inquisitiveness, full of questions and observations. It makes you wonder what your monochromacy missed that she can see.

As she pages through, a little chiming tone begins to play softly from Frigga’s bracelet. It’s a sound you recognise well; it’s time to go outside and tend to the garden. She closes your sketchbook, placing it on the table beside the book she and Loki had been looking at when you walked in.

“Ready for the garden?” Frigga asks, already walking past the hanging plants and heading into her garden.

“Definitely,” you reply with a broad smile. You and Loki follow behind, kicking off your shoes as you pass beneath the hanging plants. Loki takes your hand in hers, the two of you giggling as you take off at a light run past her mother and into garden.

( next chapter )

@ladydracona @huntress-artemiss @sarahscribbles

Find the lore notes for this chapter here!

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #a fairytale beginning #the prince and his dragon #of fire and of ice #amphi writes

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drabbles-of-writing · 3 years

Text

A Little Kindness: Chapter 2

AO3 Explanation of AU

Chapters: 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Summary: In which Raine meets Hunter years before canon, and decides that a kid like him could use all the help he could get with an uncle like Belos. Even if they couldn't go much, they could try something, couldn't they? Years down the line, Raine is exposed as a traitor to the Emperor's Coven, and they are bound by the brand on their own wrist. Hunter notices. And as to be expected, he has more than a few complaints. It's not a big surprise on who he goes to for help.

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

Hunter woke Luz up at four in the morning by knocking on her windowsill in a frenzy, eternally grateful that the Owl Lady never really bothered to hide her place of residence. And that her guard tube--owl--thing--was fast asleep at this hour.

Luz awoke quickly at his knocking, and nearly screamed when she saw him at her window. She’d managed to silence herself at his frantic waving in time, throwing the window open and almost smacking her nose into his face.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed, though she stepped aside to let him hop off his staff and crawl in.

“I have...a situation.” Hunter said as he set his staff aside, close enough for him to grab it if needed, flipping his hood back and yanking the mask off his face, tucking it into a pocket within the lining of his cloak. His cardinal poked its head out from where it was curled up against his neck.

“Where did you get--”

“Later,” Hunter waved Luz off as she pointed and squinted at the palisman. “Remember when you broke into the Emperor’s Coven to rescue the Owl Lady? And you somehow came out alive and with Lilith?”

“...yes?” Luz said slowly, like she thought he was going to pull out some punchline.

“Could you do that again, theoretically?” Hunter said, beginning to pace the small room, which, now that he noticed, was a huge mess. “Like, break in to rescue someone being held captive and do it without being caught?”

“Are you asking me for a confession so you can arrest me?” Luz narrowed her eyes.

“Please, I would’ve arrested you already.” Hunter huffed, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I literally just got a confession out of you.”

“...fair. But why are you asking me this?” Luz demanded, eyeing him as he paced.

The cardinal lightly bit the tip of his ear and Hunter stopped, putting up with the light tugging as the palisman chittered quietly. It was annoying, but unfortunately, it managed to get him to stop moving around like a panicking lunatic.

“I need to break someone out.” Hunter admitted, giving Luz a quick glance before avoiding her gaze. “They’ve been taken captive by the Emperor's Coven, and I need to bust them out before they do something worse.”

He’d almost been convinced they would petrify Whispers, but considering he hadn’t heard a word about it, he was beginning to think that might not be the case. Which was lovely, because that just terrified him more.

“Why would you need my help to break someone out of prison?” Luz raised a brow, crossing her arms. “First of all, you’re part of the Emperor’s Coven, can’t you just do it on your own? Second of all, why is my help essential? And third of all, why are you trying to break someone out of prison--”

“Look, it's a long story,” Hunter interrupted, getting more agitated by the moment. “If something goes wrong, I have to pretend I’m not involved with anything. And you’ve done this successfully before, so having you to help would just be a lot easier. Should it work, I can easily just pass the blame onto you instead of me, anyway.” He added.

“Wow, thanks.” Luz deadpanned.

