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bellafarallones2 · 3 months ago

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Small Prince (Vincent/Apollo)

A belated birthday gift to @bellafarallones2 based on something we discussed on discord!

Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But at least he did not have to become a father.

It happened like this: when he and his brother, Indrid, were twenty-two, they were summoned to the throne room by their father. They were not alone, which was lucky as the look in the king's eyes was the kind that seldom bode well for their wellbeing.

“Would either of you care to explain this?” His father pointed to one of the four other people in the room, a young noblewoman holding a bundle in her arms.

“Oh dear.” Indrid murmured as she turned the bundle to reveal the face peering out of it.

“She claims the father was a Cold.”

“The features are unmistakably that of this house. As were those of the gentleman I met at the midsummer ball nine months ago.” The woman’s voice is not afraid, just tired. Apollo supposes she is beautiful.

Not as much as he supposes his brother holds no interest in women. And he certainly would not take someone he barely knew to bed. For starters, they could easily murder him while there, not to mention the fact that most people become attached after such things and the last thing he needs is dead weight following him about.

He glances at his twin, meeting his eyes behind those garish red glasses he wears. They are seldom of one mind about things. Maybe if Indrid was actually sensible, they’d have agreed on something since the age of twelve.

They agree on what must be done.

“He is mine.” Indrid steps forward, bowing to the woman, “I apologize, both for any distress this has caused you and for the fact that I was so outside my senses I cannot recall your name.”

“Clara.” She curtsies.

“I suppose this calls for a wed-”

“No.” Their father cuts Indrid off, “I have made plain I will not have some common noblewoman on the throne beside you when my time comes.”

Apollo smirks at the anger on Clara, her father, and her guards' faces.

“But her father wishes to marry her off without offspring in tow. So the boy will stay here and be raised as an heir. He is, after all, of our bloodline. No one will question it if they know what is good for them.”

“Understood.” Indrid offers his arms, “I can take him.”

Clara looks down at the silk-enrobed bundle, pathetic tears in her eyes, “Goodbye, Orion. Be food for your father.”

Just over three years have passed. For the first of them Apollo never saw the brat at all; he was in the care of a nursemaid, with Indrid spending a truly confusing amount of time with him. Gradually, he’d appear in the gardens, first in Indrid’s arms or, later, toddling between him and his bulldogish brick of a knight.

Apollo takes it as proof father likes him best that he assigned Sir Capra as his personal knight instead. Vincent is the only person who does not bore Apollo to tears or fill him with a desire to gouge their eyes out, is going grey at thirty-three in a way that he wears strikingly well. He is also, much to Apollo’s annoyance, nowhere to be found.

Indeed, the castle seems rather empty; ah yes, there’s some silly solar eclipse. Vincent asked if he wanted the knight to accompany him to a viewing. Apollo had snorted and said he had better things to do.

The trouble is, he has now done them. His father is not as omnipotent as he once was, but Apollo still fears being caught idle.

Something warm closes around his legs and his hand goes for his dagger.

“Dada!” Orion looks up from where he’s hugging Apollo’s knees.

“I am not my brother. I look nothing like him! I am far more attractive!”

“Uncle!” The word is a bit mushy in that little mouth. More worryingly, it does not cause the little leech to release him.

“What do you want?”

It sounded more demanding and less panicked in his head.

“Play blocks!”

“Then go play with the wretched things and leave me in peace!”

The boy frowns, then begins tugging on Apollo’s robe, stubby little nails tearing at the golden embroidery on the hem, “Blocks.”

“As soon as we get to them I am locking you in.” He mutters, following the urchin down the hall. He could just pull away and leave him to cry on the floor, but the noise is so horrible and he is not in the mood for a headache.

They reach the playroom, and Apollo calls out for Vincent once, in case the knight returned early. The Capras are a large family, and the older man thinks nothing of bouncing Orion on his knee or crouching to speak with him if they cross paths in the garden.

“Make a tower.” Orion says, more to himself than Apollo. He’s seated on the floor, surrounded by beautifully smooth, birch blocks. Apollo sits picking up a triangular one to study it; this is the same set he and Indrid played with as boys. He remembers the feel of them, the smell of opening the toy chest, wood warmed by the sun.

The playroom has changed since then. No longer drab, no longer stuffed with portraits of kings long dead. Instead, each of the four walls is painted to match a time of day; dawn, afternoon, dusk, and night. Orion’s back is to the night wall, making him look as if friendly hedgehogs are convening on him from the painted grass.

Apollo’s heart twinges and he wills his ribs to close around it, crush it. The boy is an impediment on the way to the throne. He must not become attached to him, see him as anything more than a potential tool or bargaining chip.

Orion is stacking rectangles haphazardly. They keep falling down after six or so block, and he’s huffing and pouting at them more each time.

“If you want it to be taller, you must widen the base. Honestly, did my brother teach you nothing?”

Orion cocks his head,confused.

Apollo sighs, removing his outer robe and rolling up his sleeves, “Watch closely.”

He starts with two rows of ten, then of nine, then eight, the boy gradually disappearing behind them the taller they get. When he’s hit the top rows, Orion stands and wanders around to join him, eyes wide and smile bright.

“There. See how much more stable this is? I could make it as tall as I please using the same principle.” He glances at the boy, “why do you want it to be tall in the first place? A small stack of blocks is no impressive feat of engineering.”

“Dragon.”

“Excuse me?”

Orion picks up a stuffed dragon from the floor and lets out a piercing yell as he rams it into the tower. The bricks fall in a clatter, the boy laughing uproariously the whole time.

Apollo wants to be furious. As it is he is confused, first by the action and then by the emotion it stirs in him.

He remembers taking turns with Indrid to knock the blocks down, the two of them seeing if a troll at the bottom or dragon at the top made the bigger disaster.

“Again!” Orion claps his hands together.

“You really are a little monster, aren’t you.” Apollo mutters, but does not feel the venom he meant to put into the words.

Orion drums his hands on his knees and then crawls over to watch the construction. Apollo widens the base more, making the structure more a true pyramid.

“There, it would take you a siege engine to destroy that.”

His nephew accepts the challenge, ramming the dragon into it and sending the blocks cascading once more.

“Again!”

“Very well. But this time, you must assist me.”

The eclipse comes and goes and neither of them notice it, moving from destroying the towers many times over to seeing if they can build a fortress for the conquering dragon out of the wreckage.

Apollo figures that is teaching the boy the realities of war, in case any asks him why he was wasting his time in such pursuit.s

Footfalls hurry down the tiled hallway and the door flies open. Indrid stands in it, his knight behind him.

“Oh thank goodness.”

“Dada!” Orion runs as fast as little legs allow and hugs first Indrid, then Duck.

“I am so sorry my treasured one, there was a mix up and no one came to watch you.”

“Yes” Apollo stands, draping his robe over his arm, “the foolish child though I was you and waylaid me when I was looking for Vincent.”

“If you laid so much as a finger on him-” Indrid bites.

“Dragon attacked the castle!” Orion yells gleefully, then turns to Apollo, making grabbing hands in the hair, “up? I dragon now?”

“It…seems you got along.” His brother still looks ready to break his fingers, which would be admirable were it not unnecessary.

“Indeed. I taught him the finer points of defense construction. Now that you have returned, I can turn my attention to more important things.”

Indrid scoops the boy into his arms, “Thank you. For watching him.”

Apollo turns, pulling on his robe, “Just do not expect me too again.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s not sulking. Sulking is what one does when one is upset, and Apollo is not upset. Vincent being out on a date with someone from the city does not upset him in the slightest.

A stuffed dragon lands on his face and he growls, whipping his head to the side.

Orion, on tip toe, is peering at him over the edge of the bed.

“Play dragons?” The boy seems to sense his mood and is already looking like he regrets throwing the toy onto him.

He picks it up. It would be pleasant to rip the head off.

Then again, perhaps his nephew will let him take a turn as the beast, and he can knock some blocks over himself. That would be supremely satisfying.

“Yes, let us shore up our defenses once more.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

After that, the boy seeks him out nearly daily, slipping from under the watchful eye of knights and nannies to demand Apollo enable his dragon-based havoc.

He learns that “Be dragon” means Orion wants him to lay on his back and balance him on his feet, holding his hands as needed so he can pretend he is flying. He decides to use the moments to discuss the finer points of offensive attacks, as well as taking an enemy by surprise. He doubts the boy takes much in, too busy giggling and roaring, but surely no one will think twice about once prince preparing another to lead armies.

One day, he finds his nephew has been given a small, felt sword. This results in Apollo being given the dragon toy, then chased about the room by the small knight. When he is caught, he takes to falling about dramatically, bemoaning his fate, cursing his luck. Orion thinks it is hilarious.

“Now” he says after a particularly drawn-out death scene, his eyes still closed, “you must remember, little drake, to check that your enemies are thoroughly vanquished. Indeed, your great great great great grandfather was brought low when his enemy faked his death andAH”

Orion’s means of checking whether he’s dead turns out to be hurling his whole body onto Apollo’s torso and hugging him. He’s laughing as he does. Apollo puts his arms around him, laughing as well.

The truth is not often an easy thing to handle. His father insists it is often the harshest things that are true.

Apollo knows two of them at once.

One: Orion is now the second person other than himself he would truly die for.

Two: he will never harm this boy. Even if Apollo tries for the throne, he will find some other way.

The door creaks open and he sits up, Orion still in his arms.

“Hello your highness” Vincent smiles at Orion, “and your other highness.”

“You saw nothing.” He cannot bear the thought of someone like Vincent thinking him soft, thinking him weak.

“If you insist. But I must say, that is a pity. If I saw what I thought I did, it made me happy to see.”

“Ah.” Apollo looks at his nephew as the boy waves at Vincent.

“Indeed, since his father and knight are at a function, and his night attendant is delayed, I was coming to offer to read him a story until bed.”

Orion shrieks in excitement and hurries toward the bedroom. It takes some coaxing and bargaining to get him to change into his pajamas, but the two of them–if he’s honest, mostly Vincent–get him settled into bed.

He should leave, but when Vincent pats the space on the other side of him, he sits down on the soft, butterfly-patterned comforter, shoulder to shoulder with his knight.

Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But he’s certainly starting to enjoy it.

#YELLING #i have been so obsessed with this au for so long and you did such a good job with it!!#vinlo

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bellafarallones2 · 3 months ago

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47 Sternclay. Hope this cures your block!

