#{several more asks and loads of thread replies}

[tarnishedxknight]

{out of dalmasca} Alright, it's time for me to head to bed. I don't think I'll be around for anything tomorrow night (12/15) since I've got some last-minute Xmas/Solstice decorating to do around my house and then I'm hoping to finally get around to playing the Silent Hill 2 remake. On Mon (12/16) I'll be over on my multimuse and I'll be back again on this blog on Thurs (12/19) as usual. For now, goodnight! =)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Once Upon a Time 10

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Andy Barber

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

A message pops up on your Instagram. You open it with dread, a blank profile with some generic photo of a bookshelf. You already know it's him. 

‘Your aunt is very nice.�� 

You nearly drop your phone as you glance over at Jo. She sits with a cross stitch as she watches a rerun of Cold Case. You shudder and look back down at the screen. 

‘Why r u doing this?’ 

You hit the arrow as your sweaty hands stick to the silicon case. 

‘Why am I being nice?’ He replies. 

You can't. You stand up with your phone and your Aunt Jo peeks over with an arched brow. You give an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, I'll be right back.” 

You cross the room and pass the kitchen doorway. You lock yourself in the bathroom and look at your phone. You see three dots then they disappear. 

‘You followed me.’ 

He sends a rolling eye emoji. You nearly scream. What the hell? He's rolling his eyes at what? Stalking you? 

‘More than once.’ 

He sends a laughing emoji with tears. You huff. He's so confusing. Then a photo pops up, buffering before finally loading. 

It's Chelsea, well, the top of her head and she's… 

You want to puke. You can't believe he'd send you that. Does she know he took that? Even if she's a bitch, you feel bad. 

‘Looks like I'm all taken care of.’ He texts. 

‘Looks like you are.’ 

You turn your phone to do not disturb and lock it. He's disgusting. You don't even get what he wants from you. If he has Chelsea doing all that, why the heck is he texting you? 

You take your phone to the spare room, what was once your room, and leave it there. You don’t want to be bothered by him, even if you can’t shake the uneasiness stirring your nerves. You go back to the living room and sit down on the couch. You stare unseeingly at the television as the syndicated legal series drones on. 

“What was that, honey?” Jo asks, poking her needle up then pulling it through. 

“Work,” you lie, “um, they keep moving around the schedule or whatever. It’s... frustrating.” 

“Ah, that’s too bad,” she tug the thread to its limit, “you’re stressed. Maybe you should take a day off.” 

“Maybe,” you rub your forehead, “or get a different job.” 

“Could do,” she shrugs, “you know I’ll support whatever you do.” 

“Yeah,” you drop your hands into your lap and look at her, “I know.” 

You turn back to screen and try to hide your despair. Should you try to tell her about Andy? The thought’s crossed your mind a dozen times over. Your Aunt Jo is fierce and loving, she might just believe you but it’s not her holding you back. It’s him. He’s dangerous and he hasn’t yet shown you how dangerous. 

It’s better she doesn’t know. Not right now. You’ll have to deal with Andy. Just not tonight. 

📖

You grumble around the last mouthful of coffee. Another day, another shift. While Jo’s suggestion was tempting, you really can’t give up the hours. Nonetheless, you haven’t sat on your hands. Several applications were forward late into the night as sleep eluded you. Now you can barely hold your head up. 

It shouldn’t be very busy at opening. You can survive on an instant coffee packet from the breakroom. You yawn and grab your coat and bag. The snow puffs up around your boots as you step outside, shivering as you tuck your scarf into the top of your jacket. You pull your hood up against the frigid wind and tamp down the fresh powder as you come down the walk. 

As you get to the sidewalk, you stop and look both ways. Before you can cross and head for the bus stop, a horn honks, jarring you. You step back as a familiar car rolls up. You cross your arms, heart racing, and peek back over your shoulder at the safe hold of your aunt’s house. 

“Buses are behind,” Andy calls through the window as it slides down, “you’ll be late...” 

“I’m fine,” you sidestep to walk around the rear bumper and he shifts into reverse, blocking your escape. 

“I know your aunt didn’t teach you to be so ungrateful--” 

“Don’t talk about my aunt,” you snap as you turn back the other way and he rolls forward. You stop short and stomp your foot, “why are you doing this? Why are you bugging me? Chelsea--” 

“I don’t want Chelsea, she’s a slut. She’s easy. She gets the job done,” he sneers. 

You shake your head and blow out a cloud of warmth into the crisp air, “I’m sure there are other--” 

“You,” he says tersely, “that’s it. No one else.” 

You close your eyes and shudder, “I... I’m not interested... like that, Andy. I just was being friendly because it’s my job. Can’t you understand?” 

“I don’t understand,” he snarls, “I’m a lawyer, I’m good-looking, I take good care of myself and I could do the same for you. You wouldn’t have to work in some shitty bookstore.” 

You flutter your lashes and shake your head, “I...” 

“What? Why don’t you want me?” He leans over the seat further, glaring at you. 

“How old are you?” You blurt out, immediately sealing your lips in regret. 

He scoffs, “and how old are you? Bit over the hill to be in retail, huh? I know you’re not some college kid getting a few extra bucks. You’re a grown woman, your life is a mess. You need someone like me.” 

You huff, “I need you to leave me alone.” 

He clucks and sits up. The car idles in front of you as he sits silently. He grips the real and clears his throat, “I’ll be seeing you for dinner. Aunt Jo sure is sweet, maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.” 

The window rolls up before you can spit back a retort. The mention of your aunt flares in your chest. How dare he. You know it’s more than a snipe at you, he’s not saying her name for nothing. It’s a threat. 

He steers away down the snowy road, the snow packing beneath the weight of the car. You watch his headlights stop at the corner before you kick through the snow. Fuck. 

[brighter-by-the-daly]

Millie Bright x Reader

Around If You Need Me

Part of the Beth McCarthy mini series

Omg Did She Call Him Baby?

Did he fuck it up again?

I know that she needs a friend

But I want to be more than that

He's her type, he's a ten

When he messages I bet

Unlike me he doesn't get left unread

“Hey! What ya doing tomorrow, I haven’t seen you in ages?” you asked as soon as Millie answered the phone. “Oh hey (y/n/n), I’m out at the moment, can I call you back later?” her reply full of distraction. “Of course, yeah.. that’s fine, speak soon!” There wasn’t a reply as the line abruptly hung off after that. Flopping back onto the bed disappointed, Millie never has time for you anymore and you’re starting to wonder why you keep trying. Going back to mindlessly scrolling TikTok and playing games on your phone while murder documentaries played out on the TV in front of you. You hadn’t left your bedroom in days and had taken the plunge to ask Millie for a coffee after not hearing from her in weeks. She was your best friend but you felt like you weren’t hers anymore. If she needed anything you’d drop everything just to be there for her but that was rarely reciprocated lately. You pretended to understand, she is an international footballer these days and you just have a boring 9-5 in an office, leaving you loads of spare time to miss her.

Drawing your eyes away from your phone and towards the clock you were shocked to see it was midnight, you’d been so focussed on your phone and waiting for a call back which never happened. Again. Feeling deflated you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed, even though you’ve been laying on it all weekend.

The next morning you still had zero notifications from Millie, you know she can be forgetful so decided to text her. After writing and deleting several messages before settling on “be good to catch up x”, pressing the send button before you changed your mind again. With a mouth full of sandwich on your lunch break you were starting to feel a bit forgotten by your best friend come ex. Oh yeah, you used to date but it was only for a month. She was experimenting and let’s just say that that experiment didn’t go the way you had hoped. It wasn’t an experiment for you, you’d known you liked women from an early age and Millie kinda took advantage of that. No sooner after she called it off she got with her now boyfriend who’s she’s been with for about six months. That’s when she started to distance herself from you. You used to hang out all the time but now your messages get left on read and when they are replied to, it’s always days.. sometimes weeks later and every time it’s - “sorry I forgot”. Fair enough, she’s a busy lady but you don’t just forget your best friend exists do you? Millie is everyone’s friend yet she was your only friend so you’d been clinging on to the threads of the friendship that was left, always over thinking if you were being naggy or possessive or wasting your time, should you just let her go?

Weeks passed and you’d still hadn’t heard from her, you’d started to come to terms with that fact you’ll never be as close as you once were. Every year she always messages on your birthday so when you received a 10 second phone call of “hey, can I come over?” you literally ran home from the restaurant where your family had taken you to celebrate.

Answering the door excitedly to see her face didn’t feel like you’d imagined as she immediately started ranting about what her boyfriend’s done wrong. She wasn’t there to wish you a happy birthday, she was there because she needed someone to moan to. Nevertheless, you made tea and listened to her for hours until she noticed the cards on the window sill. Picking one up to read it was addressed to you and quickly glancing at her watch to look at the date. “Oh my god, I completely forgot!” she gasped clunking her tea cup onto the table and scooping you into a hug. You knew in your head that a hug shouldn’t make up for forgetting your birthday, but it made your heart a little happier.

Millie cleared her schedule to spend the rest of the day with you, it felt nostalgic watching films and playing with the dogs, drinking tea in the garden and listening to her sharing all the gossip. That was until she received a text from her boyfriend apologising for his earlier actions and inviting her on a date. Running to your wardrobe and flying the doors open to look at the clothes you had hanging there she started to unhook the hangers, look at them for two seconds then chuck them onto the bed - making a huge mess you knew she wasn’t going to tidy. That was until she found a dress you’d been saving for a special occasion and before you could say ‘no’, she’d already stripped out of her trackies and slipped the slinky black number over her body.

“This is perfect!” she exclaimed admiring herself in the mirror. Sighing at how good she looked, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that dress was off limits, even though you knew you’d never see it again. “Can I borrow your make up? Can you straighten my hair?” shoving your straighteners into your hands without giving you a choice in the matter. Reluctantly helping her get ready because you just wanted to make her happy, the voice in the back of your head knew she was taking the piss but your heart just didn’t let you stop. Gazing at her through the mirror as she applied your make up to her face, she paid no attention to your wandering eyes as you longed for her to feel the same way you do. The way her hair falls in exactly the right place, the way the dress clings to her curves perfectly, the way the colour makes her skin glow. You knew what her lips taste like and you’d been searching for that flavour in every woman you’ve kissed since.

“Do you have shoes to go with this?” she asked, snapping you out of your daydream. “Mill, you outgrew my shoes in year 7, don’t you remember?” you said putting your size 5s next to her size 8s. “Hmm, that’s annoying… I’ll just have to make these work” slipping her £400 trainers back on to her feet before leaving your bedroom like a bomb site. “Do you think he’ll like it?” she asked admiring herself in the mirror, “of course he will, he’s not blind Millie” you said trying to hide how deflated you were. Following her downstairs she bought you in for one last hug, “thanks (y/n/n), I can always count on you” as she walked out to the car parked up outside your house. “Oh! Happy birthday by the way!” she waved as she was driven away from you.

Watching her leave you knew, things had to change. You can’t carry on being so available and dependable to her every time she calls. A friendship isn’t a friendship if it’s one sided.. but how many times have you told yourself that before?

[godtier]

Hey, I never was on livejournal so can you tell how crazy it was pretty please?

hi there, anon. i passed out right after you sent this, oopsie.

but sure, i can regale you of the times. be forewarned: this is gonna be a beefy post.

to clarify, this was probs how it was between 2004-ish (and probs a bit before, but i wasn't super into fandom on LJ before 2004) through 2010. i haven't used LJ in eons because of the migration of fandom stuff to tumblr, actually, and RP stuff to dreamwidth, but that's a different story.

but on LJ, there are these forums called "communities." tumblr actually just recently started testing with this format and i keep meaning to try it out. the idea is that, rather than people coming to someone's personal blog for discussion, they'd congregate on these forums.

if you've ever been on reddit, it's similar to that. you join a community, you read the rules, you post or reply to posts, etc.

well, on LJ, things were sorta like reddit only like... cattier. on reddit the stereotype is the neckbeard admin, going "☝️🤓 WELL ACKCHUALLY," but on LJ, it could veer more into mean girls territory. an admin could be two-faced, biased, and develop personal relationships with members (not like... dating-wise, though that probs happened, but more like favoritism).

a lot of fandom communities had applications you had to fill out. you had to basically sell yourself on why you deserved membership and an admin could just straight-up disagree with your application and that was that. they could also refuse to allow you to reapply.

an admin could also kick you out because they found you personally annoying. not even like, trolling, but they found you to be just annoying to be around. they'd kick you out for that.

beyond that, there were the anon comms. basically, a community where an admin would create a post and users could respond to it anonymously, similar to 4chan, and create threads about various things.

some anon comms were great. there were the "anon fic" comms for different fandoms where someone could anonymously request a fic (the ship, the prompt, any other details, etc), and other anons could fulfill the request. i ran a few for various fandoms i used to be really active in and i even fulfilled several prompts across several other posts. it was p fun!

however, those were quickly overshadowed by the drama ones. they were basically places where anon users could shit on other users and talk about the latest gossip in different fandom circles. this started with fandom-based stuff but exploded outward into the RP community, where it's still continuing on dreamwidth, LJRP's successor platform.

it could get really heinous. some anon comms had looser moderation than others. you could get away with so much and, unless you gave yourself away or accidentally logged in while replying, no one would ever know.

these comms also perpetuated bullying in a lot of ways, while others were threads to discuss bad behavior in the community. i'll admit, some of it was warranted, like people being creeps or just not having proper RP etiquette, but the level of bullying often outweighed the crime. sometimes people would gossip about others for sharing too much personal info (oversharing/trauma-dumping), pity-partying, e-begging, or just being a bad writer or having really bad takes.

it got to the point where a lot of RPers and fandom participants left entirely because they couldn't stop themselves from scrolling through the anon comms, just to see if they were namedropped. there were tutorials on how to block the anon comms on the browser level, meaning that even if you typed it in, your browser would refuse to load it. some people had to resort to that in order to stop themselves from reading it.

keep in mind, though, that a lot of this stuff was contained by comparison. on LJ, you could turn off anon messages and comments entirely, much like tumblr with anon asks. and you really didn't run the risk of your fandom drama bleeding over to your twitter or facebook account.

so that changes the way fandom operates. back then, if you were getting bullied really badly, it was comparatively easier in fandom to devise a new identity, a new account, slightly modify how you spoke, and then bam, you're back in the fold and no one's any the wiser.

nowadays, y'all in general are obsessed with mingling your personal, IRL stuff and deets with your fandom inclinations. it makes you ten thousand times easier to not only dox, but to humiliate and follow you around, even if you change accounts.

op sec (operational security) is something i'm extremely passionate about. if anyone wants a full-ass post about that, i'm more than happy to throw one together.

but anywho, i hope that shines some light on how shit went down back then. if i think on it more, i could probably come up with some really wild stories, but it's been so long that i can't remember anything specifically that was super-duper wild. 8( give me a while and maybe it'll come back to me, like a long-forgotten tryst.

inb4 "i ain't readin allat" SRY I'M TOO VERBOSE Y'ALL I CAN'T HELP IT 😭

[albertasunrise]

Man Down - Part 2

Masterlist

Warnings: Like AO3, I choose to give none. Read at your own risk. This is suitable for general audiences.