“Look, they’re just...they’re important, alright?” Hunter grasped for an argument, ears flicked downwards. “They’ve...done a lot of things for me. I wanted to try and return the favor.”

Trying, of course, was the hard part. He highly doubted he’d ever come down to blows with his uncle if it meant saving Bat--Whispers--but he knew he’d feel awful for the rest of his life if he didn’t at least try.

Luz looked curious, but wasn’t quite relenting. The cardinal flew off Hunter’s shoulder and landed on a stack of books in the room before turning to cheep at her incessantly.

“Who are they, exactly?” Luz asked after a moment, eyes flicking between the palisman to Hunter.

“...Raine Whispers,” He admitted with a mutter.

“Isn’t that the head of the Bard Coven?” Luz narrowed her eyes.

“Used to be. Got arrested for treason last week.” Hunter said, beginning to pace.

“...and you want to rescue someone who betrayed the Emperor, why?” Luz said, somehow looking even more suspicious, as well as just plain confused.

“I just explained this! They’re important to me! Are you going to help or not?” Hunter demanded, whirling around to face Luz. “And I’m not promising that I won’t throw you in prison if you help, that’s not how this works.” He added when Luz opened her mouth.

Luz deflated and grumbled, rolling her eyes and taking a moment to pat the cardinal on the head, who seemed to calm. Hunter tried to ignore the slight prickles of jealousy at that.

“You strike a terrible bargain, you know that?” Luz grumbled. And he figured she had a point, they’d only had a few brief interactions after the situation with the palismans, jumping to asking her for help on a rescue mission was quite the stretch.

“Do you at least know where they are?” Luz asked.

“I...no,” Hunter admitted, ears flicking down. “But I can probably figure that out.” He added quickly.

“Good enough,” Luz sighed, already looking like she had a million regrets, drawing her hand away from the cardinal before moving towards her bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Hunter raised a brow.

“I’m not going on another adventure with you in my pajamas, and definitely not at four in the morning.” Luz said, turning for a moment as she grabbed her door handle. “And I’m just getting Eda, relax.” She said calmly as she opened the door.

Hunter crashed into Luz’s back at full speed before she even properly opened the door, hitting the wooden floor with a thud and an indignant yelp that was cut off by the force winding her, Hunter all but sitting on her back.

“You want to get the Owl Lady?” He whisper-yelled, one hand gripping Luz’s head to hold it up and giving her an incredulous expression. “Just say you won’t help me to my face, for Titan’s sake!”

“What--” Luz shoved at his hand, trying to get him off of her so she could breathe. “--are you talking about? I’m getting her to help!”

“She’s the Owl Lady!” Hunter exclaimed, like Luz wasn’t thinking clearly. “Do you honestly think that the Owl Lady would help me rescue the head of the Bard Coven?”

“Well I was helping too, you know.” Luz grumbled before jerking her head back, whacking Hunter in the nose as he hissed and rolled off her. “And, no offence, but I’m not breaking into the Emperor’s Coven with nothing but you.”

“I’m taking offence to that.” Hunter growled, clutching his nose as he heard his cardinal chittering somewhere in the room behind him.

“Your loss,” Luz shrugged, leaning on her arms.

“Look,” Hunter said, attempting to keep his voice level. “I came here to see if you happened to just, I dunno, feel like causing problems, like you always do. Not tell the former second most powerful witch in the Boiling Isles about a weakness in the Emperor’s Coven!”

“I do not always cause problems.” Luz scoffed. “And Eda was the most powerful witch, I’m not arguing with you on that.” She added, pointing an accusatory finger in Hunter’s face that he batted away. “She’s not gonna care about a ‘weakness’ in the Emperor’s Coven, she’d rather not be bothered at all, if I’m being honest.”

“Please, as if she’d just pass up an opportunity.” Hunter rolled his eyes. “Listen, I just came here because it’d make things easier if I had some help.” He said, bracing a hand on the wall as he stood up, gaining height over Luz. “But if you’re just going to rat me out, then I’m leaving. I don’t need your help with this, if anything it would’ve made this marginally easier. And I most certainly do not want or need the help of the Owl Lady.” He snapped, fangs bared as he scowled down at her.