Sickfic/caretaking

When Stern is sick:

Stern is not someone who gets sick easily, and he often works while sick, well past the point where it's a good idea because what is medicine made for if not dosing yourself so you can do work while feverish.

At one point, Barclay literally pins him to bed, just laying on him, to keep him from getting up and trying to go to work while feverish.

Which means the day Stern wanders in and says, "I can't work, I need to go back to bed", Barclay has a slight moment of panic because how bad must he feel to admit to being sick?

Stern really wants spicy food and slurpees when sick, if he has an appetite, so Barclay makes lots of posole or hot pot or literally anything with heat while his boyfriend is wrapped up in a blanket drinking the largest "orange cream" slurpee the gas station had.

Stern either sleeps or wants to watch bad monster hunting shows from the early 2000s, and Barclay will bundle him up and rub his shoulders and run his baths until he feels better.

When Barclay is sick:

As soon as Stern knows, he goes and gets gatorade, ice cream, and soup. Also ginger ale if there's a stomach-ache. Because those are always what Barclay asks for when sick.

He makes sure Barclay has a heating pad for any aches, and pain killers or cold medicine in reach, and turns on something soothing on T.V

Barclay gets really, really anxious if left alone while sick. So anything Stern has to do gets done from the same room, including from bed. Barclay gets lots of fur petting to soothe him, along with Stern promising him he never sees taking care of him as a problem.

#this is so sweet!! i love them

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bellafarallones2 · 3 months ago

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Greener Pastures (Vincent/Apollo)

Second place of the "First Rodeo" prompt poll was "Greener Pastures. For those who don't know, Apollo was introduced in this Amnesty Superhero AU. Thank you to @bellafarallones2 for playing in this space on Discord!

He was star of the rodeos but now they rob him blind

It took 18 years of Brahma Bulls and life on the line

To get this spread and decent herd but now he spends his time

Pulling night guard.

-Stan Rogers, Night Guard

“How many does that make?” Duck stands from where he’s examining the tire tracks at the southern end of the pasture.

“Seven.” Vincent removes his hat, fanning himself with it, “If they get anymore I’m in serious trouble. The car’s paid off but the house isn’t; I’ve already been to the bank once to explain the situation and they’re not happy.”

His neighbor stands, knees cracking worryingly for a man who’s only 32, “Cops got anythin’?”

“Nothing. I’m small potatoes, Duck, they don’t care about one old rancher losing his herd.” He sighs, “I’ve been on watch every night this week, but there’s too much distance to cover, and they know it. They got the last one out from under me.”

“You want me to help? Might go better with more eye’s on ‘em.”

Vincent considers it. He’s known Duck since he was 16, knows the offer of help isn’t given if it’s not meant.

But if this goes wrong, his friend doesn’t deserve to be hauled into jail with him.

“I’ll think about it. I have a plan tonight; if that doesn’t work, I might just take you up that offer.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent leaves a pile of windfalls from Duck’s orchard in the southwest corner of his property, and the cows can’t resist, munching happily as Vincent uses the scant oak trees for cover.

The black R.E.O pulls in silently, lights off. Dulce stomps her feet when the tires stop, but Vincent shushes her softly, petting a flank to keep her calm.

Two figures, the same size and height, leave the cab, ushering one of his heifers into the back of the truck. He can’t move just yet. He needs the proof.

As the truck begins pulling away, he pulls his Winchester from the scabbard on the saddle, takes aim, and fires four shots.

The cattle scatter, panicked, and Dulce nickers, alarmed. There’s two, responding bangs as two tires blow, sending the truck careening side to side before the driver loses control and plows headfirst into an empty drainage ditch. The passenger door flies open and one figure takes off across the road and into the neighboring field.

As Dulce trots over to the wreck, he hears another truck coming. The lights from Duck’s pick-up render the whole sight like a scene from a picture show, and the vehicle is barely stopped before the younger man is hopping out.

“Jesus fuckin christ, Vince, you scared the hell outta me. Thought you’d gone and got shot.”

“I’m alright. I worried the driver might not be. I didn’t aim anywhere near him, but I only got two tires with four shots.”

Duck hops down into the ditch as Vincent shines his flashlight on the door. When it opens, a figure is slumped over the wheel, and his heart climbs up his throat. Then the rustler stirs, groaning, and looks at Duck. His angular face is partially hidden by red glasses, and his pale hair is almost white.

“Hello.” The thief’s gaze moves from Duck to Vincent, then to the rifle, “Ah. I see. I understand my position is not an ideal one, and my bargaining power low, but I would appreciate it if you did not shoot me.”

Blood is running down his chin; he must have hit his nose in the crash. He looks more like a dazed deer than a threat.

“Get him into the house and get my cow back to the herd.” Vincent jerks his light in the direction the other man ran, “I’ll deal with that one.”

Duck nods and Vincent turns Dulce into the starlit night.

The second thief has made it a decent distance, but he’s only heading in the direction of more flat grass and so Vincent does him the courtesy of calling, “You may as well stop now. You won’t outrun me.”

He doesn’t stop, seems to try to sprint, only to fall a moment later. Vincent can hear him cursing the entire time he rides up.

When he dismounts, the man looks up, unafraid and sneering.

Vincent puts the barrel against his throat.

“The safety is on.”

“I know.” He sighs, “I’m not actually going to shoot you. But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation.”

The grin widens, “Coward.”

“Get up.” Vincent stands back so the man can climb to his feet. He seems unsteady on them, though it’s not until his hands are tied and Dulce is kneeling for him to get on that Vincent understands why; his ankle is sprained, though he’s been walking around on it without wincing this whole time.

The short walk back to the house is a litany of insults to his weight, age, intelligence, cleanliness, and parentage. Were it any other day, he’d be able to let it roll off him, remind himself that he’s not interested in the opinions of cruel people.

Were it any other day, he wouldn’t have spent the morning in the bank, staring down the loss of everything he nearly broke his back for.

The rustler thrashes and twists as Vincent helps him down, clearly trying to make a break for the ditch, or possibly for Vincent’s own truck. By the time they burst through the front door, he’s holding the boy by the scruff.

Duck is just hanging up the phone, and both he and the other thief jump at the bang of the windowpane on the door. The thief is holding a frozen bag of peas to his forehead, and in the light of the kitchen Vincent can now see he and the man trying to kick his legs out from under him must be twins.

“Apollo, for heaven’s sake, stop that. Hurting them is not going to do anything but make this hole deeper.”

“I will not be cowed by some fat, old man!”

“Be quiet.” Vincent turns to Duck, “was that the sheriff?”

“Yep.” Duck leans against the wall, frowning, “but he says he won’t send anyone out to pick ‘em up. When Indrid here gave me their names, that made a little more sense. These are Cold’s boys.” He glares at Apollo, “why they’re stealin from decent folk when their pa owns half the fuckin county is fuckin beyond me.”

“It is a long story. But I did tell you they would not send anyone; you needn’t have troubled with the call.”

“You ain’t exactly proved yourself the honest type.”

Indrid bites his lip, “If our actions have caused a financial burden, perhaps we could work it off?”

“At least one of you has sense, and some manners.” Vincent releases Apollo, but keeps a hand on his shoulder.

Apollo flicks his blonde hair from his face, then sinks his teeth into the side of Vincent’s hand.

“God fucking–” he catches himself, doesn’t swing out with his other hand to slap him. Instead he shoves at his shoulder and tries to pull away, tries to pull Apollos hair, but all the man does is bite down harder.

“Fuck, is he part Gila Monster?” Duck tries to pry Apollo off with limited success

“That is certainly one theory.” Indrid pinches his brothers nose, and after ten seconds of spluttering the other twin finally releases Vincent’s now-bleeding hand.

“Traitor! We could have run just then if you’d hit this brick with something.” He kicks Duck in the ankle.

“I am not going back to him.” Indrid says to him with what Vincent is coming to understand as very reasonable fear.

“Coward. Traitorous, useless coward!” Apollo lunges at his brother, but this time Duck is ready with the dog leash from the front door, wrapping it around his wrists and trapping them behind his back.

Vincent hauls the still-thrashing brat into the spare room, muttering, “I ought to put you over my knee” under his breath as he slams the door and slumps against it in the kitchen. Duck is watching him with concern.

“I…I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t like to lose my temper.”

“Apollo has that effect on people.” Indrid sits back down as Vincent washes his hand and fetches a bandage from the bathroom.

“You don’t think he might have rabies, do you?” He’s only half-joking.

Indrid shakes his head, “It would be nice if it could be explained so simply.” He fiddles with the corner of the now-thawed peas, “I truly am sorry. And I wish I could say that we–or, I suppose, he–will not do it again. But that would be a lie. Father has his reasons for demanding we do such things. Apollo might steer clear of Capra Farms, but he will find someone else’s livelihood to undermine.”

“So, what, we’re just supposed to keep him here like a fuckin lion in a zoo?”

“That may be our best choice. At least for now.” Vincent looks at Indrid, “Can you bale hay and pick fruit?”

Indrid nods, almost eager.

“Duck, I suggest you take this Mr. Cold up on his offer. You need more hands than I do. I’ll keep Apollo here with me for now; maybe once he’s calmed down he’ll see reason.”

And if not Vincent thinks I always was good at breaking in horses.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Knowing when to ignore things is a skill. If Apollo can apply it now, he can get himself out of this. He will ignore the pain in the ankle that fat old goat made him bandage himself. He will ignore Indrid’s betrayal. He will ignore the inexplicable surge of heat that came with his captor threatening to put him over his knee.

He will ignore it. He will bide his time. And then he will take back his car, steal anything and everything of value Vincent Capra owns, and go home.

Apollo supposes he could use the phone in the kitchen to call the cops to fetch him. But Capra has earned vengeance, and that will take time.

When the door to his little room, with its small but comfortable bed and shelf of old books, is finally unlocked, he does his best to walk un-hobbled into the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Vincent does not turn from the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs in the early morning light.

Apollo says nothing, simply sitting down and pouring himself coffee.

Vincent turns, setting a plate of toast next to jam and butter, and the bowl of eggs next to a little vase of wildflowers. Apollo realizes he did not, in fact, take the old man's place at the table; there are two settings laid out.