Series Masterlist - Part 1

The foursome had managed to load the cash onto mules they’d purchased from the farm they’d crashed beside. The villagers had been quick to distrust them and Tom had been just as quick on his trigger.

Fish had remained unresponsive as they prepared to traipse through the thick jungle that lay ahead but after some improvisation from the Miller brothers, they had managed to strap him to one of the beasts.

Several hours later, they had been forced to stop for camp. The rain soaked them through despite taking cover in a small alcove. Frankie’s fitful moans grabbed Ben and Santi’s attention and after carefully manoeuvring closer to him, they began to check him over.

“He’s on fire!” Benny stated as he rested his wrist on the pilot's brow.

“Wounds infected.” Said Pope after a few tense moments of silence and they both cursed.

‘We got any antibiotics?” Ben asked and Santi simply shook his head.

Their medpacks had the bare minimum.

Bandages and aspirin were the key items the packs possessed.

Frankie practically convulsed from the chills that tore through his weakened body and Ben did his best to hold his friend and provide comfort in any way he could. Stroking the pilot's sodden hair, he whispered comforting words in the hope they would at least ground the man but Frankie was in deep.

"He's not gonna last much longer if we don't get him medicine soon." Stated Santi as looked at Ben with a grim expression.

"He's strong." Ben replied with surety as he clutched Frankie's head to his chest "He'll keep on swimming."

"Ben-"

"He's gonna be okay!" Benny growled as he looked at Pope with teary eyes.

"Yeah, Benny." Pope replied as he gave the man a small nod "He'll be fine."

Benny wasn't a child. He knew that Pope was protecting him from the more likely scenario that they would be bringing Frank's body home to his wife and baby. He knew that Frank was hanging on by a threat.

He just prayed that the thread was strong.

…

The rain continued to pelt down on them as they trekked through the jungle. Frank was in the saddle of one of the mules, his body propped up by the bags of cash thrown over the beast's rump. The pilot had still not woken up from the crash. His breathing was strained and the fever that ravaged him made his body shake so badly that the men worried he would shake out the saddle.

They all breathed a sigh of relief when the rain stopped. The humid head stopped their clothes from drying as quickly as they would have liked but they were glad to be not soaked to the bone anymore.

The lack of rain however brought the state of Frank's fever to light. The man's hair was soaked with sweat. His skin was a ghastly shade of grey and glittering with the sweat that coated it. His breathing had quickened and his eyes danced beneath their lids. Ben was sure that even if the pilot was awake, he wouldn't have a clue where he was or who any of them were.

They all groaned when their path was suddenly blocked by water. The map revealed that wading through it was the quickest route. Going around would add hours to their journey. Hours they didn't have.

So that's how Ben found himself swimming through the jungle as he led the mule carrying his friend. He would glance over his shoulder now and then to check on his friend before continuing, desperate to get his friend to the other side as quickly as possible.

The shore was in sight when it happened.

Ben could feel the water growing more shallow, his tiptoes able to touch the bottom and he pushed on with a newfound determination.

"We're almost there Fish." He threw over his shoulder, turning his head just enough.

His stomach dropped as he watched Frankie's body start to convulse. The seizure was so violent that the pilot fell from the saddle, face first, into the Murky water.

"FISH!" Ben yelled as he swam as fast as he could to his friend.

Frankie had stopped Siezing by the time he managed to get to him. Ben was sobbing as flipped the man onto his back and started to drag him to shore.

Will had already taken it upon himself to grab Ben's mule and lead it on. He was fighting to keep himself together as he watched Benny drag a limp Frank into the muddy shore and lower his ear to the man's mouth.

"No." Ben sobbed as she shook his head "No… no no no… Not now."

"Ben?" Called out Pope as he finally made it to shore. Tom and Will, not far behind him.

"No." Ben continued to chant as he started compressions.

The sight made the other three men sick to the stomach.

"Come come Fish." He begged as he continued to pump his friend's chest "Don't do this to me."

"Benny." Will said softly as he kneeled beside his brother, his heart aching at the sight of Frank's body wrock "Benny he's not coming."

"No." Ben choked, shaking his head "Come on Fishsticks!" He ordered, feeling his tears breach his lids and slip down his swollen cheeks "COME ON… BREATH!"

Dirty water spewed from Frankie's mouth before finally taking a breath. Ben rolled Frank onto his side and rubbed the pilot's back as he coughed up the last of the water he'd swallowed.

"Good job Fishcake." Ben cooed as he grinned at his friend.

"We need to get going." Tom stated as he looked between each man "Ben, get Catfish back on his Mule." He ordered before taking the lead.

"Brother, help me!" Ben asked as he lifted Frankie's limp top half.

Will grabbed the pilot's legs and between the two brothers, they managed to get the man back onto his beast. Ben did his best to fasten the pilot more firmly to the saddle, desperate to avoid another incident. Then, with a click of his tongue, he left the mule on behind Tom with Will and Santi taking up the rear. Frankie had gone back to twitching and panting as the fever continued to ravage his system but he was breathing and that was all the men could ask for.

…

The jungle fell away to reveal a new terrain. The grey, dusty, mountainside posed new challenges for the group but they knew they didn't have time to fret over the new dangers they faced. They had to get Frankie to the boat.

Leading the mules up the mountain, the men kept a careful eye on the pilot. Stopping to break camp, Ben stripped him of his coat in an attempt to bring his temperature down as his fever continued to climb. The younger Miller then stuffed the man's items in his pack, hoping that it was a simple case of carrying them till he got better. Not keeping them to return to his widow.

"Feel better Fish?" He asked as he stroked the man's hair affectionately but still, Frankie didn't stir and the pit in Ben's stomach grew.

"You okay Benny?" Santi asked as he looked up at the blonde, his eyes sat as he studied his friend.

"He's been unconscious for two days now." Ben stated and Santi sighed "That can't be good."

"He's pretty sick Ben." Santi replied as he returned his attention to tending Frankie's infected wound "He's reserving his energy for getting better is all."

"Yeah." Ben replied, his tone unconvinced "Right…"

The sun fell below the mountains and the men started to wind down for the night. Will took the first watch, his eyes scanning their surroundings for signs that they had been followed. He would glance at his brother who was propped up against a rock with Fish leaning against his front. He allowed a small smile to grace his lips at the sight. His younger sibling had always been a caring soul. Despite his choice of careers, he'd always been the one to take care of the group when they'd been in the army and he was the one to help them all when they got out.

Frankie had been hardest hit by returning to civilian life. He had turned to less than agreeable means of coping. Losing his licence and almost his life in the process.

But then Ben had introduced him to the woman that would pull him from the darkness and back into the light. The woman that after six months of dating, Frank would propose to and after 12 months, give birth to his daughter. She had saved him from himself and Ben was the one to make that happen.

He watched as Frankie practically convulsed in his brother's arms. His face creased with the agony he suffered even when he was unconscious. As he watched the pilot he started to dread having to carry his brother-in-arms home in a bag. Dreaded telling the mother of his five-month-old baby that he died because of their selfish decisions. They had to get Frankie home at all costs.

Because he refused to let those fears become a reality.

…

They were up before the sun the following morning.

Frankie was once again strapped to his Mule, bags still propping him up and makeshift role keeping him in place. Ben led the animal through the rough terrain until the trees fell away and dusty mountains revealed themselves to the group. Will then took over for a while but Ben never took his eyes off the pilot.

A little while later, they were scaling the side of the mountain. Gingerly walking along a narrow path carved into the rock side. Ben's attention was firmly on his feet then, desperately trying to put one foot in front of the other. Will was desperately trying to keep himself and the beast that was carrying Frankie calm but the creature was getting more and more agitated the further they walked. Upon noticing this, Ben's watched Frankie closely, noting that the man was shifting in the saddle as the beast shifted and reared in fear.

"Will, you need to get that beast under control and move." Ben snapped and Will turned to look at his brother in disbelief.

"We're on the side of a fuckin' mountain." Will growled back and Ben lost his patience

"Stop." Mumbled Frankie and the brothers stopped dead, eyes widening as their eyes snapped to the pilot.

"Fish?" Ben called out as glanced back at his brother "He awake?"

"Catfish, you with me?" Will asked as he tried to look at his friend better.

Frankie gave him a weak note and the man grinned.

"Good to see you, awake man."

Ben was desperate to see his Friend awake so after some polite nudging, his brother started to move again and soon enough, the group reached the other side. Ben was at Fish's side as soon as they were on steady ground, helping his brother lower the man onto the ground.

"Hey Fishcake, you with me brother?" Ben asked as he cupped Frank's face.

The pilot's eyes were open and glossy with fever. He gave his friend a weak nod with warmed the younger Miller's heart. He didn't even try to hold his tears back. He was overwhelmed with emotions at his best friend regaining consciousness.

"Nice of you to join us Catfish." Santi piped up as he made his way to Frankie and Ben's side "Just gonna give you a once over, okay brother?"

Frankie weakly nodded before allowing his eyes to drift shut again. He was weak and still trembled as the fever ravaged him. Pope got to work on checking the pilot over, wincing as he pulled back the bandage wrapped around his friends wound and finding it to be red and angry. Infected. He grabbed a replacement bandage and made quick work of cleaning the wound as best as he could and re-bandaging it. He then pulled out a thermometer and an oximeter, took Frank's temperate and sighed at the result.

"How's he looking?" Ben asked as he looked over at Pope, his eyes looking for something to hold onto.

"His temp is 104 so we need to keep an eye on him. Seizures are likely to get more frequent." He stated plainly and Ben's face dropped "He's satting at 87% but that could be because of the altitude. We need to keep an eye on that too."

"You sound like you've given up on him." Ben grumbled, pulling a sigh from Santiago as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I wish I could give you better news Benny but I can't" The older man snapped "He's very sick and we're miles from civilisation."

"Say it louder." Ben snapped "I don't think he heard you."

"I'm just trying to be realistic Ben."

"Well, you better hope he makes it." Ben spits as he leaned closer to Pope "Cus if he doesn't, his blood's on your hands."

"B-ben." Frankie mumbled and Benny turned his attention back to the pilot "B-b-ben."

"I'm here Fish." The man said softly as he cupped the pilot's cheek.

"C-cold." He shivered, his eyes cracking open slightly as his brows drew together tightly and he let out a pained sob "H-h…hurts."

"I know buddy." The younger man cooed as you tucked himself behind the pilot and allowed the man to lay against his front.

Frankie instantly relaxed, settling into his friend's warm embrace whilst Santi watched, guild consuming him. He knew Ben was right. If Fish didn't make it… He would never forgive himself.

Next

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[lethalityandlustmoved]

-RULES, REGULATIONS, & RANDOMNESS-

Welcome to my blog! Peek under the cut for more information. Yes, it’s required reading.

RULES

This blog, while 18+ due to all themes associated with the Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss franchise, is completely NSFW-free. I am willing to write threads that mention NSFW topics in detail, but I will not roleplay the act itself.

I am not selective at all! My only rules about who I interact with are that they cannot be minors (less than 18 years old) and that they need to give me something to work with in threads. You can write as many paragraphs as you want, but if you don’t give me something substantial to keep writing with, I cannot continue writing with you.

I would prefer if personals did not interact unless they have a roleplay sideblog, state that clearly in their blog description/pinned post, and (if they have multiple sideblogs) specify which they are intending to roleplay with. Personals are completely free to follow, however!

My memes and open starters are open to everyone, even if we haven’t interacted yet or we already have a thread! I prefer to start threads with memes, though, so please specify if you would like me to write a drabble instead.

I am on mobile and therefore cannot trim posts. If this is a problem, then I apologize, but I cannot do anything to fix that fact unless my partner is not on mobile.

This is a sideblog! Follows and follow-backs will come from @kottonkandykiller. I do have multiple roleplay sideblogs, so feel free to choose which one you would like to interact with. All asks will be on anon and I will tag my sideblog in the ask.