Luz held his gaze for a few moments with her own, both of them refusing to let up. Luz then turned her head slightly to the side, still holding eye contact and--

“Eda!” Luz called, further down the upstairs hallway. “Hey, Eda, I could use some he--”

Hunter tackled Luz, the two immediately rolling into a tussle as Hunter attempted to cover Luz’s mouth. He managed to, for just a moment, before she licked his palm.

“Eugh, that is disgusting!” Hunter jerked his hand back, waving it around in the air because he could feel the dampness through it. Serves him right for wearing one of the thinner gloves. “You humans better not have poisonous saliva!”

“Hypocrite!” Luz huffed, attempting to kick at him and wiggle free. “Eda! Eda!”

“Be quiet, would you?” Hunter hissed, eventually managing to wrangle Luz so that he could wrap his cloak around her mouth, muffling her shouts and ending up cocooning her entire face as he shoved at her. “Are you trying to bring the entire Isles down on--”

“Well, you don’t live here.”

Hunter froze, completely stiff. Luz went still for a moment, too. Before she went right back to batting at Hunter to release her, though it was much weaker from someone who didn’t care to put up a lot of fight at the moment.

He whirled his head around, ears flat against his head as he looked up. The Owl Lady herself stood there, hair a frazzled mess with one hand on her hip and looking down at the two of them with a raised brow and nothing worse than curiosity in her eyes. She certainly looked like someone who’d woken up only a few minutes ago.

“You need any help, kid?” The Owl Lady asked, completely brushing over the fact Hunter was even there.

“Nah,” Luz’s voice muffled through the fabric she was attempting to pull away from her face. “I could beat him blindfolded.”

“Oh you could not.” Hunter snapped out of his daze, yanking his cloak away from Luz and shoving her shoulder.

“I beat you before!”

“Running around with my staff is not winning.”

“Sorry to break up the entertainment,” The Owl Lady cut in again, both pairs of eyes darting back to her. “But who is this?” She pointed haphazardly towards Hunter.

Both of them went quiet for a few moments, Hunter’s thoughts whirring as he tried to come up with some excuse. A fake name probably wouldn’t work, Luz would immediately call him out, and the Owl Lady was a known con-artist, she’d see right through it. He could just introduce himself as Hunter. Call himself a friend of Luz. She’d still probably dispute it but she couldn’t exactly hide that she knew him so that might be enough--

“He’s the Golden Guard.” Luz spoke before Hunter was even remotely close to having his thoughts in order. “I think we’re frenemies now?” She said, sounding unsure as she did so.

“Luz!” Hunter hissed, snapping his head around and immediately going to strangle her. She squawked and kicked at him.

“I’ll spit on you! I’ll do it!” She shouted, shoving a hand in his face.

“And I’ll bite your fingers off! Try it!” Hunter retorted.

“Alright, hey, okay, both of you quit it!” The Owl Lady snapped, and Hunter suddenly felt something grab and yank him off.

He hung limply, surprised as he looked up to see the Owl Lady holding him by the scruff of his cloak in one hand, and doing the same to Luz in the other, who only crossed her arms dejectedly.

“Okay,” The Owl Lady said, calmer as she slowly looked between the two. “One at a time. Luz,” She turned her head to the human. “Why, in the name of the Titan, is the Golden Guard in my house?”

“He broke in,” Luz muttered.

“I--you--but I had--” Hunter sputtered, kicking lightly to try and grab at Luz, who was immediately moved a slightly further distance so he couldn’t reach her. This night couldn’t get any more humiliating.

The Owl Lady looked to him then, eyes squinted like she was expecting him to start suddenly growing scales. He met her gaze and curled in closer to himself, growling softly as he glared.

“...and the Golden Guard is a teenager.” The Owl Lady said slowly. “Yeesh, and I thought the Emperor’s Coven wasn’t pathetic enough.” She mumbled before promptly dropping him.