“I want to apologize for my behavior.” Apollo says with as much sincerity as he can conjure, “my brother had the right idea. I will help around your…farm. To pay back what I owe.”

“Thank you for your apology.” Vincent replies mildly. Then he pauses in buttering his toast, “I’m sorry for how I acted. I doubt you can understand what losing livestock means, but all the same I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

He sets the toast down and Apollo realizes; the old goat is embarrassed.

Pathetic.

“I hope we might be able to start fresh this morning. I have a few jobs you should be table to do without aggravating your ankle.” He holds out a hand, “do we have a deal?”

Apollo shakes it with his best smile, “We do.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent doesn’t trust Apollo any further than he can throw him–which, after that bull bucked him in 73 and hurt his back, isn’t far–but at least the younger man can follow directions.

He fed the chickens and collected eggs, cleaned dishes and milked the cow Vincent keeps just for that. He also got himself barked at by Quixote before Vincent whistled at the dog to follow him out to the pasture.

When Vincent sets dinner on the table, the younger man actually thanks him before helping himself to the meatloaf and green beans.

There’s a clink as Apollo sets the fork down, staring at his plate.

“Is everything alright?”

“Why are you doing this? How are you doing this?”

“This being…?” He fills his water glass.

“The food, old man.”

“I’m not about to let you starve, or make a separate, sad meal just to punish you. So, you eat what I eat.”

“But why does it taste so, so good?”

Apollo seems so perplexed Vincent stifles a laugh.

“Because that’s how food is supposed to taste. I may not be a rich man, but butter and salt and nice spices are some of life's little joys,”

“Ah.” Apollo says, understanding without grasping his reasoning.

Vincent assumed Apollo’s life was a luxurious one up until now. Now he wonders if the twins had been like prized stallions, kept too close and penned in for fear of losing their value, greener grass only seen when they were let loose to do their fathers bidding.

“If you want a real treat, I still have cherry preserves from Duck’s last harvest. Can you check the freezer? There may be some ice cream in there that it would top beautifully.”

Apollo balks at the order a moment, but still stands up and opens the door. When he turns and nods, it’s with a far more genuine smile than the one he gave this morning.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

It takes five days for Apollo’s ankle to take his weight, and once it does Vincent puts him to work more concertedly. He spends all of Saturday fixing a stretch of barbed wire, comes in sore and sunburnt but flops into bed after dinner feeling…oddly pleased with himself.

Sunday morning finds biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, with Vincent telling him he needs to run into town for some supplies for dinner. Apparently, the older man observes the silly tradition of not working more than needed on Sundays.

When the truck pulls out, Apollo takes a test jog around the house, and looks over his damaged car. Unless he can lure a mechanic out here, he’ll have to take Vincent’s truck when he finally makes his run for it.

Climbing up the porch steps, he finds Indrid waiting for him with a suitcase.

“Duck drove me back to the house when I knew father would be gone. I got my things, and a few of yours.”

“Good. I’m sick of wearing these hideous hand me downs. The pants are all too short and the shirts all too wide.”

“I was also sent with this” Indrid lifts a basket of cherries, “it turns out Duck’s orchard is prize winning. He also sells hay to half the ranches in the county.”

“I do not care.”

Indrid sighs, “I know.”

“Is he mistreating you?”

“No” His brother looks horrified, “Duck has been wonderful to me. Especially given the circumstances under which we met.”

“Oh. good.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed.” Indrid steps down, past him.

“I am not. Now go away. Vincent will be back soon and I want to sweep the house before he is.” He ignores how that sounds and wills Indrid to do the same. His brother cocks his head slightly, but says nothing else as he starts back up the road.

Vincent returns just as Apollo is tossing out the last of the dust and throwing a stick for Quixote to fetch. Dinner is pork chops, apple sauce, and onions cooked brown and sweet. Vincent sips his beer while Apollo sticks to an orange soda.

After their meal, Apollo is looking for something to read in the main bedroom when he notices the photo on the wall.

“That’s you.”

“After my first big win on the circuit. Two days later I put most of the prize money into the account that turned into this farm.”

“Ah.” Apollo feels something dangerously close to guilt.

“I do think I cut quite a figure back then.”

“Yes. Though you have only gotten better with age.”

It’s the kind of compliment that soothes the egos of little men who nonetheless have something the Colds need. Only when it’s out does he understand he means it. The Vincent in the picture, dark haired and beaming, dust on his cheeks, is handsome. The man beside him, grey haired, with more weight to him and more lines on his face, is stunning.

Vincent chuckles, accepting the compliment but not believing it.

“I…I was going to sit. On the porch. To watch the fireflies and…and maybe see if I could spot the owl who has been calling. Would you like to join me?”

Why is it so hard to ask? Why does it seem to take a thousand years for Vincent to answer?

A gentle smile, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apollo is kneeling by the fireplace. It’s snowing outside, and Vincent sits in the chair before him, fully clothed, firelight making him look like a painting, like the statues of great men in the museums Apollo went to as a child.

The rifle is on his lap and he shifts the barrel out over his knees. Apollo leans forward, taking it into his mouth and sucking. Vincent murmurs that he’s doing well, that he’s so very pretty like this. The gun is not loaded, this he is certain of. Even if it was, he is certain he would not be afraid. It is safe like this, comforting, and as it always does the dream melts into the two of them in the fields, grass green as Vincent takes him into his arms.

He wakes up to the smell of coffee and toast, the way he has every morning for the last three weeks. Apollo is no fool; he knows what his dream means. Knows that every insistence to himself that he did not like men has been a lie, perhaps even the longest lie of his life. He also knows that his brother was kissing that silly cherry grower by the western fence last night.

If Indrid, odd and unappealing as he is, can make someone kiss him, surely Apollo can do the same.

They’re fixing the barn door today; it was knocked off its hinges by a bad summer storm. The chore passes uneventfully, the two of them discussing whether to go into town for a movie on Sunday, when Vincent’s jeans catch on a nail, ripping a hole in the thigh.

“That was close.” The older man checks to be certain there’s no injury, “thank goodness I wore the thickest pair.”

Apollo nods, eyes on the patch of now-exposed skin. There is a tattoo there. An arm and something green, he thinks.

Vincent has a tattoo. And if Apollo does not get a full look at it soon, he is certain he will lose his mind.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been hot enough that, were it anyone else but Apollo, Vincent would assume the suggestion of a swim was solely due to the weather.

But he knows his Apollo. There is always an ulterior motive.

He scolds himself as they arrive at the swimming hole; Apollo isn’t his. He’s working off a debt, and one day he’ll fly off somewhere new, either by mutual agreement or by stealing everything Vincent owns.

That option should worry him more, but it’s hard to view Apollo as a threat when the hardened cattle rustler is animatedly talking about the heron they saw on their walk here while trying to get out of his clothes.

He strips down and climbs into the water as Apollo is distracted by a hawk overhead. When the younger man sees he’s already in, he looks almost annoyed. Vincent does avert his eyes as Apollo tosses his underwear away; he’s swam naked with plenty of friends, but he’s certain Apollo has not done the same. He doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable.

That worry evaporates when the blonde stands directly next to him, looking down with an intensity Vincent is trying not to read too much into.

Then Apollo huffs, grabs his leg, and sends him backwards into the water.

He twists away and comes up spluttering.

“Hold still!”

“Apollo, what on earth-”

“What part of hold still was unclear, old man?” Apollo grabs for his leg again.

“What are you trying to do?”

“See your tattoo. I need to know what it is of!”

“Asking is preferable to drowning me.” His exasperation is fond as he sets his leg on a rock so Apollo can see the blonde merman inked into his skin.

“It’s…it’s a man.” Apollo blinks, tilting his head.

“Yes. He wasn’t cheap, so please don’t insult him.”

“Do you like blondes?” Apollo’s eyes flick to his face, then back to the tattoo.

“It’s been known to happen.” Vincent lowers his leg back down so he’s standing comfortably.

“Blonde…men?”

“Yes, Apollo.” He says patiently, amused that his clever ranch hand seems so stymied.

“As in you like men to have sex with? While also being a man?”

“That's generally how it works.” He takes a step forward as Apollo goes stiff and faces him like he’s expecting execution.

“I think I would like to have sex. With you. Because I have been having dreams that are about your gun. And sucking on it. When it’s not loaded.”

“Oh, my gun is always loaded.” He teases.

Apollo looks alarmed.

“That was a sex joke.” He says reassuringly, and hazards putting his arms around Apollo’s waist.

“Oh. Ha. Ha?”

Were he being charming, being bold, Vincent would fear this was all an act. But the awkward shyness of it all leaves no doubt in his mind as to what the man in his arms is after.

“You’re an odd little bird, Apollo Cold.” He strokes an angular cheek.

“And that is a good thing?” Apollo sets his hands on Vincent’s shoulders.

“I certainly like it.” He tilts his chin up,meaning only to offer the invitation, but Apollo is instantly kissing him. It’s painfully, endearingly inexperienced, and the younger man seems to know it.

“I, I have not done this before. I am sorry if I am bad at it.” He takes Vincent's hand and kisses over the skin still a little pink from the healed bite.

“You’ve picked up plenty of skills on my farm. I think you’ll manage this one.”

Apollo grins, bright and breathtaking as a sunrise, “I may need a bit more practice. Though I would prefer somewhere less damp.”

Vincent climbs from the water and helps Apollo up after him, enjoying the way his cheeks redden when he’s eye level with his cock. Then he fetches the blanket they brought, lays it out in the shade of a tree, and lays down with his lover in the soft, green grass

#oh fuck yes!! I love them!!#vinlo

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bellafarallones2 · 3 months ago

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson Characters: Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), Thomas Jopson, John Franklin (1786-1847), Harry D. S. Goodsir, Thomas Blanky, James Clark Ross, Lady Silence | Silna (The Terror), Jane Franklin (1791-1875) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Library, canon-typical suicidal ideation and violent imagery, Psychic Abilities, Past Sophia Cracroft/Francis Crozier, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alcohol Withdrawal, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs Summary:

John Franklin (Library Director) assigns Francis Crozier (Director of User Services, troubleshooter of circulation software, locator of misshelved books, answerer of reference questions, and mainstay of the evening and weekend circulation desk) and James Fitzjames (Director of Technical Services, filler-out of purchase orders, negotiator of software- and ebook-licensing contracts, validator of bibliographic records, and all-around public library budget-stretcher) to work together to plan a volunteer appreciation banquet.