I’m a busy person, but rest assured, I’ve seen your reply/ask. You can absolutely nag me for replies! Sometimes I forget, sometimes I don’t have the energy, but you aren’t being annoying if you send me a reminder. In fact, please do!

I am most active on Saturdays and in the evenings on weekdays. I’m on Pacific Standard Time, and typically sleep at 9 pm and wake up at 10 am (on weekends). I get home from work anytime from 4 to 6 pm on weekdays.

I currently tag whatever I think would be triggering as topic tw, but I can tag anything that anyone messages me to tag or have in their rules that they want tagged. I have no squicks/triggers myself, but I may add to this list later on.

The muse is not equal to the mod! In Nikki’s case, his moods tend to fluctuate with mine more than my other characters, and in Zephyr’s case, their gender is affected by whatever gender I most associate with at the moment, but nothing else.

These rules may be updated later on, but for now, this’ll be it.

MUSE BIO

NAME: Nikki “Neeks” Knockout

GENDER: male

PRONOUNS: he/they

SPECIES: imp/succubus hybrid

SEXUALITY: bisexual (male lean)

OCCUPATION: freelance stripper/mercenary for hire

RESIDENCE: Pentagram City

PERSONALITY: talkative, oblivious, caring, happy-go-lucky, & sensitive.

BACKSTORY: At 13 years old, a Hellhound murdered his parents in front of him. That same Hellhound blinded him in his right eye, broke his left horn off, and scarred him all over his body. He spent a year in the hospital, having his wounds treated, learning to see with only one eye, and adjusting to having only one horn. For 3 years after that, he bounced around from orphanage to orphanage before escaping a year before becoming an adult. He tattooed the left side of his face, replaced his left horn with a prosthetic, and dyed half of his hair black. He made a name for himself as a freelance pole dancer and taught himself to use several different weapons. After surviving for several years comfortably, his luck ran out during the Extermination of 2023. He was blinded in his other eye during the process of protecting another demon from an Exorcist, and while he did manage to kill the Exorcist, he is now homeless and struggling with his new predicament.

TAG LIST

nikki knockout’s daily dose [lethality and lust]

try these ones on for size [rp memes]

get a load of this [dash commentary]

the real star of the show [mod hunter speaks]

the real star of the show [mod hunter’s art]

i’m sexy and i know it [headcanon]

this is what i look like when the lights are broken [drabble]

this a trivia game? [askbox]

come one come all [open starter]

i’ll play along for the hell of it [dash games]

it’s goin’ down for real [promo]

you’re just like my favorite song going ‘round and ‘round my head [nikki & raven]

what i gotta do to find a sub who down to choke me [nikki & north]

i can tell you’re shy and i think you’re so sweet [nikki & frosty]

a little death [nikki & angel dust]

[nighmaers]

ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ . . . there was a king who had grown too weary to wear his crown. he abandoned his thrown to search for something different, something more. had he only opened his tired, heavy eyes, he would have known it was right there all along. ᴀ ʀᴇɪᴍᴀɢɪɴɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜᴍᴘᴋɪɴ ᴋɪɴɢ dressed in themes of medieval literature, gothic fairytales , and high fantasy. main blog: @metalcursed

heavily   ᴀғғɪʟɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ   with   . . .

                      memes.         headcanons.     verses.    

mutuals only;

this   blog   is   PRIVATE   which   means   i   will   be   selective   with   those   i   follow.   if   i   follow,   i   want   to   WRITE   and   generally   nerd   out   about   our   muses   w/   you.   if   we   haven’t   reached   out   to   one   another   for   some   time,   i   may   unfollow/softblock.   really   want   to   focus   on   plotted/developed   interactions   since   i’m   not    able   to   be   here   for   prolonged   periods   and   it   helps   me   keep   up.   if   i   do   not   return   your   follow,   do   not   attempt   to   contact   or   interact   with   any   posts.   NON RP/PERSONAL/WRITING   BLOGS   shouldn’t   interact   w/  posts   or   follow.   i   want   to   keep   things   strictly   for   rp   purposes   only.   mutuals   only   means   i   will   only   write   with   those   i   am   also   following.   mutuals   may   send   memes,   respond   to   starter/plotting/ship   calls,   and   generally   hang   out.   if   you   wish   to   break   mutuals,   that's   your   decision,   and   i   won't   fault   you   for   it.   if   there   is   a   genuine   issue   that   needs   to   be   brought   my   attention,   please   reach   out   and   let's   discuss   it.   if   i   wish   to   break   mutuals,   i   will   softblock.   hardblocking   will   be   reserved   for   severe   actions.   do   not   attempt   to   reach   out   through   another   blog.

activity;

low   to   medium   activity   due   to   work   schedule.   i   can’t   promise   the   queue   will   be   loaded   up   and   ready   to    post   other   times,   but   i’ll   certainly   try   my   best.   i   do   not   hold   any   mutuals   to   a   specified   time   limit   on   replies.   i   appreciate   your   patience   when   it   comes   to   my   responses   as   well. 

triggers;

as   mentioned   above,   there   will   be   some   dark   themes.   however,   i   will   not   write   things   like   inappropriate   interactions   with   minors,   abuse/non-con,   discrimination,   incest,   etc.   i   won't   tag   things   unless   requested   by   mutuals.   otherwise,   a    cw   tag   will   be   used.

shipping;

i   am   open   to   all   types   of   ships.   if   you   have   an   idea,   ask   me   about   it.   my   response   will   vary   from   immediate   to   possibly   brainstorming   scenarios.   if   i   hard   pass   on   a   ship,   respect   that.   again,   no   inappropriate   dynamics   such   as   an   adult   with   minors   or   toxic   relationships.   any   extremely   negative   relationships   will   only   be   referred   to   in   headcanon.   enemies   in   a   non-abusive   sense   or   rivals   are   fine.   as   for   romantic   shipping,   you   know   what   i'm   going   to   say:   chemistry.  

multiverse;

crossovers,   aus,   original   characters,   and   multiship.   you   may   enter.

etiquette;

no   godmodding,   forcing   ships   or   harassing   for   responses.   you   may   remind   me   of   a   plot   or   thread   we   have   going,   but   please   do   not   attempt   to   guilt   me   into   hurrying.   i   am   a   real   person,   in   the   real   world,   with   other   things   going   on.   as   much   as   i   would   love   to   sit   and   write   all   day   or   gush   over   our   muses   together   until   our   brains   are   slime,   i   won't   be   online   all   the   time.   if   i   am   online   but   haven't   responded,   be   patient.   i   follow   the   muse,   and   i   expect   my   partners   to   take   their   time   too.   vague   posts,   negativity   and   all   that   yucky   stuff   can   find   the   door.   i'm   not   here   for   any   ooc   drama.   while   i   don't   condone   callout   posts   and   related   content,   i   need   to   know   if   i'm   unintentionally   writing   with   someone   abusive.   do   not   steal.   my   main   psd   go-to   is   jaynedits.   

mains & exclusives;

mains,   yes!   exclusives,   the   jury   is   out!   as   of   right   now,   since   this   blog   is   so   new,   i   won't   practice   exclusives.   i   will   have   main   canon   muses   that   will   take   priority   because   we've   known   each   other   a   minute   or   we   have   great   chemistry.   not   sure   what   my   main   limit   is,   but   i'll   update   when   i   do.   

drew \ twenty-one + \ they them \ discord available upon request by mutuals

[honeypiehotchner]

Satan’s Waterfall (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I couldn’t think of a name for this to save my life, but Satan’s waterfall is literally what I call my period so... (Also this is 100% self-insert because my period was from actual HELL yesterday)

I wrote this instead of doing my homework. Enjoy xx

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: SMUT! period sex in the shower, “good girl” is said many times, Daddy kink (a lil), slight size kink (it’s inevitable with him), you and Hotch are newly married (I wrote “husband” organically and kept it)

It’s the second day of your period.

The first day is always the worst. The cramps are so severe that you’re nauseated (sometimes actually to the point of puking your guts out) and dizzy, freezing but somehow sweating, hungry but in too much pain to bring yourself to eat more than some crackers, and in desperate need of chocolate or coffee -- even though both of those things make everything else a thousand times worse.

You’re on birth control -- which was Aaron’s first question when he witnessed your period for the first time, completely on accident because you forgot you invited him over when your period was scheduled to hit. So, needless to say, it was maybe your fourth date night ever with your now-husband, and he had to hold your hair back as you puked. You had meant to reschedule that night, but you honestly weren’t feeling too bad until halfway through the movie the two of you decided to watch.

Regardless, birth control helps regulate your period and put it on a schedule, but so far it hasn’t done much to help the pain. Although, you used to pass out, and you don’t anymore, so maybe birth control has helped in a slight way.

Aaron doesn’t think it has at all. He still worries every single month, threatening to take time off of work (at least on the first day) to be with you, but you always tell him not to. You essentially threaten to become an unsub if he doesn’t take his ass to work, but he doesn’t find the joke as funny as you do.

Sometimes he’ll stay home because he’ll wake up and you’ll be in a shivering mess on the bathroom floor, or wide-awake next to him in bed (did anyone say period-induced insomnia?), or groaning to yourself quietly on the couch, having been there for hours so as not to disturb him.

Which is how yesterday went, actually, so that’s why he’s not home today because you told him if he stays home again to coddle you, you might become a fuming toddler.

Thankfully (but unfortunately for him), Chief Strauss called a meeting, so he had no choice but to go to work.

The second days aren’t even that bad. You’re still basically bed-ridden (or couch-ridden, at least, because the TV is in the living room), but you’re not puking and you’re not dizzy. You occasionally sweat like crazy when a wave of cramps comes, but nothing like yesterday.

You’ve showered, changed into new sweatpants and one of Aaron’s old t-shirts, had breakfast and lunch, and you’ve even done a load of laundry (mainly because you bled through the sheets last night). You’re having a much better day.

But, because it’s still that time of the month, it isn’t a great day because you’re still cramping. And lucky you, a bad wave hits right when Aaron walks in from work.

“I told you to let me stay today,” he says gently, pushing the hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“These are nothin’,” you whine, reaching out for his hand to hold anyway. “They’ll be gone soon.”

“You’re pale. Have you eaten?”

“Mhm, breakfast and lunch,” you nod, letting your eyes slip closed when the cramps ease. You feel your heating pad getting cold. It must’ve turned off. You start fumbling around for the controller, but Aaron beats you to it, turning it back on.

“That’s good,” he says. “What about water?”

“Oh, oops,” you chuckle. “I had one glass this morning.”

“And?”

“Anddd coffee.”

“Y/N…” He sighs. “What have I told you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I need to drink extra water when I’m like this. But here’s my thing: I’m suffering enough already, why make me suffer more by making me drink water?”

“Because it’s good for you,” he mutters, standing to fill a glass. “And you’re drinking more tonight. I don’t care if you’re up peeing all night--”

“I’ll wake you up every damn time I do.”

“Gladly,” he smirks, returning with the glass. “Come on, up. Drink.”

Begrudgingly, you sit up, muttering curses under your breath because now your back is cold which means you’re hurting more. Wordlessly, Aaron lifts the heating pad and holds it to your back while you drink some water.

“Good girl,” he says, taking the empty glass from you and sitting it on the coffee table.

“Don’t say that to me,” you grumble, already laying back down and grabbing a blanket, tucking it under your chin.

“Why not?” He asks, smoothing your hair again, smiling when you close your eyes.

“Because it gives me thoughts.”

“Thoughts?”

You open your eyes a little. “Thoughts.”

Aaron chuckles when you close your eyes again, effectively hiding from him. “Honey pie, you’re going to have to tell me what thoughts you’re talking about.”

“You know what thoughts I’m talking about,” you breathe. “Sexy thoughts.”

“Ahh, sexy thoughts,” he laughs.

“But I can’t have those right now.”

“Why not?”

“Hello?” You open your eyes, giving him a look. “It’s the time of Satan’s waterfall?”

“Satan’s-- Okay, just because you’re on your period, doesn’t mean we can’t have sex. It might make you feel better.”

“Oh, orgasms do, yes. I’ve had two today.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t give me that look. My issue is, I want you inside me when you call me a good girl.”

“I still can be.”

You scrunch your nose. “Too messy. I just washed the sheets.”

“Not in bed,” Aaron squeezes your hand. “We have a shower.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Is my husband into period sex?”

He laughs loudly. “I’ve always thought about it, but you’re always in so much pain, I didn’t want to ask.”

“We’ve done worse things than have sex while I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, but…” He lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles. “I never want to hurt you.”

You can’t help but grab his face and kiss him then, too overcome with love for him to stop yourself. His care, his tenderness. You’ve asked him to throw you around like a literal ragdoll before, and yet he’s still worried about hurting you.

“You know I’ll tell you,” you whisper, stealing another kiss. “You never hurt me. At least not in ways I don’t like.”

He groans into your mouth. “Time for a shower.”

“Already?” You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He lifts you from the couch and guides your legs around his torso, all the while keeping his lips on yours. He digs his fingers into your thighs and you squeal, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You have no idea how he manages to get to the bathroom without knocking into anything, but you’re not questioning it.

He sets you down and you start ripping off your clothes, and he joins you after turning the shower on.

“Someone’s excited,” he chuckles, feeling your fingers on his belt. All you have on are your panties, but he’s still got pants on which is unfair.

“Hey, you suggested it, so I want it.”

“Okay, okay,” he tosses his belt out into the bedroom, laughing because you’re already unbuttoning and unzipping him. “You are eager.”