Hunter yelped when he hit the wooden floor, Luz also being dropped a bit more gracefully. He picked himself off the floor and took a few steps away from the two, back hitting the other side of the hallway. He could still see his staff laying in the middle of Luz’s room beyond her, fallen over from the sudden dash he made towards Luz earlier, he could probably make it in time before she managed to get too much of a scratch on him.

“And why did the Golden Guard break in?” The Owl Lady sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she addressed both of them.

“Why does it sound like you think this is somehow my fault?” Luz complained.

“Oh, I’m blaming the teenager for breaking into my house.” The Owl Lady assured, and Hunter resisted the urge to growl again. “But I have a suspicious nagging that he didn’t just do this out of the blue.”

“What, a guy can’t have a bit of fun anymore?” Hunter spoke up before Luz could, forcing himself not to wince under her exhausted gaze. She looked like she hadn’t slept very soundly for the last few days.

“I can still kick you out. I have a security system.” The Owl Lady warned, pointing a finger at him. “That apparently needs maintenance.” She added under her breath.

“Actually,” Luz said, and Titan did Hunter really want to punch the smug look off her face. “Hunter came with a request.”

“Hunter?” The Owl Lady repeated, confused.

“I’m leaving,” Hunter said at the same time, turning on his heel to move past the two and back to Luz’s room. “This was a mistake, I regret coming here.”

Luz, being significantly closer to her own door, made a mad dash for the staff. Hunter took off in a bolt after her, but the Owl Lady had grabbed the back of his cloak in a seeming reflex, and Luz already had his staff and all but pranced out of his grasp.

“Hunter here,” Luz said, just short of a singsong tone. “Has asked us to break into the Emperor’s Coven to rescue a friend of his.”

“I asked you,” Hunter hissed, trying to wiggle free of the Owl Lady’s grip. “Not her. Let go of me.” He hissed, wrenching himself free of Eda’s grip.

“Yeah, well, I’m not breaking into the Emperor’s Coven on my own.” Luz said, pointing at him with his staff.

“Okay, both of you, hush.” Eda said, raising her hands and shaking her head. “Titan, I’m not awake enough for this.” She mumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose before slowly exhaling and facing them. “One at a time, again, what in the world is going on?”

“He broke in,” Luz said, pointing towards Hunter, who hissed back at her. “Woke me up, and said he needed help--”

“Vaguely requested,”

“I’m still talking. Said he needed help breaking a friend of his out of prison because they betrayed the Emperor’s Coven. I think he’s got a soft spot for rebels or something.” Luz explained calmly.

“I do not, this is different.” Hunter huffed.

“Many questions about all of that, but my first one is why is he asking you?” The Owl Lady sighed.

“We bonded when you weren’t looking.”

“We did not bond. You pestered me into helping you.” Hunter grumbled. “Would you give me back my staff?”

“Later,” Luz waved him off, keeping her eyes on the Owl Lady, and oh he knew she was mocking him then. “Anyway, you think we could help him? I don’t think he’s cared about anyone in his life until now and I don’t wanna discourage him from interacting with people.”

Hunter groaned, thunking his head against the wall. He heard a chirp and felt his cardinal settle on his shoulder with vaguely pitiful coos, which he rewarded with a single finger petting its head without removing his head from the wall.

“Why would he even want to rescue someone who betrayed--okay, this is already more than I’m bargaining for.” The Owl Lady said, shaking her head. “And I’m not even close to being done with questions, but I don’t have the strength to ask them tonight.”

“Told you.” Hunter muttered quietly before raising his head. “Miss Owl Lady,” He said in a sweeping gesture towards her. “I clearly made a mistake when coming here in the first place, if I could have my staff, I’ll happily be out of your hair--”

“Don’t call me that,” The Owl Lady cut in. “Eda’s fine, ‘miss’ makes me feel way too formal.” She grimaced. “Besides, it's your turn to talk now.”

“I’d really rather if I didn’t.”

“Too bad. Who are you rescuing?” The Owl Lady--Eda--raised a brow.

“Nobody of your concern.” Hunter said, head tilted upwards and to the side.

“If it's a concern of Luz, it's a concern of mine.” The O--Eda crossed her arms.