#the terror #fitzier

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson Characters: Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), Thomas Jopson, John Franklin (1786-1847), Harry D. S. Goodsir, Thomas Blanky Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Library, canon-typical suicidal ideation and violent imagery, Psychic Abilities, Past Sophia Cracroft/Francis Crozier, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alcohol Withdrawal Summary:

#the terror #the terror amc #francis crozier #james fitzjames #fitzier

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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Wow!! The image of them sharing a cigarette is so good and hot to me… and “hawkish” is such a good word for Alistair omg! and him switching to menthols because Charles likes them adds an interesting dimension to his character. Like. That man hates everyone but the way he hates Charles looks a lot like love 👀

okay all of those WIPS sound excellent but you know I wanna hear about the Alistair and Charles scene!! what are they up to??

Thank you for asking! For context to everyone else, Alistar and Charles are the OCs of @thiswasinevitableid and @bellafarallones respectively. I planned on featuring them a lot in the BttF fic in the works, but I wanted to play around with their characterization This is a snippet I liked in particular, though I think I'll need to really workshop it when the time comes.

“Can I bum one of those?” Charles asked, but he really didn’t need to. Alistar always kept enough on hand for the both of them. He’d even switched to menthols when he learned that they were Charles’ favorite.

Alistar wordlessly held out the cigarettes to Charles, who took one swiftly. Alistar took a few short puffs of his cigarette as he put the box away. He then took the cigarette out of his mouth as he lit the lighter close to Charles.

Charles leaned down towards the flame with the cigarette between his lips to light it, and Alistar quietly observed him. These small moments were his favorites. The small fire illuminating his friend’s face to enhance his hawkish features, the way his thin lips wrapped around the cigarette, the top of his head that Alistar rarely saw, the concentration Charles held in his eyes as he inhaled to make the cigarette catch, how close his face was to Alistar’s own.

#😍

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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I’m such a sucker for library AUs, tell me more 👀

(responding to the WIP game)

oh man!! yes. i work in a library right now so i am absolutely going to bring some niche career knowledge to this one. the only thing about a terror library au that's going to require suspension of disbelief is the idea of a library with a 100% male staff. and also why these people from the british isles are working at an american public library (i have no idea how british libraries work).

franklin is the library director, fitzjames is director of technical services, and crozier is director of user services and shockingly good at working with the public considering how disagreeable he is in staff meetings. blanky is the building manager. silna is a prominent local author who does events at the library sometimes and goodsir, who does interlibrary loan and is also Keeper of the First Aid Kit, is kind of in love with her. i also love thinking about crozier and jopson hanging out while they're staffing the circulation desk. and the plot idea i have is that fitzjames and crozier don't get along but then franklin assigns them to work on a special project together and they get to know each other a little better 👀

i already have over 5k words of this written lol so. possibly coming soon to an ao3 tag near you!

#thank you so much for the ask!! <3 #the terror

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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agghh yess.. and I have my guesses as to what that second incident might be 👀 but also more courtship would be amazing!! i can totally see stern struggling with his feelings for barclay, wanting to be in a relationship and make barclay happy but also fearing putting barclay in danger. and barclay struggling with how safe he feels around someone who's objectively so dangerous!!

vigilante stern.. i have been obsessed with that au for so long and it remains so fucking good and compelling!!

You and me both; it's one where ideas keep coming to me at random. With the extended fic, I'm hoping of drawing out the courtship section a bit more, and maybe adding a second BIG incident for Stern and Barclay to navigate.

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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fuck this is gonna be so good!!

I would love to know what kind of sexy roleplay Jopson/Crozier/Fitzjames are getting up to... 👀

The basic shape so far is: Crozier pretends he's still Jopson's employer in a much more formal way (and in a much less kind/respectful way than he was), laying in wait for Jopson to bring a certain lady home from an evening out on the town.

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bellafarallones2 · 4 months ago

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WIP Game tagged by @thiswasinevitableid, all of whose WIPS I would be extremely excited to read. Thank you so much for tagging me!

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

these are not really filenames because i've been boring about those lately. also I am a person who usually has about a million WIPs at any time so. here are my current The Terror ones:

James Clark Ross POV fic of rescuing the Franklin expedition and then trying to be a wingman for Crozier and Fitzjames

fic about Fitzjames' death inspired by the song You Gotta Die Sometime from the musical Falsettos

Library AU

Jopson/Crozier kinkmeme fill

Crozier/Fitzjames "doctor" roleplay

Jopson/Crozier birthday sex

Please feel free to send in an ask to give me an excuse to yell about any of them!!

I'm not sure who I know who's been super actively writing fic lately? But I know @may-or-may-not-be-me @mag150cul-de-sac @scarlet-the-girl @figurativelysunny have written stuff in the past so if you all have any WIPs currently I'd love to hear about them!

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bellafarallones2 · 5 months ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames Characters: Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), references to sophia cracroft and sir john franklin Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Trans James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Drunk Sex, (episode 2-typical francis crozier), Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Wet & Messy Summary:

One of the only pleasures of the interminable dinners on Erebus during that winter and early spring of 1847 was that Captain Francis Crozier could look across the table at Commander James Fitzjames, halfway through one of his self-congratulatory tales of valor, and smile, knowing that Fitzjames would be soaking his underwear for him.

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bellafarallones2 · 5 months ago

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prison break (2/2)

part 2 of this, in which questions are answered

Duck Newton used a nondescript keycard to swipe into the Bureau of Hero Management building at eight thirty. His footsteps were deafeningly loud on the tile in the empty lobby: any sane employee had already gone home for the evening.

Getting summoned here always made him feel a little bit like he was in trouble. Especially when the summons was “at your earliest convenience.”

He took the elevator down to the lowest level of the basement. Maybe Agent X had a new upgrade for one of Duck’s weapons, though these days more of Duck’s sparring with his nemesis had been verbal than physical.

The elevator doors opened, and Duck found himself in a familiar windowless room. The lights had been dimmed, illuminating only the steel table where Agent X was sitting on a stool, a laptop open in front of him. “Good evening, Mr. Newton,” said Agent X. His voice was perfectly pleasant, but Duck had always found him unsettling.

“Uh, yeah. Hey, Agent X. What did you want to meet about?”

“I assume you heard about the prison break in Nevada in May,” said Agent X.

“Yeah, that was wild,” said Duck, only more confused about why he’d been summoned here. None of Kepler’s heroes had even had anything to do with search efforts, as far as he’d heard.

“We have recovered pieces of the explosive that was used to breach the prison wall. From outside, oddly enough.” Agent X gestured to the steel table in front of him, and Duck leaned over it to examine the charred pieces of the device.

“The method seems flashy,” Agent X continued. “More like a supervillain than an ordinary criminal, but none of the escapees have connections to any known supervillain, and none of them seem to have known it was coming. I know you’ve been a hero for several years, and are familiar with most of the major villains in Kepler. Does this workmanship look like anything you’ve seen before?”

Duck squinted. He could reconstruct it in his mind, sort of, the way a device small enough to fit in a backpack had been engineered to produce enough force to blow through a wall. It was clever. The soldering was very neat. It reminded him of…

He bit his tongue and looked up at Agent X. The agent’s face was blank, as always, his blue eyes as cold as the table they were standing over.

“I’ll think about it,” said Duck.

–

At home, posted up on the couch in his boxer shorts with his cat around his shoulders, Duck pulled up The Moth’s file, rereading the text he already knew pretty much by heart. The Moth - Indrid Cold - had few known associates, certainly not any of the men who’d escaped from prison in Nevada. Duck sighed at the prospect of cross-referencing the Moth’s dates of activity against the lives of the escapees to see if any of them could have met.

Then his phone buzzed with a news alert. Six of the escapees had been captured at once, together in an abandoned hunting cabin a few dozen miles from the prison. That meant only one was still at large.

Barclay Cobb. According to the news article Duck pulled up, he’d been a mild-mannered cook before his arrest for the murder of the man he’d been sleeping with, an FBI special agent called Joseph Stern. A cook - Duck thought of the time a few weeks ago when he ran across The Moth sitting on a fire escape, eating something out of a Thermos. Duck had never seen him eating anything except packaged snacks. My roommate said if I was going to be out all night he should pack me a snack, he had said when Duck asked what he was doing. He’s an amazing cook.

But Duck was distracted from that thought almost instantly. There was a picture of Special Agent Joseph Stern on the page, smiling at the camera in his black suit and tie, and it was a picture of Agent X.

It couldn’t be. Did he have a twin? Duck read further - Agent Stern’s body was never found, but the last person to see him alive was Barclay, Stern’s fingerprints were all over the inside of Barclay’s car, and a jury had found him guilty of the murder. And sentenced him to die.

A loud rapping at the window above Duck’s head made him yell “Fuck!” and shove the laptop off his lap. A ghostly face had appeared in the darkness, with reflective red sunglasses.

Duck almost tripped over his laptop cord in his haste to get to the window and throw it open. The Moth, dressed in all black, slipped inside.

“You broke Barclay Cobb out of prison,” said Duck.

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” Indrid teased.

“You’d never done a prison break before! As far as I knew. Why’d you do this one?”

“Because I knew he was innocent.”

“How?”

“I had a vision. I didn’t know what actually happened to Joseph Stern. But I think you just figured it out.”

“There’s no way. He must be a twin or something.”

“I don’t think so.” Indrid smiled, that smile that always made Duck’s knees and professional ethics alike go weak. “Do you want to go searching for birth certificates? Or do you want to cut to the chase and just ask him?”

Duck pulled out his phone and dialed the laboratory. “We might have to call back tomorrow if he’s asleep now,” Duck warned.

But Agent X picked up immediately. “Hello, who’s speaking?”

“Hey, uh, it’s Duck. I thought of something about that prison break. Can I come talk to you sometime? Sometime soon?”

“How soon can you get back here?”

“Uhhh…” Duck covered the receiver and looked at Indrid. “I don’t think the trains run this late more than once an hour.”

“I brought my car,” said Indrid.

Duck spoke into the phone again. “I’ll be there soon.” He hung up and looked at Indrid. “Just let me put some real pants on.”

–

Indrid’s car was parked in the alley behind Duck’s apartment. “You know that’s a no-parking zone,” Duck grumbled as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Indrid just tapped the side of his glasses smugly. The radio turned on automatically as Indrid started the engine, and Duck was unsurprised to discover that Indrid had it tuned to a Kepler police scanner.