“I’m horny,” you correct him. “And it’s your fault.”

“I know, sweet girl,” he kisses your forehead. “But I’ll take care of it.”

“You better.”

While he’s busy finishing undressing, you kick your panties away and hop in the shower, adjusting the temperature.

Aaron steps in a moment later, a stupid grin on his face. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” you reply, relaxing under the hot water. “This feels good.”

His face softens. “Are you hurting again?”

“Not really,” you roll your shoulders. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

“I’m not,” he promises, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me, I’ll be fine,” you tug him closer, tilting your head to accept his kiss.

He starts slow, wanting to gauge your reactions before he does anything too drastic. He rubs your clit gently, waiting until he hears a moan before he continues. When his tongue slips into your mouth, one finger sinks into your core.

It’s different, that he’ll admit. You feel warmer and wetter, but you’re definitely not in any pain. Your moans are too loud for that.

He dips his head to your neck, suckling there, letting you thread your fingers in his hair while he slips a second finger into you. You gasp a little too loud and a little too suddenly, so he stops, but quickly starts again when your fingernails dig into his scalp in protest.

“Are you okay?” He mumbles against the hickey on your neck.

“More,” you whimper.

He scissors his fingers, wrapping his free arm around your waist to keep you steady. The added pressure of three of his fingers buried inside you nearly makes your knees buckle. Everything about him is so big and it makes you weak when you even as much as think about it.

He moves back to your lips, kissing you deeply, pausing only to ask, “How does that feel, little one?”

“M’gonna cum,” is your only reply, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “As much as you want, sweet girl. This is all about making you feel good. There you go.” He feels the first flutterings of your walls. He spreads his fingers slightly, knowing you love the stretch, when his fingers press right into your g-spot. “Come on, honey. Let go.” He moves his thumb to your clit, rubbing small circles before spreading his fingers once more, shooting you over the edge.

You cling to his shoulders, nearly biting him from the force of it. Everything is so much more sensitive when you’re on your period and you knew that, but it’s different when it’s him. It always is.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, easing you to the ending waves of your orgasm. “How was that?”

“Amazing, do you even need to ask?” You laugh, kissing him. “Can you please get inside me?”

“Please what?”

“Please, Daddy.” You bat your eyelashes for good measure, even though you know he wouldn’t tease you, not right now. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“Of course,” he steals another kiss before finally taking his fingers from you. Wordlessly, he washes the blood away, and you should’ve known he wouldn’t give two shits about this.

And you’re right, he doesn’t. The sight of blood doesn’t phase him anymore, especially not your period because it’s natural. And right now he’s too worried about making you feel good to even bother pretending to be grossed out by it.

He’s already hard, so you can’t help but reach down and stroke him, grinning when he groans loudly.

Before you can blink, though, he has you up in his arms and against the wall, your legs already settling around his hips.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he says again, looking into your eyes. “Okay?”

“Yes, I promise,” you assure him.

Accepting that answer, he drops his hand to guide himself inside of you, moving as slow as possible -- which you appreciate, even if you do want to be fucked. But you’ve never had sex on your period before, not even with previous partners, so you weren’t sure if having a dick inside you would actually feel good.

But damn it does.

You know part of it is because it’s Aaron, your husband, your best friend. His dick is good on a normal day, but when you’re sensitive from your period, it’s even better.

“Oh my fucking God.”

“What?” He stops moving, leaning his head back to look at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you laugh, threading your fingers through his hair again. “Nothing. It feels good.”

He smirks, rocking his hips slowly, letting you take more of him. “Feels good?” He asks, and you nod. “Is it wrong of me to enjoy this?” He whispers, going deeper. “You’re so warm.”

“Harder, please.”

He slams his hips forward, nipping at your neck when you whine loudly. “Are you gonna cum again?”

You nod your head lazily, locking your ankles behind his back, arching your back, forcing him deeper. A groan stutters in his throat when he feels his head teasing your cervix.

You like that normally, but his paranoia has him pulling back. “Are you--”

“If you don’t shut up and fuck me.”

He doesn’t question you after that, especially not with the lethal look you had in your eyes.

With no more hesitations, Aaron finally gives in. Every thrust is deep, yet you still push your hips up, trying to take even more. He’s never seen you like this, this greedy and almost animalistic in the way you’re chasing your orgasm.

He lets you guide him, staying still when you pull him in as deep as he can go and hold him there. He nearly explodes a few times, having to stay still while your walls pulsate around him.

Soon you’re quite literally thrown into your second orgasm when Aaron’s thumb rubs your clit as he pushes in deep, staying there, letting you squirm until he tells you to let go, and you do.

“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing your cheek lovingly. “That’s my good girl.”

Once your orgasm has settled down, he carefully lifts you off of him, setting you back on your feet. A puzzled look crosses your face.

“What?”

“You didn’t…”

He smiles. “I told you, I wanted to make you feel good.”

“And you did, but--”

“It’s okay, sweet girl.” He kisses your forehead once before turning to rinse off his dick, but you’re not giving up that easily.

You sneak your hands around his waist, resting your cheek on the middle of his back while you swat his hands out of the way.

“Little girl...what do you think you’re doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you murmur, gently stroking him.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum with a muffled cuss word under his breath. You sigh happily against his back, letting go of his dick to hug him instead.

Aaron turns around to gather you in his arms, moving forward slightly so your face isn’t directly under the water. “Is someone tired?”

You shake your head, even though you practically bury yourself in his chest. “Just content.”

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” you giggle. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he kisses your forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[mothmanismyuncle]

modern au. geraskier, established relationship. just a little comfort for the bard boy after a miserable day at work.

xoxoxo!!!

❦

geralt looked up from his book when he heard the door click shut and his husband peel off a soaked jacket. shoes were kicked; a bag was dropped; still, jaskier said nothing.

usually, geralt starts hearing his husband’s car radio from the moment it enters their neighbourhood. the quiet is alarming, to say the least, so geralt turns his book over and lays it on the couch, putting his reading glasses on his head.

“jaskier?” he calls trotting into the laundry room, where jaskier is shucking off his sodden work uniform.

“hello, love,” he replies huskily. “it’s raining.”

“it is,” geralt agrees. he turns the dryer back on, peering at the load of towels bouncing around. “why don’t you take a nice shower? warm you up,”

“‘kay,” jaskier acquiesced, slinking into the bathroom. geralt frowned after him.

typically, getting jaskier to shower right after work takes some cajoling, several bribes on both sides, all that.

today, the water turns on without any music to cover the sound, and geralt hears jaskier snuffle to himself before a small, broken sound escapes.

he won’t walk in on his husband crying. he won’t embarrass him when he waited until the shower was on and put on a face for geralt in the laundry room.

that’s what geralt chanted to himself, anyway, while he heaped blankets up on the bed and jogged back into the kitchen.

he took a small container out of the cabinet and double checked the instructions. only a bit of water and a minute in the microwave, and jaskier would have a sweet treat waiting for him in the nest geralt was building.

he gathered some water bottles, a sandwich, and jaskier’s favourite of geralt’s tee shirts that geralt thankfully had to save from the hamper. jaskier didn’t have geralt’s nose, but he could still scent his husband and it tended to calm him down plenty.

til his dying breath, geralt would deny that he rolled around on the nest blankets to make it warm and smell like him, but it was the quickest way and without music or the promise of geralt joining him, jaskier could be done in moments.

when geralt was satisfied that the clean blankets smelled a little more like home, he went to get a warm towel out of the dryer and swaddle his husband up for a trip to the nest.

he found jaskier sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees.

he couldnt say anything that didnt feel too trite, too simple, too shallow, for what that image made his heart do in his chest. he simply got undressed and sat down next to him.

“bad day,” jaskier breathed. geralt, with soft hands and a softer heart, took the spray from the wall and began to wash jaskier’s hair.

jaskier began to cry again, but this time quietly. jaskier hated it when he cried, hated how much he cried, so geralt merely began humming for him while he threaded his fingers through auburn locks to remove the soap.

“i’m an artist, aren’t i?” jaskier finally asked.

“of course,” geralt said, cupping jaskier’s cheek to get him to look him in the eye. “of course you are. one of the best i’ve ever known.”

“i… geralt, i’m working at a fast food joint. i’m getting sandwiches thrown at me by customers, i’m getting barked at by my boss. i haven’t composed in almost a week.”

“you don’t have to always be writing to be an artist,” geralt said, sitting back on his haunches. “am i a witcher?”

“of course,”

“right now? when i’m sitting in the shower with you?”

“… quit it,” jaskier replied, cottoning on to geralt’s meaning and pushing his little head into geralt’s chest.

“i’m a witcher when i wake, and when i go to sleep, and every second in between.”

“that’s different,” jaskier mumbled as best he could with the hot water pouring down the back of his neck. geralt only held him, rocking him back and forth ever so slightly.

“how?”

“being a witcher’s in your blood.”

“and your need to create isn’t?” geralt asked, looking down at his husband with faux surprise. “could have fooled me,”

“…… stop,” jaskier said, and geralt heard him fighting the smile.

“who told you to be an artist, then? was it roach?” jaskier’s shoulders shook a bit and he wormed closer to geralt. “come, love,”

geralt helped him stand and finish his shower, then gently towelled him off and wrapped him up tight, scooping him off his feet.

“you’d think i were a princess,” jaskier murmured sleepily, breath dancing along the column of geralt’s damp throat.

geralt only hummed, knowing the rumble in his chest would bring jaskier even closer to sleep.

“oh,” when geralt set jaskier on the bed and set to getting him into his sleep shirt, jaskier got a look at the nest.

a precious look of wonder captured his features and tears threatened to spill over once more.

“for me?” he asked, lip wobbling dangerously.

“i can… take back the princess cake?” geralt offered, as he was nearly about to hand the treat over.

“you made me a princess cake?” jaskier asked, voice breaking.

“you weren’t singing when you came home,” geralt supplied, still holding the microwave cake. “do you…?”

“yes, please,” jaskier sobbed, making grabby hands at both geralt and the cake. “i’m just overwhelmed-crying, not sad crying,” he said, curling into geralt’s side and allowing himself to be rocked. “oh, i’m ridiculous. my boss got waspish with me because i wasn’t fast enough during lunch rush. he wasn’t even mean! just… snappy.”

“i think you’re just exhausted, love,” geralt offered.

“i slept fine last night,” jaskier said with a mouth full of cake.

“no, not tired. exhausted. you spend all day worrying about burgers and fries, then you spend all evening being upset that you didnt spend all day composing.”

“you’re right,” jaskier said with a frown.

“maybe… maybe you should quit.” geralt said, peering down at jaskier cautiously. “i could stand a few more contracts a week.”

“geralt,” jaskier gasped. “no, we— you— i shouldn’t get to laze around all day while you risk life and limb—“

“look at me,” geralt tipped jaskier’s chin up and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. “if you quit today and sleep for a week, but never, ever come home feeling like you did today ever again… i’d rather fight a wyvern every day.”

“no,” jaskier said, squirming under the intensity of geralt’s veracity.

“every day before lunch, even,” geralt added, trying to add a little levity. “jas, if you’re this miserable, i’ll do anything to make it better for you.”

“what if i call out tomorrow? we could sleep in.”

“i’d even make lambert call out for you.”

“lambert? what would he even say?”

“what does lambert ever say?”

together, laughing, they said, “fuck you, suck my dick!” and flipped each other off.

jaskier sniffed a little once the giggles died down and offered geralt a scoop of his princess cake.

“darling, i love you very much,” geralt said patiently with his mouth full, not willing to swallow the cake. “but this tastes like sawdust.”

“how do you know what sawdust tastes like, huh?” jaskier squawked, swatting at him.

“now that we have all night, let’s make a real cake, hm?”

“alright,” jaskier said, settling the cup on the night stand and pausing to look over his shoulder at his husband. “but we shouldnt let this lovely nest go to waste,”

“oh?” geralt hummed, raising an eyebrow.

“like you said,” jaskier smirked. “we have all night,”

❦

[alstroemeriadissonance]

vampire hunter rosa and vampire vyn?

The Hunt

This was accidentally posted when I was tinkering with the draft on the mobile app (and some have seen it prematurely, since it got a couple of likes)--with the embarrassing draft notes and all aaaa (⌒_⌒;) and I couldn't find the option to set it back as draft so had to delete it (and retyped).

I am super duper happy I got this kind of ask. The possibilities!

This is a one-shot, but the imps in my head have charted out enough material to make this a short series (including NSFW bits between the vampire hunter Rosa and vampire Vyn); so if you like to see more of this let me know and I'll work on chapters in between the other asks :'D

Bonus points for anyone who can identify what game I've been loosely referencing in this bit

Holy. This thing is goddamn long. I had too much fun with it.

Eeep. Obligatory WARNING: Suggestive stuff at the end. Also some gore.

Year 1700's, Duchy of Stellis

The night air was cold, damp, and heavy with despair.

The cobblestone roads leading away from the town center increasingly become more desolate, deserted, and bereft of signs of any living activity.

The hoofing of horses pulling the lone carriage traversing the roads and narrow alleyways leading towards the Chateau de Haspran resounded loudly, heralding the arrival of two hunters who have come to hunt the feared vampire ruling over the Duchy of Stellis--the Duke of Stellis himself, Duke de Haspran.

The two hunters sitting in the decrepit carriage--the only one whose owner was willing to take them near the Chateau--were inspecting their weapons.