“It wasn’t a concern of Luz’s to begin with.” Hunter said, raising a hand again to pet his cardinal. “It was a concern of mine and mine alone. It was obviously a mistake to make it one of hers. And if I could have my staff, I would happily--”

“This is taking forever,” Luz muttered under her breath before speaking up. “It’s Raine Whiskers.”

“Whispers,” Hunter whirled to Luz with a seething glare. “Their name is Raine Whispers. How do you mess that up?”

“You were talking pretty quietly.” Luz shrugged unapologetically. Then her eyes strayed beyond Hunter and her face suddenly shifted to that of worry, brows pinched together. “Uh, Eda?”

Hunter had barely turned around before the Owl--Eda, he had to remember it was Eda--was almost in his face and attempted to seize his shoulder before he spat and jerked away. His cardinal jumped and curled closer to his neck as Eda stared at him with eyes full of shock, disbelief, and such a desperate hope in her eyes it almost shocked the words out of him.

“Raine?” Eda repeated. “You know where Raine is?”

“Uh...yeah,” Hunter nodded slowly, turning his head to the side and glancing at Luz with a very concerned expression she returned with a look of confusion. “Well, I don’t know know where they are, but I know where they could be. We’ve got a lot of special cells and the like underneath the Castle.”

Eda didn’t speak for a moment, just staring at him as she processed what he had told her. He glanced at his palisman and to Luz again, growing more befuddled by the minute. He was beginning to worry that Eda had heard about the former head of the Bard Coven and was actually going to use this weakness to her advantage. But before that terrifying thought could go any further, Eda stepped back and looked to Luz with a determination in her eyes he found equally as concerning.

“Go wake up King.” She said, “We’re breaking in.”

“What?” Both chorused with varying levels of disbelief.

“You happen to know anything about the BATs?” Eda breezed right over them, turning around and walking back down the hallway.

“Er, yeah, that’s Raine’s rebellion group.” Hunter said, looking to Luz for a moment before following the woman. “Why?”

“Happen to know where any of the kids from that group are?” Eda asked without looking over her shoulder.

“In the Conformatorium.” Hunter said, stopping as Eda turned and walked into a room he only dared peek inside--was that a giant nest?

“Fantastic, Luz!” Eda shouted, and Hunter realized then that Luz hadn’t followed him and vanished to somewhere he couldn’t see.

“Yeah?” Luz’s voice called from what sounded like downstairs.

“We’re going to the Conformatorium!” Eda called, opening what looked to be a closet and squinting at whatever contents were inside.

“You--you’re just--” Hunter stumbled over his words, his bird cheeping in its own confusion from his shoulder.

“I don’t quite understand what your deal is, and you don’t know what mine is.” Eda said, turning her head towards him. “But if you’re serious about rescuing Raine, and you believe you can break them out, then I’m helping. I was planning on busting out those BAT kids sometime soon, anyway.”

“I...o-okay.” Hunter said, slowly deflating and narrowing his pupils. “Thanks, I guess? For the record, you’re not using Raine for whatever weird traitor plans you come up with because I am not letting them anywhere near--”

“Yeah, yeah, no using Raine to betray the Emperor’s Coven, I got it. Get going.” Eda said distractedly, waving him off. “I wouldn’t prefer to leave so early in the morning, but nobody in this house is gonna get any sleep, what with you showing up. So go inform King on the situation or something, Luz and I are not doing a rescue in our pajamas.”

“...’kay.” Hunter said slowly, wondering how much of her personality Luz took from Eda, backing away from the door and further down the hallway, pausing when he was dead in the middle of it and sharing an incredulous look with his cardinal. Luz’s muffled voice mixed with that weird dog demon he recognized from way back could be heard downstairs, and he wondered how well Luz would take the development to, in fact, leaving at four in the morning.

His palisman chirped, as if agreeing to his thoughts, hopping off his shoulder and flying towards the stairs. He watched it leave for a moment before slumping and running a hand through his hair.

Titan, he thought as he sighed and shook his head, leaning against the wall. This wasn't going to end well.

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