“I know, I know, you’ve got powers and can tell whether you’re gonna get a ticket or not. Do you need the address?” Duck added as Indrid pulled out of the alley.

“I know where the Bureau of Hero Management is, chivalrous one.”

“Of course you do.” Duck reached under his seat to scoot it forward - the last person to sit there must have been tall as fuck.

Without traffic they made relatively good time. “I’ve never actually been inside before,” Indrid admitted as he pulled into the parking garage. It took him two tries to make the ticket machine give him one.

They took the elevator from the garage into the same place Duck had been just a few hours ago. He’d wondered before, seeing Agent X here at all hours, whether he might sleep here.

Agent X barely allowed surprise to flash across his face at the sight of Indrid in the elevator at Duck’s shoulder. “Hello, Ranger,” said Agent X. “And who’s this? I hope you have good reason for bringing him here.”

“Are you a twin, Agent X?” said Indrid.

Agent X tensed instantly. “Why do you ask?”

Indrid cocked his head. “I have a photo to show you.”

He pulled out his phone and pulled up the picture of Joseph Stern, smiling. Agent X bent over it. “Who is that?”

Indrid sighed, pulled a compact mirror out of his pocket, set it on the table so Agent X could see his own reflection.

“Oh,” said Agent X. “Oh, fuck. Who is that?”

“A man who’s been presumed dead for ten years.”

“...Who are you?”

“I’m Indrid Cold. The Moth. Duck’s nemesis.”

Agent X buried his face in his hands. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I have a twin or not. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything before… ten years ago, it would be. Working here. But I… Duck.” He met Duck’s eye and then touched the back of his head, parting the hair as he turned so Duck and Indrid could see the scar running horizontally along the back of his skull. Like someone had cut his scalp open from ear to ear and then sewed him back up. “Who is in that picture?” He turned back to face them.

“Special Agent Joseph Stern,” said Indrid.

“I… that name means nothing to me,” said Agent X.

“What about this picture?” Indrid pulled up another one, of a man with an auburn beard. It took Duck a moment to recognize him; he looked different than he had in his prison pictures. Less miserable.

“Barclay,” breathed Joseph. “I - I know him. I don’t know how. I know he’s important to me. Or he was. Where is he? Is he okay?”

“Until a few weeks ago he was on death row for your murder.”

“What? What the fuck? Oh, no, he… the escapee. The Nevada police all think he’s dead; he had no experience surviving outdoors and there’s no logical reason they haven’t been able to find him. He must have died in the woods or the desert somewhere.”

“You really don’t remember anything from before?” said Duck, not quite believing.

Agent X shook his head. Then suddenly his gaze went sharp again. “Hayes. Agent Hayes would know.” He started for the elevator.

“Uh,” said Duck. “It’s past ten, there’s no way he’s here.”

“We could still search his office,” said Indrid.

The three of them took the elevator all the way up to the top floor. The windows here afforded panoramic views of Kepler’s skyline, and Hayes had a corner office.

“How do you want to do this?” said Agent X. “I can start with his desk and you guys can do the file cabinets?”

“Just give me a minute,” said Indrid. “We don’t have to go through every drawer.”

“Oh. Your powers. Of course.”

Indrid was silent for a moment, eyes closed, rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly on his heels. Then he reached for a drawer in the middle of the filing cabinet.

It was locked. Indrid sighed and went digging in his pockets.

Agent X reached across him and yanked the drawer out hard enough to break the lock.

“That’s another option.” Indrid pulled out the drawer, flipping through the manila folders inside until he pulled one out and put it on Hayes’ desk. It bulged with papers and the lump of a slim, black leather wallet.

Agent X opened the wallet. “Oh, fuck.” A Wisconsin driver’s license belonging to one Joseph Richard Stern. A very faded Costco membership card. A photo of an infant in a pink onesie.

“I don’t know who that is,” said Joseph, holding the photograph.

“Your niece, I believe,” said Indrid softly. Joseph and Duck both looked over at him.

Indrid shrugged. “Barclay told me you had a two-year-old niece who you adored.”

Someone had written on the back of the photograph in blue pen Baby Olivia, 11-14-2009. Joseph stared at it for a long moment, then looked back up at Indrid. “Is he okay? Barclay?”

Indrid was quiet for a moment. “About as well as could be expected,” he said finally. “He has nightmares. But he’s sleeping through the night more often than he did back in May.”

“And all because of me.”

“Hey, whoa,” said Duck. “I’m not getting the vibe that you agreed to have all your memories wiped. And even if you did, it sounds like it was more the DA in Nevada who decided to blame Barclay for you disappearing.”

Joseph put everything back in the wallet and put the wallet in the back pocket of his slacks. “I still have to fix this.”

Duck cleared his throat. “So, uh, should we still call you Agent X?”

“Please call me Joseph.”

–

The three of them were still there when the first others people started arriving in the office the next morning. It reminded Duck of stakeouts he’d done before as a hero, except with slightly comfier seating and less fast-food takeout.

Finally an older man in a black suit came into the office and shut the door behind him. This must be Hayes. His appearance was unremarkable in every way, the kind of man you’d forget as soon as he left your field of vision.

“Agent X?” he said. “What are you doing here? And who are these people?”

Joseph stood up. There were dark circles under his eyes. “What happened to me?” he demanded.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Joseph Stern. That’s my real name. And you knew it, and you never told me, and Barclay was sentenced to death for murdering me!”

“That was never my intention. I didn’t realize the Nevada prosecutors would be quite so zealous as to put a man on death row with no real evidence.” Hayes sat down in his desk chair and started booting up his computer. “But really, what’s one life against all the good you’ve done working for us?”

“Not just one life. All of his friends and family, all of my friends and family… that’s not just collateral damage!”

“You were going to quit. I couldn’t let you.”

“Well, consider this my resignation. And give me my memories back.”

Hayes laughed. “Oh, no, you think I have your memories in a bottle somewhere? Like a science fiction movie? No. We opened your skull and used a laser to abrade your hippocampus. The man you were before is gone. Forever.”

Joseph made it two steps into a lunge for Hayes before Duck tackled him out of the way. “Hey, man, do you really want to start a fight here? Or do you want to go tell the police in Nevada that you’re alive so you can get Barclay set free?”

For a moment Joseph fought him, but Duck was stronger. And then Joseph went limp on the tile floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

–

“Thirty-five dollars for parking??” said Indrid when he put the ticket back into the machine to pay.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Joseph. “Maybe my employee ID will work?”

Indrid took it from him and scanned it. “Invalid employee ID.”

“Fuck,” said Joseph.

“I’ve got some cash,” said Duck, pulling out his wallet. He handed over a ten and three ones.

“All I have is a twenty,” said Joseph.

“Fine, fine,” said Indrid. He flinched an instant before the car in line behind them honked, and then fed the bills as well as some from his own wallet into the machine.

All three of them let out a sigh of relief when the gate opened to let them out.

“So, uh, where are we going?” said Duck.

“I want to see Barclay,” said Joseph.

“I’ll have to call him and warn him that we’re coming,” said Indrid. “Do you want me to tell him you’re back? Or do you want to do that yourself?”

Duck looked around and saw that Joseph looked nervous, like a kid about to ask his crush to prom. “...Will you tell him? I’m not sure I’d put it in the right way.”

“Alright,” said Indrid. He picked up his phone and handed it to Duck. “Duck, will you call Barclay and hand me back the phone?”

Duck handed it back while it was ringing. He and Joseph could only hear Indrid’s half of the conversation. “Hello, Barclay. I just wanted to alert you that I’ll be back in about twenty minutes and I have two people with me. One is my nemesis, Duck, and the other one is Joseph Stern. Yes, we found him. It turns out he’d had his memory wiped by a shadowy government organization but he’s at least somewhat back now. Yes, he remembers you. No, he knows you didn’t have anything to do with what happened.”

Joseph made a sound like a choked-off sob.

“No, we haven’t had breakfast yet. Yes. We’ll see you soon, Barclay.”

Indrid hung up the phone.

“Is he still…” Joseph’s question trailed off.

“Single?” said Indrid, sounding slightly amused. “As far as I’m aware.”

“Can we stop somewhere on the way back so I can buy flowers for him? He… he always liked flowers.”

Indrid looked over. “Alright.”

“Thank you. Just let me run in.”

They stopped in a grocery store parking lot and let Joseph out. Duck and Indrid sat there in silence, watching people and cars go by. A woman with a baby in one arm left the grocery store with her purchases, twelve-packs of RC Cola stacked up in the bottom of the cart.

“Well, it’s been a long night,” said Duck.

“Yes, it has.” Indrid’s body was slack against the driver’s seat. “But I thought you might like to see this through before you go home to sleep.”

“Yeah. How do you feel about all this? Reuniting people, uncovering truths… it all seems a little heroic for you.”

“On the contrary.” Indrid smiled. “The Bureau of Hero Management just lost their most competent agent. Every villain in the city should be thanking me.”

A few minutes later Stern emerged from the grocery store with a spring bouquet, mostly pink and red flowers. He slid into the back seat and buckled his seatbelt. “Thank you. Now I’m ready to see him.”

–

Duck had been curious to find out where Indrid’s lair was, and he watched the street signs as they drove closer.

“Don’t bother,” said Indrid quietly. “Now that you know where I live, I’ll be moving soon.”

“That seems like a hassle,” said Duck.

Indrid shrugged. “Life of a villain on the run.”

The door of the basement apartment opened as they reached it. Duck was startled by what a big guy Barclay was, even taller and broader than Indrid and Joseph, who were both over six feet. But Barclay wasn’t looking at Duck. He was looking at Joseph, his brown eyes red-rimmed with emotion.

Indrid’s voice broke the tension. “Let’s get inside and then you two can catch up.”

“Of course,” said Barclay and stood aside to let them in.

“Hey,” said Duck. “Uh. I’m Duck.”

Barclay nodded. “Indrid has a picture of you above his workbench.”

“Really?”

Indrid had his head in his hands. “There were so many futures where you didn’t say that.”

“Do I inspire you, ‘Drid?”

At that moment Joseph offered Barclay the bouquet of flowers. “These are for you. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m going to go to the police in Nevada and get this all cleared up, I’m so sorry, I didn’t remember, I never thought…”

“Oh, Joseph.” Barclay pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m just so fucking glad you’re alive, holy shit, I thought, I thought you were dead!”