Artem of the Hunter's Guild loaded his flintlock rifle, forcing down the wadding with the rifle's ramrod before giving it a light shake. All good. If it doesn't rain, that is.

"Are you nervous?" asked the second hunter, whose face was hidden by a leather mask, and rest of the head obscured by the shadow underneath their cocked hat. In their hands was a threaded cane, a seemingly nondescript walking stick that has already seen much blood.

"We are only going deep into enemy territory." Artem slung his rifle across his shoulders. "Nothing so terrifying, oh no."

"It is alright to admit fear, you know." The second hunter crossed their legs, the shifting of their legs revealing a flintlock pistol holstered to the hip. "I am afraid. We are already the tenth and and eleventh hunters sent to 'bring the demon to task."

A pregnant pause hung over the two companions.

"I am not afraid," said Artem after much thought. "I have long since resigned myself to certain death the moment our--" he cleared his throat, as if he regarded his next few words with such distaste. "Ehem--nobles have decided the Duchy of Stellis required 'saving' from the Night Duke de Haspran.

"However, I am of the opinion that you do not deserve this fate, Lady Rosa."

The second hunter often referred to as Lady Rosa of the Hunter's Guild let out a soft laugh. "This fate is preferable, rather than becoming an unwilling consort to the von Hagen brat.

"Better to die on my own terms than be locked up in that pretty spire in Orchidshine and made to produce spawn after spawn."

"There is a line of ladies willing to undergo such a fate, if you must know," Artem remarked as he tightened the belt of his rapier sheath.

"Then let them," Rosa flippantly replied as she lazily spun the threaded cane with the gloved fingers of her right hand, like a baton. "I have no desire to live out my nights merely spreading my legs."

She then sliced the cane through the air, the sharp movement producing a loud crack sound. With a flick of her wrist, the body of the threaded cane split into several segments, revealing its trick form as a bladed whip--numerous silver razors connected by a fine silver chain catching the glittering moonlight and cutting through the chilly breeze.

Satisfied, Rosa once again flicked her wrist to return the whip to its previous form, as an unassuming walking stick.

"If this should be our last mission together, Artem, please accept my sincere thanks...both as you partner and your friend." Rosa then stood up, tapping her cane against the glass separating the passenger's benches from the driver's seat.

"This is far enough. We shall alight here."

===

The two hunters similarly clad in heavy coats walked side by side in the narrow, dark alleyways to their destination up ahead--Chateau de Haspran--bathed in the ominous glow of the gibbous moon.

Their footsteps echoed in unison as their heels struck the cobblestones.

The rows of crowded houses and various buildings in various states of disrepair, which lined both sides of the road, were shuttered, windows boarded up, and no light sources visible from within. It was obvious to the hunters however, that there were people inside, hiding.

Hiding perhaps, from them?

The Chateau de Haspran loomed ever larger, ever more sinister against the backdrop of the gloomy night sky with each and every step.

Rosa took out her threaded cane from within her coat, holding it in her right hand to ready herself of any ambush.

Her left hand, trained to ambidexterity enough to handle firearms despite not being the dominant hand, slipped slightly into her coat--ready to grab any of her numerous flintlock pistols holstered to her inner coat and hip should the need arise.

Beside her was Artem who walked into a more relaxed manner, but whose eyes sharply scanned the path ahead including any possible routes that they may take on foot, even on the rooftops.

"I think this is where we need to part ways, Lady Rosa." Artem finally spied a cluster of towers, tall enough to give him a good view of their planned battleground and where he may provide firearm support for his partner, who will be doing most of the siege.

"You speak as if we will never see each other again, rather than this being part of our normal procedure."

"Truthfully, I feel that it is," Artem admitted, not one to mince words; his uncovered face showing a wan smile. He then tipped his hat to her. "Lady Rosa, thank you as well for your companionship all these years. I am ever glad to have made your acquaintance in the Themis Hunter's Guild."

"And I, yours." She returned the gesture.

Rosa resumed her walk towards the main gate of Chateau de Haspran, while Artem's path took him to the inner alleyways to make the climb over the makeshift ramparts leading to the towers.

===

Inside the Chateau de Haspran, Duke Vilhelm de Haspran was working on a patient.

However, he was not ignorant of the yet another Hunt placed on him by the nobles of the neighboring duchy. A twitch of his silver eyebrow was the only tell exhibiting his utter displeasure at the situation.

The old man on the operating slab, fully conscious, spied the irritated look of the vampire standing over him.

"Ah, Vyn," The old man's tone was amiable. "Is it another of those outsiders again? I thought I heard the bells ring out earlier before sunset."

"Never you mind, Sir Bennett," The vampire said, dismissively, in dulcet tones. "Instead, ready yourself for the procedure." He produced a roll of thin cloth and with deft hands wound it tightly around the old man's upper right arm, tight enough to numb the feeling on the lower arm.

Duke de Haspran then removed the leather glove covering his right hand, revealing slender, almost alabaster-white fingers tipped with sharp fingernails.

"This will hurt, so ready yourself."

"I know, I know."

With nary a warning the duke sliced open the main vein of the old man's right wrist, his preternatural golden eyes throwing a quick glance at the old man's face to gauge his pain tolerance.

Blood dripped steadily to the silver pan placed just below the edge of the operating table.

Duke de Haspran bent on one knee to dip a finger in the blood catch. He briefly tasted the blood, letting the iron taste roll in his mouth along with his saliva.

"You have had much too much to drink recently, Sir Bennett. I am disappointed."

The old man on the operating table hissed in pain, yet struggled to carry on their conversation--something that the Duke always encouraged as losing consciousness during his procedures may pose risk of death. "Ahh...you know. Nothing else to look forward to than drink."

"You do know that if the men of your house produce substandard blood I will be forced to take your family's blood tithes from your precious little grand daughter."

At the mention of 'grand daughter' a slender figure scurried out of the shadows from a corner of the Duke's operating room. It was a younger girl, aged around fifteen years, wide-eyed and pleading.

"T-that is fine, Lord Vilhelm," she stammered. "Just please, heal my grandpa! I will give ten vials of my blood!"

Ten vials was the maximum the Duke de Haspran would take from an individual in each transaction.

The Duke sighed. "Regeneration of his liver will take more than that. But fine. Ten vials as a starting price." He adjusted his monocle. "Then I will decide on how much more to take depending on the toll the organ regeneration will be on my current blood stores."

The grand daughter nodded, despite not fully comprehending what he just told her--all she knew was she needed the vampire Duke's help in curing her grandfather's disease, and that she must pay the price.

===

The door to the operating room suddenly burst open.

It was Luke, the Duke de Haspran's Master of Arms and personal guard.

Luke had yet to fully prove his loyalty to him--he had defected from another duchy that attempted to usurp his holdings--but Duke de Haspran already decided his skill with weapon smithing and immense hatred of his domicile of origin as enough for now.

"Lord Vilhelm! I apologize for the intrusion, but--"

"I know. I can feel their presence closing in." Duke de Haspran took the bloodied wrist of his patient and licked the wound that he sliced open previously, slathering on a generous amount of his saliva to close off the cleanly-sliced flesh.

"It is regrettable, but I need to take care of our guests."

He then put a hand on the top of the girl's head. "Kiki, I need you to watch over your grandfather for now."

Kiki blushed, secretly pleased that the Duke de Haspran remembered her name. "Y-yes! And Lord Vilhelm...be safe..."

"You know where to find the bandages should your grandfather need them."

"Yes!"

"Be gentle with them, Vyn," came the voice of the old man before Duke de Haspran and Luke closed the door to the operating room behind them.

The two strode through the dark, sparsely-lit corridors of the Chateau's interior. "I have seen only one Hunter in approach," Luke reported.

"Two," Duke de Haspran said. "I can feel at least two hostile presences outside."

Luke fell silent. "So it really is her..."

This piqued the Duke's interest. "Is it an acquaintance of yours?"

"There is only one Hunter bearing the rose coat of arms, where I come from." Luke pushed open the door leading to the armory, quickly lighting the sconce lamp within with a flint lighter. "Of course, I do not know if other territories have their own Rose Hunter."

Light flooded into the armory, revealing weapons of differing varieties and origins. Blades of all lengths, shields, armors, and Luke's personal contributions--personal siege weaponry and experimental ballistics--lay neatly arranged and ready for deployment should the need arise.

"But if it is two people including the Rose Hunter and no one else, it only means it is Lady Rosa and her partner Artem of the Themis Hunter's Guild." Luke inspected a rather sizable long pipe outfitted with the ability to fire projectiles. "They always come as a pair, and do not work with others."

"So, only two of them." Duke de Haspran eyed the contraption in Luke's hands warily. "I thought we already talked about avoiding damage to property in my holdings."

"Yes, but they function as well as an army if left alone unimpeded." Luke checked if the chambers of the flintlock grenade launcher were fully loaded. "Do not worry Lord Vilhelm, most this can do on stone and even wood is leave scorch marks. I cannot same the same for flesh, however."

"Do as you wish," Duke de Haspran relented, massaging his temples. "I will just discuss the matter of property damages with you after the fact."

Luke fell silent, then blinked as he felt the familiar tingle in his head which, he suspected, is caused by the vampire's attempt to intrude in his thoughts.

"You wish me to spare your...friends?"

"I truly could not hide my thoughts from you, could I?" Luke murmured, pursing his lips.

"You may, with enough practice." Then, he added, "Whether your friends will live or die after this farce of an attack will depend on them. I will put my myself and the safety of my property above their own lives."

"I understand, Lord Vilhelm."

"Do not take it against me should they fall by my hand."

Luke crossed his right arm over his chest and made a small bow. "Of course, Lord Vilhelm."

Duke de Haspran opened a chest containing his sparse personal effects. From it he unfurled a dark cape lined with wine-red velvet, throwing it over his shoulders and fastening its clasps over his neck.

The vampire took out a scabbard and belt from the same chest, handing it to Luke.

"Help me, will you?"

"Of course." Luke slipped the baldric--the sword belt--across his lord's shoulder and buckled it across the chest. He then removed the greatsword--the Holy Moonlight Sword--from its display rack and sheathed it in the scabbard now strapped to Duke de Haspran's back.

"Then let us make haste," the vampire said to his personal guard. "Sir Bennett awaits our return."

===

Rosa finally reached the gate; it was the usual ornate wrought iron gate typical of lavish lodgings owned by the nobility except for one minor detail: off to the side of the grand gate, just by the giant hinges that connected the left gate to the rest of the equally ornate wrought iron fence, was a tall stake on which a severed head was impaled.

None of the flesh remained, but an ivory skull picked clean was left behind.

"Tasteful," Rosa remarked at the grisly sight, then tried opening the gate with a small push.

It gave with little effort.

If only our previous prey were as welcoming, Rosa thought as she pushed the gates all the way open and walked into the courtyard.

The courtyard was full to the brim of various blooms and flora; however in the moonlight what could have been vivid reds, pinks, yellows and other beautiful floral hues were instead awash with various shades of blues and dark purples, lending the entrance leading to the Chateau an eerie atmosphere.

Rosa planted her heels in the middle of the expansive courtyard, her threaded cane in her right hand, its tip digging at the grass underneath.

She took a deep breath.

"Duke de Haspran," she projected her voice loud and clear without the need to shout. "I, Rosa of the Themis Hunter's Guild, have come here to put your vile deeds to task."

Vile deeds? Really now.

Rosa blinked. It wasn't a voice that carried through the air. It was a gentle, soothing voice sent directly into her head.

"W-where are you?!" Rosa looked around, trying hard to stamp down the panic that threatened to burst out. She have killed numerous vampires, but most of them were mere fledglings and none were powerful enough to even think of attempting telepathy.

Look above you, came the maddeningly soothing, genial voice, that spoke as if he was welcoming an important guest.

Rosa's head snapped up, and sure enough perched directly high above her, right on the peak of the gable roof of the chateau's foyer easily five storeys high, was a caped figure with long silver hair shining brilliantly in the moonlight.

Despite the distance she could make out the vampire's golden eyes piercing through the dreariness of the dark blue landscape of a gibbous moon night.

Let me welcome you properly, Lady Rosa.

Rosa's vampire prey stepped off the roof gables and, with his wide cape and silver hair fluttering in the thin wind, effortlessly landed on the ground a few paces away from her.

"Good evening, Lady Rosa," said the vampire, this time in his normal voice that carried through the air, as he made a short bow. "I am the...creature that you seek.

"I am known as the Duke de Haspran of the Duchy of Stellis."

Rosa eyed the vampire from head to toe warily.

As a vampire, the Duke de Haspran's stature was on the unremarkable side.

Rosa had previously made short work of thralls that were several heads taller than him, or of considerably heavier, more muscularly built, but there was something about the vampire in front of her--as impeccably dressed, and good looking as he was--that quietly screamed of how much danger he posed, and that her life was already forfeit by the time she set foot in the courtyard.

Said dangerous vampire had his hands neatly folded in front of him, the smile on his unnaturally-glowing golden eyes beatific.

"I do not suppose there is still a way to parley with you?" Duke de Haspran said. "The night is a pleasant one, and I do not wish to sully it with the ugliness of battle and..." his voice fell a couple of octaves lower. "...death."

Rosa smirked, fully knowing that her face was not visible behind the leather mask that obscured her visage. "I am afraid not, vampire," she said, truthfully. "This is not a mere guild task, nor are we allowed to return without the head of our mark.

"Also, we are here representing our Guild, and we cannot dare speak on behalf of them. Except," Rosa then makes a half step backward, holding her threaded cane in front of her. "with our weapons."

Duke de Haspran sighed. "Ah, this is regrettable."