“I know. I’m sorry. And I… I still don’t remember everything from before. I don’t know if I remember my family.” Joseph held Barclay at arm’s length for a moment to look into his face, eyes now brimming with tears. “But I remember loving you.”

Barclay kissed him, hard, and after a moment of surprise Joseph melted into his arms.

Duck averted his eyes. Then he felt Indrid’s cool hand slip into his and start tugging him back towards the front door. “Let’s give them some space.”

#sternclay

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bellafarallones2 · 5 months ago

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prison break (1/2)

in which The Moth breaks an innocent man out of prison. tw for references to incarceration, death penalty, etc. this is based on an au i talked with @thiswasinevitableid about a long time ago, and Indrid's whole deal also owes a lot to her superhero/supervillain fics

The Moth sometimes liked to listen to the radio while he tinkered in his workshop. Maybe that’s how he first found out about Barclay Cobb’s case, though he didn’t consciously remember hearing it.

But the vision, when it came, was too vivid to be forgotten. Indrid’s screwdriver clattered to the floor. A man with big brown eyes, in a prison jumpsuit he’d done nothing to earn. An innocent man, trapped in a prison cell while his case wound and rewound through appeals, hundreds of lawyer-hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars paid by the state of Nevada to decide that yes, they were going to kill him.

There were many innocent people in prison. Intellectually, Indrid knew this. There were many more guilty people in prison who still didn’t deserve what the state had decided they did. But perhaps Indrid could do something good for this one man.

–

The night wasn’t quiet, because it was never quiet on death row, but it was about as quiet as it ever got. Now Barclay was trying to make his head quiet so he could go to sleep.

(Nights weren’t nearly as bad as mornings. Mornings were the worst. Especially if Barclay had dreamed of before, dreamed of fresh air and going to work and laughing with his friends, and then he woke up in his narrow, uncomfortable bunk and realized again that he was going to die here.)

And then there was the sound of an explosion, and Barclay’s eyes flew open.

The cinderblock wall of the cell block had disintegrated, making a hole large enough to walk through.

Barclay got out of bed and stood there, feeling the cool night breeze from on his face, but paralyzed by the shouting of guards and fellow inmates. He couldn’t see three feet in front of his face from the dust. Then he felt a strong hand on his arm, and a voice in his ear. “You’re coming with me.”

Barclay went. He had, quite literally, nothing to lose. His rescuer dragged him out through the prison yard, out through a hole in the barbed wire fence, and into the woods. Barclay’s prison sandals were already almost disintegrating.

Looking at the back of the man leading him, Barclay wracked his brain to see if he recognized him.

He was dressed in black. There was some kind of mechanical contraption attached to his back. He had his hood down so Barclay couldn’t see his face. He was tall, but not quite as tall as Barclay, and very thin.

They walked almost a half mile through the woods before they got to a black car parked on a dirt track. The man opened the trunk and tossed a pile of clothes to Barclay. There was a t shirt and a flannel, jeans, and socks and underwear folded discreetly between the shirt and pants. And a pair of nice new hiking boots. Barclay changed as fast as he could while the stranger tapped the steering wheel impatiently.

“Just throw your old clothes in the trunk. And get in.”

Barclay got into the front passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt. The car engine revved, sounding powerful and expensive. “Who are you?” said Barclay. Now he could see his rescuer’s face in profile: the high cheekbones, silver hair cropped close to his skull, eyes covered by red-tinted spectacles.

“I’m the Moth.”

The name meant nothing to Barclay, but he certainly sounded like a criminal. “...What do you want with me?”

“I want you not in prison, Mr. Cobb.” It was a relief to hear the man say his name. If he’d gotten the wrong person Barclay could see that being bad for him down the road.

He still had no idea why he was here. “Why?”

“Does it matter why?” the Moth snapped. “You’re out. Isn’t that enough for you?”

For the first time Barclay realized that the Moth’s hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. He was nervous.

The Moth paused at the end of the dirt track, making sure there were no cars in sight before turning onto the main road. Then he started driving away from the prison.

Barclay could hear sirens in the distance, and at one point three police cars sped past them in the other direction, but they didn’t stop.

Barclay tried to relax. They were driving down I-80, passing trucks in the darkness, the headlights lighting up billboards and signs for roadside attractions. The red numbers of the clock on the dashboard ticked forward.

After an hour Barclay’s bladder began to complain. After another half hour he got up the courage to ask “can we stop so I can go to the bathroom?”

“Fine,” said the Moth.

He pulled off at the next rest stop. The building was empty, the truck parking spots in the lot all full and silent. The bright lights inside hurt Barclay’s eyes.

The Moth waited outside the men’s room while Barclay went in. He sat down in a stall and for a moment just closed his eyes and appreciated the silence. The fact that he could close the stall door behind him and lock it. The way the clothes felt on his body - nice, and exactly his size. How did the Moth know what size he was?

When he was done he went back outside and found that the Moth had bought a package of fruit snacks from the vending machine. “Do you want anything?” said the Moth.

The vending machine in the prison visiting area had the same kinds of things, and Barclay was sick of them all. “No, thanks.”

“We’ll stop for breakfast around seven,” said the Moth.

“Alright.”

They got back in the car and kept driving.

After dawn broke, Barclay relished every moment looking out at the land they passed. Open space had become foreign to him, the idea of a world not closed in by concrete walls and barbed-wire fence.

At 6:55 they reached the outskirts of a town, and at 7:02 they pulled into the parking lot of a diner.

There were a few customers inside, men and women who looked like farmers, all watching with significant interest the television in the corner playing breaking news about the largest escape of death row prisoners in United States history. Enough inmates had escaped that they flashed Barclay’s face on the screen only briefly, but it still made him nervous to sit there in public.

“You might want to shave your beard,” said the Moth.

“Yes,” said Barclay.

“Order whatever you like,” said the Moth. “My treat.”

The waitress came by to take their order. The Moth ordered iced tea; Barclay ordered coffee. The Moth ordered a big breakfast, so Barclay did too.

When the Moth’s glass of tea arrived he tore open four sugar packets at once and dumped them in, far too much sugar to dissolve.

When Barclay took his first bite of hash brown, his eyes watered with emotion: it was his first taste of non-prison food in almost ten years.

–

Soon after breakfast they crossed the border into California, and then into the outskirts of Kepler. The Moth got off the highway and cruised down residential streets, Barclay’s face glued to the window. There were so many people out there - talking, walking, unaware of Barclay’s presence or what he’d been convicted of.

The Moth pulled into the alley behind a residential building. “Home sweet home,” said the Moth. “For the time being, at least.”

Barclay followed him into the building and down the stairs into a basement apartment.

“I’ll give you the tour,” said the Moth as he flipped on the lightswitch. “I don’t have more than one bed yet, so unfortunately we’ll have to take turns sleeping on the couch.”

The space was so barren it looked like someone hadn’t quite moved in yet, or was halfway through moving out. The kitchen was empty except for the box of fruit gushers on top of the fridge. There was a single bed pushed up against the wall, a sofa, and a television. “This is my workshop,” said the Moth, gesturing into the room that would have been a bedroom under a more conventional decorating scheme. “I’m letting you look in now so you won’t be tempted to go inside later.”

Barclay looked. There was a workbench and a huge plastic organizer full of electrical components. Some machine he didn’t recognize was disemboweled on the workbench. “Okay. No going in the workshop. Got it.”

Then the Moth showed him how to operate the security system, and gave him a piece of paper with the code on it to keep in his pocket. “Don’t let anybody in when I’m not here. Also, I can’t let you contact any of your friends or family.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to Barclay yet, but now his heart hurt at the thought of not being able to let them know he was okay.

“I’m sorry,” said the Moth, sounding sincere. “The police will be watching them. If you try to get in touch with any of them, you will get caught.”

Barclay sighed. “I know.”

The Moth pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and started peeling off bills. “I don’t know what you like to eat, and you’ll need more clothes… and I’ll give you my library card if you promise not to lose anything you check out.”

–

Barclay spent much of the next week sleeping. Enjoying being able to shower in privacy. The Moth’s schedule was as unpredictable as the weather; Barclay could never guess whether he’d be asleep on the couch, curled up in his blankets like a caterpillar in a cocoon, huddled over the table in his workbench, or out.

Once, when Barclay was about to leave to get groceries, he paused in the doorway to the workshop.

“Um. Moth?”

“Indrid,” he said.

“What?”

“My name. Please call me Indrid. ‘The Moth’ is more of a title.”

“Okay. Indrid. I was just going to ask if you’re allergic to anything?”

The Moth - Indrid - turned his head to look at Barclay, mouth open slightly in surprise.

“I’m going to make chicken noodle soup. It’s, um, what my mom always made when I was sick or needed comfort. But the recipe makes way too much for one person to eat. So I was thinking maybe you’d like to share it with me.”

“No, I’m not allergic to anything,” said Indrid slowly. “And I would be grateful to share soup with you.”

Suddenly Barclay felt very awkward. “Good to know. Thank you. I… I’ll be back soon.”

–

When Barclay came back with his shopping bags, he was only slightly disappointed to find that Indrid was gone.

He chopped the vegetables, enjoying the familiar fragrance of rosemary, carved up the chicken, and sat down on the couch to let it all simmer.

Then he heard a bang at the door, and froze. Someone was rattling the handle. Indrid had told him not to open the door for anyone when he wasn’t there. And this didn’t sound like the police.

“Drat!” came a voice from outside, and then the door opened and Indrid stumbled inside. But something was wrong. He was limping, his shirt was stuck to his body with blood.

Barclay leapt up. “You’re hurt!”

“Hm? Oh, hello Barclay.” Indrid went into the bathroom and turned on the light, peeling off his shirt and throwing it into the bathtub before getting in himself.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” said Barclay. “I can drive you!”

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine.” Indrid closed the bathroom door, hiding himself from Barclay’s sight. “I’ll clean all the blood out of the bathtub, don’t worry.”

He sounded so nonchalant Barclay almost doubted what he’d seen. But no, someone had taken a knife to Indrid’s torso. “So… you’re a criminal?�� said Barclay through the bathroom door.

A moment of silence. “I’m a supervillain.” More silence. “So, yes, but I like to think I have a little more style than the average purse-snatcher.”

Barclay knew about supervillains. They were a particular feature of Kepler, in the same way San Francisco had its streetcars. But since he wasn’t from Kepler, it hadn’t occurred to him that Indrid was one of them. Though in retrospect, it should have been obvious. A regular criminal didn’t have a title like The Moth.

“Does that mean you have superpowers?” said Barclay.

“In a manner of speaking. Though I like to think I make good use of my gadgets as well.”

“Ah.”

“Barclay, would you mind going into my workshop and getting the first aid kit out of the bottom drawer on the right side of the desk?”

“Of course,” said Barclay.

He hadn’t gone into Indrid’s workshop since his first day here. On the wall above the desk was a corkboard, mostly covered in blueprints, but with a snapshot of a man in a green costume Barclay didn’t recognize pinned to the corner. Was this a superhero? Indrid’s nemesis?

Barclay got the first-aid kit out of the drawer and brought it back to the bathroom. Indrid was kneeling in the tub in his underwear, looking very skinny and vulnerable. He put out a hand and Barclay put the first-aid kit into it.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” said Barclay.

“Not at the moment,” said Indrid. “I am rather practiced at this, and you are not. But please close the door again. You won’t like watching it.”

Barclay closed the door.

“I can see the future,” Indrid said, sounding like his teeth were gritted. “I had a vision that you were innocent. And it’s how I knew to come find you.”

Barclay went cold. “If you know that I’m innocent… What actually happened to Agent Stern?”

“I don’t know,” Indrid admitted. “I’m sorry. I can’t see. But just because I can’t right now, doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying,” he added.

Barclay sat down on the couch. “Oh. I just thought…”

“I know.” A few more moments of silence. “Would you like to tell me what happened? In your own words, I mean.”

Barclay took a deep breath. He’d been thinking about it for a while. Telling Indrid. “I was a cook,” he started. “At a diner outside of Reno. A total nobody. And he came in for lunch a couple of times.

“He was so handsome, I thought he must be a movie star. Definitely someone important. He always dressed so well. We got to talking one day, and he left me his number. So we started seeing each other. Turned out he worked for the FBI office in Reno, and he had a thing for tall guys, and luckily for me there weren’t that many who were taller than him. I thought it was so cool that he was a special agent. He was so smart. Smartest guy I ever knew.

“And then one night we were seeing a movie together - Godzilla, he was so excited for it, he loved monster movies, it was so cute how excited he was - and I dropped him off at his place afterwards, and…”

Barclay squeezed his eyes shut, tears forcing themselves out through the lids. “He never made it inside. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what happened. I drove away. I didn’t see anything. I’ve thought back to that moment a thousand times. I just wish… I never would have hurt him. I never wanted anything bad to happen to him!”

“I’m so, so sorry,” said Indrid.

“They didn’t have any real evidence against me!” said Barclay. “No murder weapon, no body, no anything. But because I was a loser, and I was the last person to see him, and they couldn’t think of anyone else to blame, they figured I must have done something terrible. I didn’t have a criminal record at all. I just…” Barclay took a deep breath. “Indrid?”

“Yes?”

“Do you enjoy hurting people?” As a supervillain Barclay supposed it was part of the job description. But to him, Indrid had never been anything but gentle.

Indrid was quiet for a very long time. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “Not anymore.”

“When I was in third grade I got suspended for fighting.” If Indrid didn’t know already, he’d find out soon enough, and Barclay couldn’t bear not to tell him. “There was this guy in my class who wouldn’t stop harassing me and my friends. Stupid shit, like pulling books out of our hands and throwing them on the floor. Just to piss us off. And one day when we were out on the playground, I just… hit him as hard as I could. I didn’t really know what would happen. He was fine! And I learned my lesson. That violence never makes anything better. It didn’t even feel good to hit him. I’ve never tried to hurt anyone since then. But the prosecutors called my fucking elementary school principal to the stand to tell everyone what a violent animal I was.”

“I’m sorry,” said Indrid. “I’m sorry.”

The timer went off that Barclay had set to remind him when the soup would be ready. The bathroom door opened, and Indrid emerged, a clean white bandage taped to his stomach. “Soup time?”

(update 6/16: part 2 has been posted!! https://bellafarallones2.tumblr.com/post/753467997825433600/prison-break-22)

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bellafarallones2 · 6 months ago

Text

Tree branches reached out over the edge of the water, and jewel-bright dragonflies sped through the air. The eel-fishing was good here, but now it was late enough in the season that Duck was alone as he stripped and waded out into the water, mud squishing between his toes.

I wrote some NSFW Indruck for Mermay, set in a vague fantasy-medieval-ish world. (There’s no homophobia or references to it, but I do imply that Christianity or something like it exists in this world.)

Duck Newton was kneeling on plush carpet at the king’s feet, sweating through his formal jacket. Could they not crack a window in the throne room?

“The royal family thanks you for your valiant service,” said the king pompously. “Your actions in the face of mortal peril show that heroes can truly come from anywhere in the kingdom.”

Duck wondered idly if he was disparaging Kepler, or Duck’s identity as a commoner. It didn’t really matter, in the end.

“As a reward for your actions, we bestow upon you this medal -” the king lowered the medal around Duck’s neck, the heavy gold chain cool against his skin - “and a reward of one of the king’s finest hogs.”

Now that would be dead useful. Hopefully he could breed it with some of his family’s pigs back home in Kepler, maybe make good money selling half-royal piglets.

“And your fortune.”

What?

–

A courtier whose title Duck wasn’t sure of explained that by his fortune, the king meant the chance to have his fortune told by the royal seer. Apparently nobles from the world over paid handsomely for the privilege, so Duck should be honored to get it for free.

Every kid in the kingdom knew the story. Their king’s several-greats grandfather had defeated a conquering army on the advice given to him by a talking fish, and ever since, the royal family had the image of a golden fish as their insignia.

The courtier handed Duck a lantern and a jar of red liquid, dark sediment settled at the bottom. “An offering for the seer. I will take you to him now.”

Duck took the jar. “Uh, thanks.” In the next town over from Kepler, the innkeeper had a pet fish that was supposed to be able to predict the outcome of soccer games. Duck figured this would be something like that.

The courtier led him deep into the oldest part of the castle, through several locked doors. Finally, she stopped at the end of a hallway, in front of a door painted with silver fish scales. “Just through here. Don’t touch anything except for the railing, but be careful. The stairs are slippery.”

Duck pushed open the door and found himself at the top of a long staircase leading down.

Holding the lantern out to see where he was going, Duck took his first careful step down. Condensation dripped down the walls. Some kind of creature with so many legs it made Duck’s skin crawl skittered off the staircase when the lantern light fell on it. Duck took a deep breath and kept climbing downwards.

At the bottom of the stairs he found himself on flat stone. A beach, of sorts, at the edge of an underground lake. The lake was so large that the other side of it was hidden by darkness, but the surface that he could see was as still as a mirror, reflecting the stalactites hanging above it.

“Hello, Duck Newton.”

Duck whipped around. The royal seer was not a fish in a tank, but a mer, perched on a rock at the edge of the water, a skinny man’s torso attached to a fish’s tail. His hair, skin, and scales were pale and silvery. All of him was pale, really, except for his eyes, which were red, and had no pupils. Was he blind?

“Uh. Hey.” said Duck. “I have an offering for you?”

“Thank you,” said the seer. He held out his hand and Duck put the jar into it.

“So are you, like, trapped in here?” said Duck.

“No,” said the seer, simply. “Put your lantern down and give me your hand, Duck Newton, and I will tell you your fortune.”

Duck put the lantern down on a rock and put his slightly sweaty hand in the seer’s cool, slender one.

“You did not intend to be a hero,” said the seer after a moment.

“Well, when I saw the prince was in trouble I wanted to save him!” said Duck, somewhat indignant.

“Yes. But you did not wake up that morning and seek out an opportunity for glory.” The seer’s tail twitched. “There are futures where you return home tomorrow and never interact with royalty again.”

“So what should I do?”

“The choice is yours, Duck Newton. You will not be… unhappy… either way.”

“I guess that’s good to know. Do you have any… I don’t know… practical advice for me?”

“Your life’s course is yours to choose, Duck Newton.” The seer turned his hand over, to examine the lines in his palm and then his knuckles. “But if you leave without the pig, there is a chance the palace will forget to send it to you.”

“Damn, really? Thanks for the tip.”

The seer smiled. His teeth were sharp. “I am pleased to be of service.”

–

When Duck asked for the hog he’d been promised, the kitchen told him that they were too busy with the preparations for the prince’s wedding to spare one right now, but that they would send one along as soon as they could, or he could collect one himself if he stuck around until after the wedding. Mindful of the seer’s warning, Duck said he’d stick around.

For the next three days he wandered the palace, trying to stay out of the way of the servants who were frantically cleaning and putting up colorful bunting.

The palace really was an architectural marvel. The innermost part, the old castle, was made of rough-hewn gray stone blocks, walls three feet thick or more with arrow-slits for windows. It was like the solid pit at the center of a peach: now those arrow-slits looked out into the corridors of the new castle, an expansion that had been built by the current king’s father. The new castle had spacious corridors, white marble staircases, and lots of big windows, including stained-glass ones in the new cathedral, which was where the wedding was happening.

The most recent addition was a solarium, constructed as a wedding gift for the queen. Duck wasn’t allowed inside, but the roof and outside walls seemed to be made entirely of glass, more glass than Duck had ever seen in his entire life. And through the glass he could see the leaves of trees unlike any he’d ever seen before.

Once Duck had walked around all the public hallways of the new castle and sat in the balcony that allowed members of the public to watch the king holding court, he ventured into the old castle and was almost immediately startled by a dusty stuffed boar, just like the one that had gotten him into this situation in the first place.

See, Duck worked sometimes as a hunting guide. When nobles came to Kepler to hunt deer or bear or wild boar, Duck could lead them to their prey, and, potentially even more crucially, lead them back to civilization again when they were finished.

The prince had gone on a hunting trip with some of his noble friends to celebrate his upcoming wedding. All young men, inexperienced. And they’d decided to hunt a boar. Duck had found them a beautiful one: a male, almost five feet tall at the shoulder, probably three hundred pounds.