Then, in a matter of seconds, a strong gale whipped around Rosa, tearing away her cocked hat and leather mask obscuring her face.

The wind dissipated as fast as it happened; Rosa's long auburn hair spilled down her shoulders, and her bared face now openly displayed her shock at what had happened. "W-what--"

There was no change or movement to be seen on his form, except for the fact that his right hand has slipped out of its glove, his long-nailed slender fingers stretching languidly. "Do forgive me, Lady Rosa," he murmured as his eyes gazed on Rosa's face. "But I want to know how my enemy looks like...before I kill them." His tone finally dropped all pretense of friendliness.

"Such a shame; a beautiful flower such as you, only put to waste in such a barbaric profession." Duke de Haspran whispered as reached over his shoulder, pulling out his great sword single-handedly. "They have done you a great injustice."

He then started to walk towards her, the great sword held by his side. "I sincerely wish your lot in your next life will be a better one--"

A projectile--a silver bullet--hit the vampire's shoulder, causing him to flinch and break off from his approach.

"Artem!" Rosa exclaimed, glad for her partner's timely support. She could see him in her peripheral vision aiming downsight with his flintlock rifle from a far off rampart.

His accuracy despite the great distance was incredible as always.

Seizing the chance given to her, she made an overhead slash of her cane--swinging it as how one would with a sword--aimed directly at the Duke's neck.

It connected, but the cane only bounced and did not do any noticeable damage to the vampire. It only earned Rosa an indignant glance from Duke de Haspran.

That was the moment that Rosa realized she had been set up for failure right at the beginning. The threaded cane, even when in its inert form, should have been able to inflict noticeable pain. It also happened to be the most powerful weapon she had in her possession; her flintlocks, much like Artem's, were only brought along to distract or stall the enemy and not much more.

To see it merely bounce off the vampire's bare skin told her that her life was well and truly forfeit.

I'm dead. Haha. Well, it has been a good life, thought Rosa ruefully. Well, might as well have fun while it lasts. "Hey, vampire, let's dance," she murmured with a seductive lilt to her voice, a small smile playing on her lips as her right wrist flicked to transform the threaded cane into its trick form, the silver blade whip.

She did not notice the telltale touch, a tingle, in her head as she made her attack.

With a short hop backwards she sent the bladed whip slicing through the air, aiming directly at the Duke's arm holding the great sword.

He parried easily with his blade--as if he was carrying a light rapier instead of a heavy blade that was usually held with both hands.

Unperturbed, Rosa once again brought down her bladed whip at him only for the Duke de Haspran to catch the blade of the whip with his bare hand--this time successfully drawing blood--and tugged at it strongly enough to pull Rosa towards him.

His sword was poised to thrust at her the moment she enters its range of attack, only for his movement to be halted by yet another bullet hitting him on the shoulder of his sword arm.

Luke, fend off this girl's partner, if you please. He is irritating me. The personal guard, being human, could not reply via telepathy of course--but he knew that the message was received.

Now, about you. He focused his full attention now to Rosa, who, he noted in amusement, now held the handle of her whip with her mouth, leaving her hands free to dual wield her flintlock pistols.

She steadily fired a stream of bullets at him, one pistol per bullet, all of which were easily fended off by the preternaturally quick parrying of the Duke's great sword.

Rosa casually tossed spent flintlock pistols to the ground and quickly drew replacement pistols out of her coat--she did this in such quick succession that the Duke initially thought she was armed with pistols capable of containing multiple rounds.

Amazing, he noted. Themis Hunters Guild indeed has sent their prized Hunter to me, finally.

All the firepower did was to stall him, however, and eventually Rosa ran out of pistols. Duke de Haspran easily counted around fifteen pistols on the ground. She is obviously outfitted for a blitz attack, but she will easily lose in battle of endurance...how unfortunate for her to be sent to me.

"It's my turn, little girl," he smiled languidly as he easily spun the Holy Moonlight Sword in his hand and, lifting it above his head, swung it down to Rosa's general direction. He did not care to aim it at any specific part of her body--the blade was large enough to guarantee crippling damage or maiming if it connected anywhere on her person.

Rosa quickly hopped aside to avoid the blade, which tore at the ground on which it landed instead. That could have been my arm. I wish to die in one piece, she thought. I guess simple wishes don't come true for bastard, abandoned children like me.

"Ah, that is your wish?" Duke de Haspran said.

Rosa looked at him incredulously. "You--you read my mind?"

"Surface thoughts, yes," the Duke admitted with a winsome smile as he switched into a thrusting position, his sword arm cocked behind him. "Well then, let us kill you in one piece."

===

Artem frantically bit into a cartridge and poured the powder into his rifle's flash pan with shaking fingers. Even at this distance he could see that Rosa was facing imminent death--despite all the talk of being resigned to their deaths earlier, he couldn't bear to stand and watch idly by even if he knew that it was only a matter of time before Rosa was finally cut down.

After ramming the wadding and bullet Artem once again aimed downsight to at least buy his partner another second--every second counted, especially when each bore the potential to bring with it a miracle--but suddenly the rifle was kicked away from him.

"Hey." came a familiar voice.

It can't be...

"Luke." Artem was about to say he was happy to see his old friend alive, being the seventh Hunter sent to kill Duke de Haspran who never returned, but the fact that he kicked away his weapon only meant one thing.

"You traitor," was all Artem could manage to say.

Luke shrugged, which was a feat considering the heavy steel pipe strapped to his shoulder. "What. We never had their loyalty either," he said, rather darkly. "We are just expendable weapons to them."

Artem did not make any effort to retort, as there was nothing false in Luke's statement.

"I suggest you stand down."

"You know well that I cannot do that."

Luke sighed. "This is the problem with you two. They've succeeded in brainwashing you into thinking that there are no other options to live out your lives." He shrugged off the steel contraption off his shoulders, aiming its business end at his erstwhile colleague as he quickly stepped several paces back. "I'm not going to waste time with you Artem--the sooner I get rid of you, the sooner I can go down there and beg for Rosa to be spared."

"What?"

Before he could get any further explanation, Luke fired his prized flintlock grenade launcher point blank at him.

===

An explosion resounded, exactly at the spot where Artem had set up his supporting position.

Rosa was about to resign herself to her final fate, but, seeing that her partner have gone up in flames, something akin to a frenzied despair had been fanned within her.

"Artem!!' she shouted.

Duke de Haspran had to stop mid-thrust and turned to look at the ensuing fire. "Scorch marks only, indeed." he noted wryly.

He was about to face Rosa once again when he felt a sharp sting by his side.

Rosa looked at him, her expression blank. "Got you." In her hands was a silver dagger, the blade end sticking to his side.

Vampire blood trickled down to the ground.

The vampire hissed, as contact with silver was indeed painful for his kind, but both he and Rosa knew that the wound wasn't anywhere close to immobilizing him, much less killing him.

Recovering from the pain, Duke de Haspran smiled at Rosa sadly. "You...really want to die this badly?" He pulled out the dagger from his flesh and tossed it to the ground.

It was not a rhetorical question. He had touched her mind from the beginning, and he knew that she was essentially on a suicide mission. "I was going to stall for time. I was waiting for your friend to go here and plead your case."

"There's nothing in it for me," Rosa whispered. "My only living friend is now gone.

"Please kill me."

"I see. This is indeed regrettable." Then, he opened his arms toward her. "Come here. I will make it painless."

Rosa's lip trembled. "Why are you suddenly being kind to me, Duke de Haspran?" She stepped into his arms.

"Because I am a creature of medicinal arts," he simply said.

The vampire gently supported the small of her back with his left hand.

His right hand quickly thrust through her chest, piercing her flesh, breaking her ribs, splattering her blood, all with only one strike of his sharp claws.

He pulled out his hand, gored with Rosa's blood and pieces of flesh.

"I do not consider myself...a monster."

Gently he gathered what was once Rosa's body in his arms, carrying her as if he would a lover, if ever he would have one.

===

It was too late.

Luke ran as fast as he could, to reach the courtyard, but as soon as he arrived, he only managed to witness how his master snuffed out the light of his friend's life. Literally, by his hand.

"Rosa...ROSA!" Luke cried out. "No!"

Desperately he tugged at Duke de Haspran's cape. "My lord! Please! Please, spare her life! I am willing to do anything, anything..." His words slowly become incoherent.

"Unfortunately, Luke, she is beyond saving," Duke de Haspran said, ignoring the pleas of his personal guard. There was no denying the fact that there was a fist-sized hole in the girl's chest.

"She said that there was no need for her to live, as her partner is already killed. By your hands, if I am not mistaken. So I killed her, upon her request."

"What?!" Luke looked up at him. "No--No! Artem is alive!"

"What?"

True enough, in a nearby pile of rubble a hand jutted out; Artem picked himself up and half limped out of the pile. However as soon as he saw the bloodied sight of his partner his knees gave out and he wept hard.

I was not able to sense his hostility, which is why I was not able to pick out his presence. Luke must have talked sense into him sometime ago.

"My lord, please! Please! I know--I know there is one way for you to save her life!" Luke pleaded.

"No," the reply came quickly. "I have never turned someone into my....kind."

"Then please...try."

Duke de Haspran and Luke both glance at Artem, who now moved to a supplicating posture, his forehead touching the ground.

"Please, save Rosa." Artem plead, gritting his teeth. "I don't care what it takes. I will pay the price as much as I can."

The vampire noble looked at the fresh body in his arms, and then at the two men who are begging for her to be brought back.

After much deliberation, Duke Vilhelm de Haspran relented.

"I...will try."

===

After sending off Sir Bennett and his grand daughter for the night--having made sure the old man had his wounds fully closed off and symptoms temporarily abated--he hurriedly carried Rosa off to his personal quarters.

"The operating theater would not do," Vilhelm had said to Luke when the latter started to prepare the operating slab for Rosa's procedure. "Turning someone into a vampire is an intricate process.

"Do not interrupt me. Even if I take several nights, I myself have yet to acclimatize with the procedure."

And now, as Rosa is laid out on his bed naked, and Vilhelm himself in a similar state of undress--the real reason why he did not want to perform the turning in the operating room, nor have any one stand in as attendant was revealed.

To call it an 'intricate process' was a misnomer. Rather, it was an 'intimate' one.

Or so the books have told the vampire noble.

Vilhelm bent over Rosa, his long silver locks a veil that shrouded his conflicting feelings about the entire affair.

He did not even know if he would be successful, nor know what exactly would happen to him during the procedure, but the pleas of the two men managed to reach him.

And so Vilhelm willed himself to be put in such a state of vulnerability to save this one person who he had mistakenly sent to the afterlife.

A tome lay open just beside where Rosa lay, its text in full view.

Vilhelm took a deep breath, and recited the first line. "Ancient beings, I command thee in the name of darkness."

He brought his right wrist to his mouth, and with his fangs he scored the skin over his artery deeply, drawing blood. With a sharp hiss he squeezed his lower right arm with his left hand, making sure to saturate the wound he inflicted on Rosa's chest with as much of his own blood as possible.

This was the first difference between his blood medicinal arts that he performed on the people of his duchy, and on Rosa. His general practice made use of the people's own blood stores, taken from their regular blood tithes. The tithes were not merely for his own feeding, but rather also a way to procure blood that may be used to heal those with serious illnesses that Vilhelm had the power and knowledge to cure.

Rosa was currently the only being who has received Vilhelm's own blood.

Medical curiosity was partly the reason he acceded to his personal guard's and the hunter's request and so, with his breath abated, Vilhelm tried to observe how his blood worked on Rosa's grave wound.

Nothing yet happened.

Quelling the doubts that threatened to poison his thoughts, Vilhelm turned to the tome, and read aloud the second verse.

"In this space, Gods shall be powerless; in this circle, the rules of Gods shall be forfeit."

Maybe not enough blood... Vilhelm was about to squeeze out more of his vampiric blood, when he finally felt faint stirrings of blood magic from Rosa.

Encouraged, Vilhelm continued reciting the text off the tome. "I shall be your master, my words your command."

Suddenly, the blood coming from Vilhelm started to glow an eerie shade of carmine. A tendril of blood that connected from Vilhelm's wrist and Rosa's wound glowed more brilliantly than the rest of his blood, its color shifting from carmine to electric purple.

Entranced at the sight, Vilhelm felt an invisible yet compelling force that drew him somehow to the girl unconscious underneath him.

Having no experience with females--neither human, nor vampire--Vilhelm did not understand the exact nature of what he was feeling until much later.

Unfazed, writing off the mysterious stirrings of his loins as part of the blood magic, Vilhelm read the next line.

"From this moment onward, your heart, body, and soul all belong...to me."

It is at this moment that Vilhelm realized the full implication of what the turning procedure entailed. But there was no more turning back, and so he watched in rapt fascination as the gored wound had its flesh quickly repair itself, the broken bones restored, and immaculate fair skin replaced.

Yet Rosa was still unconscious, and so Vilhelm recited the last verse in the page.

"Your spirit is inextinguishable, this contract eternal."

As soon as he uttered those words, the most magnificent sight Vilhelm would ever behold happened: Rosa's entire body glowed, the brightness eventually filling the room to such an intensity that he had to avert his eyes.

The electric purple thread of blood joining Vilhelm's wrist to Rosa's erstwhile wound glowed white-hot, until it dissipated along with the rest of the mysterious illumination.

Rosa started to breathe, her naked chest rising and falling with each breath.

Vilhelm suddenly felt a strong wave of exhaustion--he realized that he had let out too much of his own blood--and before he could think of how to replenish it, he fell on top on Rosa, instantly losing his own consciousness.

==

When he opened his eyes, Vilhelm saw Rosa watching over him, a blanket draped over her shoulders to cover her nakedness.

"I am sorry," he started to speak, but his voice came out too softly, and he found himself too weak to move. Yet his first thought was to apologize to Rosa. "I fell unconscious before I could replace your clothing."

"I realized that," Rosa replied.

Vilhelm saw, as her mouth opened to speak, that she had gained her own fangs.

"...how long was I sleeping?"

"I do not know," Rosa said, her olive eyes--now infused with a faint, ethereal glow--gazing at him intensely. "But I think at least two days. Or is it two nights?" Rosa let out a soft, quiet laugh. "How do you vampires count the days?"

"The same as how others who speak our language do, I suppose."

"Fair enough."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes. Very," Rosa said, her eyes still fixated on him. "But I do not know how to satisfy this hunger."

Vilhelm sighed. He was still too weak, but feeding his made vampire took precedence. With an unsteady fingertip he sliced an artery on his neck, letting his own blood flow into rivulets that drew channels on his naked alabaster skin.

"You can try...this..."

Wordlessly Rosa bent over to him, her lips closing in on his wound, sucking on his blood eagerly. Her tongue licked his skin clean of any missed drops of precious blood.

"Hahh..ah--just...just like that," Vilhelm moaned. He felt increasingly weaker, but at the same time he felt the same stirrings of the alien sensation he that threatened to overcome him while doing the blood magic on Rosa.

The feeling that made him want to do things to the young vampire currently feeding on him was spreading over his loins, but Vilhelm, as inexperienced as he was, did not comprehend this.

What is this that I'm feeling!?

"Don't h-hold yourself--ahh--back," Vilhelm's moans filled the room, his whimpering breaking the once sacred silence that covered them as he remained sleeping. "Don't--you don't need to--hahh--subdue your hunger in my account--hnnh!!"

The sensations of Rosa's tongue against his skin was electrifying. The sensations pooled and concentrated in his nether regions...

Vilhelm found himself holding Rosa closer to him with his arms, albeit with a weakened grip, and slowly overcome with the urge to devour her--but not exactly feed on her. Whatever he felt, was of a more primal nature.

What is this what is this what is this what is this what is this what is this--ahh

"Mhm," Rosa steadily sipped and lapped at Vilhelm's wound, relishing his flavor and the sustenance that he was giving her at his own expense. Then she paused.

"I know what you're feeling," she gave his neck wound another languorous lick.

She managed to hear his thoughts. It was very loud and clear.

Vilhelm moaned once again. "...what--"

"While I still have traces of humanity inside me," Rosa murmured as she lifted her head to look at Vilhelm rather lustily, "Let me show you how humans devour each other. You may find it rather...delicious."

"Consider it payback for whatever you did to me..." She licked her lips. "Master."

She then removed her blanket, and moved to straddle his naked body.

The rest of the night was filled with more moaning, cries, and other sounds from Vilhelm that Rosa found were definitely to die for.

[dothwrites]

15.20 coda--at the end of the world

author’s note: while i am still reeling from the finale, this was my way of making some kind of personal peace with it. don’t mistake this for me agreeing with the choices made <3 

---

“I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”--Madeline Miller

---

Castiel opens his eyes. 

All around him is green. A moment later, he hears the soft sound of birds chirping in the background; from further away, the faint sounds of children laughing. The air is ripe with the smell of growth, damp in the air and life underneath his fingers. 

He sits up. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, the kind found only in poet’s and painters imaginations. A few feet away, the shrubs grow, flowers spilling over themselves in their enthusiasm to be born. Everything is a riot of life and color. 

“Cas.” 

Castiel’s heart thumps against his ribs. He knows that voice. 

He whirls around, already knowing who he’ll find. Several feet away, Jack waits, one hand raised in a short wave. 

Castiel finds himself up on his feet, and within two short steps, he’s enfolded Jack in his arms. For a moment, he forgets about everything which came before, and allows himself this sheer comfort. If nothing else remains, then Jack is here. 

Jack hugs him back, twice as fiercely, before they separate. Castiel holds him at arm’s length, trying to find injuries or hurt on him, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s almost as if...

“Jack,” he says slowly, his arm falling away from Jack’s shoulder, “what happened?” 

Jack smiles, a little lopsided, but still his boy. 

“Well,” he says, gesturing towards a bench, “It’s kind of a long story. 

---

For all that Jack said it was a long story, it ends up being remarkably quick in the telling. Castiel listens, sometimes grieving and sometimes proud, as he hears of how Sam, Dean, and Jack ultimately defeated Chuck. His heart grows in his chest as Jack recounts Dean’s words. 

That’s not who I am. 

A small part of him wishes that he could be there to see it, but he tucks that part of himself away. He said his piece. He relieved the burden which has been pressing down on his shoulders now for years. In his lifetime, it was nothing more than a blip on the map, but those years have made all the difference in the world to him. Finally, he can look back on them now without regrets. 

“And so, I came here,” Jack finally says, shifting a little on the bench. He looks oddly guilty, like the times Castiel would find him sneaking snacks back into his room. “I thought...” 

“What?’ Castiel prompts, after a few moments when it becomes clear that Jack has no interest in speaking. 

“Sam and Dean don’t really need me anymore. I mean, I know that they want me, but the world is bigger now. And the people up here need me too.” 

It’s then that Castiel looks around, scrutinizing his environment more closely. The nagging sense of familiarity hits and then he wonders how he didn’t see it before. His favorite Heaven, caught in an eternal Tuesday afternoon. 

“It’s not right,” Jack says, his forehead wrinkled into an earnest expression of worry. “The people here are stuck. While I was on earth, we all talked about free will, but the people here don’t have it. They’re stuck forever in an endless loop of memories, and it’s all just...empty.” 

Jack looks at Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t see God. He doesn’t see a divine being, or Lucifer’s son, or even an angelic being. He just sees his boy, lost and confused, but still so pure, still wanting to do the right thing, no matter what. 

“Cas?” Jack asks. “Will you help me?” 

---

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems. 

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed. 

He does make one stop, however. 

When he walks in the door, Kelly’s head lifts up from the book she’s flipping through. Her smile is a balm to the hurt places inside him, the ones that he likes to pretend don’t exist, because he was happy, yes? That was the whole point of everything, was to be happy. “Hey, Cas,” she greets him, shifting over and patting the couch next to her. “I was wondering when you’d be by.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Cas says, settling down on the cushions. In Heaven, his body is easier than it was on earth, more flexible, and he wonders if that’s because after all these years, he’s finally returned to where he was supposed to belong, or if it’s because he no longer has the shadow of his love pressing down on his shoulders. 

“Jack told me. Rebuilding Heaven? Sounds ambitious.” 

“The old Heaven was...not ideal,” Castiel says. “I thought it was at the beginning: each soul gets a paradise tailor made to them. But then, I realized that human life is meaningless without the connections we form along the way. Each soul, stuck forever in its own loop is...” 

“It’s lonely,” Kelly says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Castiel returns the gesture, grateful for the connection. Her eyes are kind as she moves closer to him, her shoulder pressing into his. 

“So what happened?” 

---

In their time together, Castiel never told Kelly about Dean, at least not explicitly. But she had a brilliant mind and was able to see the threads of his longing woven into everything he did. Relating the story to her comes easily, and he tells her things which he would never tell Jack. 

“And I was happy,” Castiel says at the end. “I was.” 

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Neither,” Castiel replies, bristling slightly. It was true that he might have been happier--he had performed a willful obfuscation of the original terms--but that doesn’t negate what he felt in that moment. The sheer love, the overwhelming gratitude, the incandescent happiness of being able, one last time, to proclaim to the world Dean Winchester is Saved. 

Everything else is unimportant when viewed through those lenses. 

“Why haven’t you gone to see him?” Kelly was always good at cutting to the heart of the problem. 

“Dean has his life on earth. I have my work here in Heaven. I don’t...” Because, of course, he’s asked himself the same question many times. Why doesn’t he go find Dean and tell him of one last, improbable miracle? 

“Cas, let me tell you: I didn’t know Dean all that well, but I didn’t need to if I wanted to know how he felt about you. It was all over his face.” Kelly turns to face him, suddenly serious. “Cas, you should go to him. At least allow him to speak his side. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then you’ll know. And if he does...” 

Castiel shakes his head. Happiness in the being is what he’s told himself ever since he awoke to find himself in Heaven. Happiness doesn’t come from the having. He will live with himself and find contentment in the works which he does. 

Kelly looks sympathetic, but doesn’t say anything as he walks out. 

There’s work to be done. 

---

Castiel sighs with satisfaction as he walks through Heaven. Slowly, the walls are coming down. Souls are mingling and interacting. There’s joy in the once quiet halls, the giddiness which comes from freedom after too long without. He moves through the different realms, silent as a thought, and goes unnoticed, at least until a gruff voice catches his attention. 

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?” 

A wide grin splits Castiel’s face. Only Bobby Singer would think to call an angel ‘boy’. He walks towards the old hunter, who looks the same now as he did in life, and is surprised when Bobby sweeps him up in a hug which would threaten to crack his ribs, were he human. 

“You did good,” Bobby whispers, his voice thick in Castiel’s ear. “I heard what you and that boy Jack did, and you did real good.” 

It means more than he would have thought, to have Bobby’s approval. After a moment’s pause, he hugs Bobby back. 

When Bobby pulls away, he quickly knuckles his eyes, before clearing his throat. “So, you fixed Heaven on top of everything else? What do you have planned next?” 

Castiel’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “There’s always work to be done maintaining Heaven. We don’t know what, if any, effects the restructuring will bring, so I suppose I will be traveling and making sure that everything is stable.” 

“If that ain’t a load of shit,” Bobby scoffs. “From what I’ve seen, your boy has enough power in his pinky finger to do just about whatever he wants. Stop making excuses and get your feathery ass back down there.” 

Castiel swallows. “It’s not quite as simple as that. Sam and Dean have a chance to live their lives, the way that they would wish for them to be lived. It’s not fair of me to intrude.” 

“Now, if that isn’t the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” Bobby’s mouth twists underneath his beard. “Only one thing keeping you from going back down to see those boys, and it sure as hell ain’t concern for Heaven or some BS notion that they’re better off without you.” Castiel opens his mouth, but Bobby speaks over him. “And don’t tell me that you’re just waiting either. Something I learned a long time ago--you never have as much time as you think you do.” 

Castiel closes his mouth and says nothing. 

---

Bobby is wrong. 

There’s still time. He doesn’t have to go yet. There’s still work to be done in Heaven, souls to be guided, walls to be broken. Jack still needs him. 

There’s still time. 

There’s still time, until there isn’t.

---

Castiel feels it before he knows what’s happening. It’s a rift, a tear, something which ripples throughout the universe and comes to hit him in the chest. He staggers backward, hand clutching at his shirt. 

His first thought is that Heaven is under attack, but a second’s observation tells him that’s not the case. Everything is fine. The fabric of Heaven remains secure, the souls are unbothered. It’s only him that feels the blow. 

With a flutter of wings, Jack appears beside him. His face is a mask of distress, tears welling in his eyes. “Cas,” he cries, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “Cas, it’s--” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally understanding the bolt of pain which ripped through him. 

It was too soon. He doesn’t know how much time has passed on earth, but he knows it was too soon. 

It’s always too soon. 

“Cas, what do I... I can heal him. I can go and heal him now. I can save him. I can...” Jack trails off, his feet still pacing in desperate circles. “What do I do?” 

It’s a child’s question, and Castiel has no answer. 

“Free will,” is all he says. “Whatever you do...It’s your decision.” 

---

Castiel feels when Dean Winchester’s soul enters Heaven. He held that soul within his grace, he snatched it away from the filth and flames of Hell. He cradled that soul while he was reassembling Dean’s body, pulling atoms out of air to create skin, flesh, and bone. He would know that soul at the end of everything, and he knows it here, when it settles into the place which was created for him. 

It was as perfect as Castiel could make it; down to the Impala sitting in the Roadhouse’s parking lot. He created every inch of Dean’s Heaven in homage, in apology. 

It wasn’t fair. Dean deserved to live to a ripe old age. He deserved to enjoy the world for which he fought so hard. He should have grown old, should have found peace, should have discovered the foibles and pitfalls of normal, human existence. Dean worked too hard, for too long, and he deserved a kinder, softer fate. Instead, he’s here, and all Castiel can do for him is to craft his Heaven with painstaking care. 

He pauses on the boundaries of Dean’s Heaven. Every fiber of him yearns to go forward, to rejoice in Dean’s presence, to see that beloved face again. He wants it so badly he can almost taste it, leather and gasoline and whiskey mingling together until he’s back in the bunker, listening to the sounds of his family--

Castiel takes a step away from the border. First one, then another. After three steps, it becomes easier. 

Dean has his paradise, and Castiel won’t interfere. 

---

Heaven moves as it always does, timeless and changeless. There is no turn of the earth to mark the passage of time. Instead, it moves like the ocean, rolling waves which are always moving and yet the surface remains the same. Castiel travels through various Heavens, observing the newly liberated souls, and taking his peace from their newfound enjoyment. It eases something within him to see his former home restored, better than it ever was before. 

He’s inspecting a field of sunflowers when the sound of a car door closing surprises him. Immediately, his heart lurches in his chest, dipping down to somewhere around his knees before hurtling upwards to lodge in his throat. He swallows before he turns around. 