The prince and his friends had shouted in delight, and the boar had looked up and seen them. The prince’s friends scattered as the boar and its tusks and its horrible grunting charged through the clearing towards them. But the prince himself stood frozen, and so Duck shoved him out of the way as the boar disappeared past them into the underbrush.

Luckily one of the prince’s slightly cooler-headed friends had managed to shoot the boar as it fled, and then helped Duck field-dress it. The meat fed Duck’s family and neighbors for days. And the prince had started bawling about how Duck had saved his life, telling him how he simply must come back to the capital for the king to reward him for his heroism.

The boar in the hallway here was huge, but dusty, and Duck couldn’t guess who had brought it down. The king, in his youth? Or some royal relative long-dead?

Continuing into the old castle, Duck came upon the old chapel, which had been turned into a library after the new castle was built. Instead of pews, rows of bookshelves filled the space. Each shelf was protected by a metal grate with a lock, but the titles Duck could see were inscrutable anyway.

The walls of the old chapel were lined with portraits of people in finery, and Duck passed by a few before one of them made him stop and stare. Here was a portrait of the seer. His hair was longer than it had been when Duck saw him in person, but his angular face was unmistakable. In the portrait, he wasn’t in a cave, but some kind of garden, green grass and rosebushes and a pond in the background under a purple evening sky. And there was a gold chain in his hand, like a rosary, but instead of a cross at the end there was an orange crystal.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Duck jumped. A man had appeared behind him, dark haired, in a dark suit. “Oh- am I allowed to be in here?” said Duck.

“As long as you don’t break anything.” He smiled, but it still wasn’t entirely clear to Duck whether he was joking. Librarians were a rare breed.

“Do you know who that is?” said Duck, pointing to the painting.

“Oh, that’s the court seer,” said the librarian. “He’s a little odd-looking, isn’t he? Indrid Cold. They say if he touches you he can see your future.”

“Have you met him?”

“Not personally. I’ve seen him from afar. King Garrison, rest his soul, had his fortune told every morning during the campaign against the Saxons.”

Duck turned back to the portrait, to Indrid Cold’s enigmatic smile. “Huh.”

–

Duck wasn’t invited to the actual wedding ceremony, which was a relief. There was so much food and drink at the banquet afterwards that it didn’t seem real: ten different kinds of bread, roasted potatoes and carrots and other kinds of vegetables, a tsunami’s worth of beer and wine, hundreds of whole cows and hogs roasted and butchered and distributed to the masses in the banquet hall and even outside the castle gate. Duck’s seat in the banquet hall afforded him a view of the happy couple on the dais at the front of the room and easy access to the food and drink.

As Duck ate, a bard who was apparently quite famous sang a long, bawdy song about a siren - many words devoted to her golden hair, luscious lips, and beautiful bare breasts - who lured a sailor off a boat but threw him back when his prick wasn’t big enough for her taste.

Duck refilled his mug of beer again.

The room was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. The man sitting next to Duck had pulled the woman on his other side into his lap to kiss, noisily.

After draining his mug, Duck abandoned his empty plate and went out the side door of the palace into the cool evening air. He’d never been out this way before, but now the front door would be blocked with a crowd of peasants. This was the side where the king’s forest was, a vast area of land forbidden for hunting and the river upstream of town forbidden for fishing by anyone but the royal family.

Duck picked his way down the embankment and sat down on a rock at the edge of the water. He could still hear the noise of the party behind him, faintly.

Then a silvery head popped out of the water, and Duck was so surprised that he fell forward into the river.

The water was cold, and Duck was instantly spluttering and wide-awake, but then he could feel strong arms wrapped around him, someone’s bare chest pressed against his side as they hauled him out onto the bank.

Duck raised himself to all fours and coughed.

“Are you alright?” said the seer, a hand on Duck’s arm. Duck could see the mark on the bank where the seer’s scaly side had scraped against the soft mud.

“Fine, fine,” said Duck. “Uh, sorry, Mr. Seer.”

“My name is Indrid Cold.”

“What?”

“Please call me Indrid.”

“Alright.” Duck managed to sit down again on the ground. His head was still swimming with beer. “How did you get out here?”

“I swam.”

“Are you hungry? I could probably bring you something from the feast, but I don’t think they had any of that red juice I brought you before.”

“I am alright, but I appreciate the offer.”

Duck nodded and sat there for a moment. It was getting darker. So dark that Duck could no longer see the individual branches on the trees across the river. The only thing close enough to him to see was Indrid, silver like the moon.

“Have you ever lured a human into the water to have sex with?” said Duck.

“Maybe,” said Indrid, and grinned. “Maybe not. I’m not a siren, so if I did I’d have to use my words.” Indrid was resting his arms on the rock Duck was sitting on. “I’d probably have to say all kinds of pretty things to make up for my strange appearance.”

“You don’t look that strange.”

“But as soon as I coaxed them into the water…” A sharp-toothed smile. “You humans are such weak swimmers it’s almost funny. Once they were in the water I could drag them wherever I wanted. Perhaps to a dark corner of my cave? Nobody who came for a fortune would be able to see them, but they’d certainly hear.”

Duck shivered at the thought of screams echoing through that cave, pressed his thighs together. Then he looked down at the smooth front of Indrid’s tail. ”What would you even do to them? I don’t see a dick anywhere.”

“Don’t you know, Duck, that mers keep our equipment internal until it’s necessary?” Indrid’s fingers trailed over his tail, and Duck didn’t think he was imagining it when he saw the flesh twitch.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Duck. “But if you feel like show and tell, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“We’ll see,” said Indrid, but he didn’t stop touching himself. “What about you, Duck Newton? Have you lured many humans to your bed?”

“I wouldn’t call it luring,” said Duck. “But there’ve been a few folks I’ve slept with. Mostly I just… I don’t know, tell them I’d like to get to know them better. Maybe find some liquid courage.” He smiled. “But once I get to kissing them, I’m pretty good at convincing them to go further. Once they find out what I can do with my mouth.”

“And yet this evening you haven’t found anyone to pursue?”

Duck grinned again. He was leaning forward, close enough to see the moonlight glinting off the individual strands of Indrid’s hair. “Haven’t I?”

Indrid kissed him. His mouth was cool, but not in an unpleasant way. And besides, Duck’s blood felt plenty hot for both of them.

“Mmm,” said Duck. “Yeah, I looked around that banquet hall in there and saw that nobody was nearly as handsome as you.”

Indrid kissed him again. “I saw this future.” Another kiss. “Before. I had no idea how it would happen.” Indrid seemed to be in a hurry. Duck had no idea why. “I’m glad it’s worked out.”

“Me too.”

Duck touched Indrid’s shoulder, deciding whether he should commit to getting back into the water or try to balance like this on the edge.

Then the noise of the party got louder behind them, and Indrid started pulling away. A few more people had spilled out of the door, and in a moment they’d see Indrid there, shining in the moonlight.

For a moment Duck grasped Indrid’s hand. “Will I see you again?” It was all he could think of to say, and it sounded silly as soon as he said it.

“Yes,” said Indrid. “I’ll find you.”

And then Indrid was gone, and Duck was alone on the dark riverbank.

–

Getting home with the hog in tow was a production. Which was why, once he’d gotten it safely penned up at home, Duck decided to treat himself to a swim, and walked a mile outside of Kepler to the lake that fed the river he’d followed all the way home.

Movement drew his eye in the reeds near the mouth of the river flowing out of the lake. Maybe a bird?

And then a silver head popped out of the water.

Indrid grinned. “Hello, Duck.”

“Holy shit, Indrid, how did you get here?”

“I decided it was time for a vacation,” said the court seer airily. “Lots of nice views along the river. And right now you’re putting on quite a show for anyone under the water.” He reached out a hand, and Duck took it and allowed Indrid to pull him close.

“So how do mers flirt with each other?” asked Duck.

“Sometimes we play chase.” The sunlight gleamed in his wet hair. “There’s nothing like a good game of chase and then having to wrestle someone into submission to get your body ready to lay eggs.”

“Does that mean you wanna play chase?”

“Duck Newton, I have already spent three weeks chasing you here.”

“Good point.” Duck kissed him. Indrid’s arm twisted around Duck’s back, holding him in place, and his other hand ran down Duck’s side, tentative and first, and then bolder when Duck groaned at the touch. When Indrid squeezed his ass Duck realized that his feet had left the ground; Indrid was supporting him in the water, Indrid’s strong, slick tail up between his legs.

Duck’s cock, eager and unafraid, bobbed up in the water between them, the fat head flush. Looking down Duck saw, now, the slit in Indrid’s tail opening, releasing a cock that was muscular like a tongue, pink and flexible enough to curl in on itself. “Damn,” whispered Duck. “Can I touch?”

Indrid nodded, and Duck reached down, like he was offering his hand to a cat to sniff. But Indrid’s dick curled eagerly around his fingers, and Indrid sighed.

“I think it likes me,” Duck teased.

“That’s an understatement,” Indrid breathed. Indrid’s fingers fumbled around Duck’s dick and then brought it forward for his own to curl around.

It was easily the strangest sensation Duck had ever felt in his life. Indrid’s hands were on his arms, holding him close, and Duck’s legs wrapped around Indrid’s tail. Another demanding kiss, and Indrid rested his forehead on Duck’s shoulder. Duck realized suddenly that Indrid seemed overwhelmed by the sensation, too. The tentacle wrapped a little more tightly around Duck’s dick, dragging slick and wet over the shaft.

As he neared orgasm Duck thrust his hips more urgently, feeling Indrid’s body stiffen in his arms. Indrid’s skin had taken on a slightly purplish tint, and his eyes were glowing so brightly it hurt to look at them. The gill-flaps on Indrid’s neck opened and closed frantically.

Duck ejaculated into the water, and Indrid followed a moment later, their milky releases mingling. “I don’t see any eggs,” said Duck.

“No,” said Indrid ruefully. “I don’t think your body would be hospitable for them.”

“It wouldn’t be polite of you to knock me up, anyway.”

“That too.”

They floated side-by-side on their backs, Indrid’s tail loosely curled around Duck’s calf. “Will I see you again?” said Duck.

“I don’t know,” said Indrid. For a moment, he gripped Duck’s hand painfully tight. “Your futures are… numerous.” Duck pictured a school of fish swimming together, reflecting the light, tricking the eye, resisting any attempt to discern one body from another.

When Indrid spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “But I hope so.”

#indruck

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