Dean Winchester is there. 

Castiel’s heart, always out of his control, performs a quick dance against the confines of his ribs. Dean looks...He looks whole and wonderful, vibrant and alive. The lines around his eyes look as though they’ve been carved through laughter instead of despair. His shoulders sit easier, no longer pressed down with the burden of the entire world. 

Castiel licks his lips. “Hello, Dean,” he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Dean has no intention of making the first move. 

Dean’s lips quirk up in a grin. “Cas,” he says, not moving from where he’s leaning up against the frame of the Impala. “You’re a hard guy to track down.” 

Layers upon layers of subtext are placed within the seemingly simple sentence. Castiel remembers Purgatory as well as anything else, the desperate year of keeping one step ahead of Leviathans while close enough to Dean to protect him if need be. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says faintly. “I wasn’t aware anyone was looking.” 

Dean’s face performs a series of interesting maneuvers, dropping and rising and twisting. It finally settles into an expression like stone as he pushes off the car and storms towards him. Castiel waits, caught up in breathless anticipation of the oncoming storm. 

“Look,” Dean growls, reaching out and snagging the lapel of his coat, almost like he wants to ensure that Castiel doesn’t escape. Castiel doesn’t even dream of it; there’s no other place he’d rather be than caught in Dean’s grip. “There was a lot of shit going on at the time, so I didn’t get to say it then, but there’s nothing happening now, so you are going to sit here and listen, all right?”

Castiel nods, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe you didn’t...” He runs the hand which isn’t still wrapped up in Castiel’s coat over his face. “You idiot,” he finally breathes. “A couple of dumbasses. You’ve had me, Cas. All along, you’ve had me.” 

Castiel looks up at Dean in sharp surprise. When he meets Dean’s eyes, there’s nothing but the infinite compassion which he fell in love with. “You... You’re this force of nature that came bursting into my life. All this time, you’ve always been there, always helping, and I took that for granted, I know I did. But, god, Cas, I should have told you every day how thankful I was to have you there with us. I should have let you know what a miracle you are. You never gave up on me, not once, not even when I deserved it.” 

Castiel’s breath hitches in his chest as Dean lets go of his coat. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reaches up to cup Castiel’s cheek. “You never stopped believing. You never stopped trying. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

“Dean.” The name bursts out of Castiel’s chest in a harsh breath. Dean’s words are working their way underneath his skin, to the point where his body can’t contain them. 

“Cas.” Dean gently angles his face up so that there’s no escape when he says, “I love you.” 

“I’m sorry,” explodes from Castiel’s chest, the helplessness and grief he felt when he felt Dean’s soul leaving earth erupting in a single quick sob. “Dean, I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should have done something, I never should have left you alone--” 

“Cas.” Dean’s fingers press into his cheek, not hard, but firmly enough to get his attention. “It sucks, all right? There was so much I wanted...” The corner of his mouth drops. “I was going to get you out, and you, me, and Sam were going to head to the beach. I was going to get you drinking out of a coconut, maybe a Hawaiian shirt. We were going to do Christmas, I was going to take you to a theme park and see if you puked on roller coasters. I wanted...” For a moment, grief so overwhelming that it can’t be touched crosses Dean’s face, but then, with effort, he pushes it away. “There’s so much that I wanted, but it’s done now. And besides, you’ve been busy.” Dean raises his eyebrows. The grin on his face invites Cas to smile as well. “Reforming Heaven?” 

“I wanted...There was so much I did wrong here. I thought if I could make it right, that maybe...” Castiel leans his cheek into Dean’s hand. “I wanted it to be perfect for you. You weren’t supposed to be here yet.” 

“I know. I know. And it’s not okay, but you’re here, all right? Mom’s here, Bobby’s here, Charlie, and Jess, and Kevin, and Ellen and Jo...They’re all here, and thanks to you, I’m going to see them. You did that, Cas.” 

“Jack did most of the work--” Castiel begins, but he’s cut off by the soft press of Dean’s lips against his. 

Sparks burst in his chest as Dean’s hand slides around to the back of his neck to cradle his head. His other arm slides around his waist, and suddenly, Castiel is held by Dean Winchester, by this miracle of a man. Dean’s kisses consume him, until he’s no longer Castiel. Instead, he’s heat, and friction, and more. 

“You and me,” Dean pants against his lips, pulling away just far enough to run his nose along Castiel’s. “We’ve got time now, Cas, we’ve got so much time. I’m going to take you apart, going to show you how much I love you, every single day. I’m going to show you everything.” 

Castiel is drowning in the outpouring of Dean’s devotion. He’s helpless in the riptides. All he can do to save himself is kiss Dean again, tasting salt on their lips from where their tears trace down to their lips. Castiel cries partly for Dean’s missed opportunities and the fact that life is so cruel. But he also cries from happiness. Dean is right. Here, they have all the time they could ever want. There’s time to explore every feeling and desire, time for them to become themselves, without the pressure of the world around them. 

They part. Somehow, Castiel’s hands have found their way onto Dean’s waist. One of his thumbs is braver than the rest of his whole body, as it sneaks underneath Dean’s shirt to touch bare skin. Dean grins at him. 

“Hey, Cas,” he asks, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Do you want to take a drive?” 

Their fingers entwine as they walk towards the Impala. Castiel’s chest feels light, like Dean’s hand is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. “I’m still trying to figure out the roads here. It felt like I was driving around for forty years to try and find you.” 

They settle into the Impala, where they’ve been so many times before, but now Castiel can enjoy every squeak of the leather seats. He can revel in the imperfections of the car because of the perfection that’s next to him. Dean Winchester reaches across the seat and takes his hand, as easy as breathing. 

“I can’t wait to show Sam everything,” Dean says, as he guides the Impala back onto a road which Castiel is almost certain wasn’t there when he arrived. “I, uh...Hope it takes him a while to get here. But. Yeah, when he gets here, I can’t wait to show him everything.”

“We’ll see it all together,” Castiel finally says. It’s all he can say, his heart too busy dancing in his chest. 

They have all the time they want.

---

Time slips and passes and stops. In between his time with Dean, Jack, and the rest of the residents of Heaven, and performing maintenance throughout Heaven, Castiel watches the earth. He sees those left behind grow older. Claire and Kaia start a family, Claire finally having set aside the kernel of anger in her heart. Castiel watches Sam and Eileen’s family grow, smiling when Sam finally goes back to law school and gets his degree. He spends the rest of his career fighting for justice for children lost in the system, those who can’t fight for themselves. Saving people, hunting things, indeed. 

Several times, Castiel thinks about going to visit Sam, if only to assuage the grief he can still see the man carrying, but each time he stops. It hurts, but grief is a facet of life. This grief is natural. It comes honestly. It’s not manipulated by a sadistic higher being for a voyeristic pleasure. 

Eileen comes out to the Impala and brings Sam back into the house with gentle touches. Throughout the years, she’s learned how to navigate Sam’s moods, and knows how to bring him back. They lay in bed, foreheads pressed together, Eileen’s body curved into Sam’s. 

“I just,” Sam begins, twisting slightly so Eileen can read his lips, “I just miss him so much sometimes.” 

“I know,” Eileen answers. It’s all she needs to say. 

After a while, Sam gently wraps his fingers around Eileen’s wrist, partly for comfort, partly to grab her attention. “Dean’s baseball game is next weekend. Do we know yet if it’s going to conflict with Beth’s dance rehearsal?” 

“It shouldn’t,” Eileen answers, and with that, the normal routine of their life is reestablished. The grief is always present, but it’s part of the human condition. 

Castiel turns his eyes back to Heaven, where Dean waits for him. Despite it being Heaven, he insists on making repairs to Bobby’s house as well as the Roadhouse, even when Castiel reminds him, for the hundredth time, that if he truly wanted to, he could fix these imperfections with a thought. 

“Sometimes, you just have to do things the hard way,” he answers, through a mouthful of nails. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes to help him. 

---

The morning dawns, quiet and gentle. The dawn is silvery-gold as it stretches across the grass leading up to the cabin. In the distance, the birds start singing. Castiel can smell the fresh scents of spring, dew clinging to the grass, the clean, bright potential in the air. His toes stick out from underneath the comforter, but a quick flip of his foot flicks the corner of the blanket back into place. 

A warm, heavy arm winds over his waist. “Babe, it’s too early,” Dean mumbles into the nape of his neck. “Go back to sleep.” 

Castiel strokes over the back of Dean’s hand. The words are tempting, but something has woken him up, and now that it has, he wants to know what it is. He props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the chill of the air as it bites at his bare skin, and concentrates. After a second, he startles. 

“Dean,” he says. 

Though he doesn’t put urgency or fear into his voice, something about his tone makes Dean open his eyes, suddenly alert. Castiel looks at him, and Dean rolls over onto his side. After their time together, they’ve mastered the art of the wordless conversation, much to the chagrin of Charlie, Kevin, and anyone within ten miles of them, at least according to Jo. 

“It’s time?” Dean asks. He rolls closer to Castiel, stealing his warmth, as he trails his fingers over Castiel’s ribs. 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, taking Dean’s hand in his and pressing kisses to each of Dean’s fingertips. “Won’t be long now.” 

Dean’s fingers slide across his cheek before he curls his fingers around the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, pulling him down. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss which still manages to make fireworks explode in the pit of Castiel’s belly. He doesn’t think the thrill of kissing Dean will ever fade. Castiel doesn’t want it to. 

“I should get going,” Dean murmurs, rubbing against the bristles on Castiel’s cheek. “You want to come along?” 

Castiel relaxes back into the mattress, only reluctantly parting from Dean. “No, you go. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

“I know.” Dean slides out of bed, and Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the play of his muscles underneath fair skin. He lets out a small, disappointed noise when Dean slides into a pair of jeans and a jacket, causing Dean to roll his eyes at him over his shoulders. “Yeah, keep it in your pants. Definitely wearing clothes to this particular meeting.” 

“Shame,” Castiel murmurs, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Shameless,” Dean corrects, leaning over the mattress to kiss Castiel once more, short and sweet. “We’ll be back before too long.” Another kiss to Castiel’s forehead, and then Dean murmurs, “I love you,” into his hair. 

Castiel smiles. Much like kissing Dean, hearing those words will never grow old to him. He’ll revel in them, roll in the simple syllables, allow them to sink into him, with the simple truth that Jack tells him, that Charlie tells him, that Kelly tells him, that even Bobby and Ellen and Jo tell him. 

You are valued. You are loved. 

He smiles at Dean Winchester, this impossible, miracle of a man. “I love you too,” he replies. 

Dean out of the bedroom. The door to the cabin opens and closes. Castiel rolls over onto his back and stretches, staring up at the ceiling. 

There’s work to be done today. He’ll need to travel through Heaven, informing the various interested parties that Sam Winchester has arrived. There will be a party tonight at the Roadhouse, a celebration instead of mourning. Then he and Dean will get to show Sam their Heaven, will listen to Sam relate through his years. 

There is so much work to do. 

But they have time. They have all the time they need. 

---

“Life never ends when you are in it.”--Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters

[a-world-in-grey]

Sola/Blood of My Blood - Coming of Age II

@secret-engima part 2 of Sola trolling everyone, and the set up to the actual gala itself.

.

"Are you sure we're allowed to wear gold?"

Axis gives Tredd an exasperated look. "You're worrying about this now?"

"We're not Chiefs!"

Sola rolls her eyes, keeping her head still as Nyx threads dozens of jeweled pins - gold and tanzanite, Sola really needs to thank the Ornata for making them on such short notice - into her hair to keep the elaborate, flower shaped braids in place.

She's not the only one wearing gems in her hair tonight, even if she has by far the most. They've all swapped out their usual wooden beads for gemstone equivalents - and pearls, in Tredd and Sola's cases. Libertus' hair is braided in a reverse braid down the center of his head, tanzanite and green onyx lining the sides.

If Sola isn't allowed to wear a ponytail, neither is Libertus, dammit!

Luche smacks Tredd's hands away from his jacket lapels. "Stop pulling at it, you'll crease the fabric, and I'm not saving you if you ruin Penny's hard work."

Tredd freezes, then glowers at Libertus when her husband laughs. "You're just as scared of her as I am."

"I know better than ta piss her off." With good reason. Penelopeia gets stab-happy when irritated and some of her pins are long.

Luche sighs as he straightens out Tredd's outfit. "Black is the restricted color in Lucian high society. Only the royal family and their Retinues are allowed to wear it at formal functions."

Even then, Papa, Noctis, Sola, and Libertus are wearing sable; the specific shade of black restricted to the royal family themselves.

Nyx pauses in scrutinizing his handiwork. "What about the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard uniforms then?"

"Same as the Retinue." Sola explains and she carefully tests the security of her braids. "They've sworn service to the King, and wear black and silver to reflect that. I'm neither the ruling monarch nor the Crown Heir, so I and my Retinue wear gold as a cadet branch."

"You are His Highness' Sword." Axis notes thoughtfully. "You could wear silver."

She could. It would be appropriate in Galahdian culture too - of any position in the Retinue it would be the Sword most deserving of that particular color. But Sola's not attending as Noctis' Sword tonight. She's attending as Princess, as the daughter of the King and as such she's wearing gold as tradition dictates.

It's also why she's wearing a Pyre-cursed dress instead of a suit like the rest of Noctis' Retinue.

Don't get her wrong. It's a beautiful dress and Penelopeia earned every last yen making it. Sable silk with golden embroidery, high waisted with flowing skirts and no sleeves on account of it being the end of August.

Sola would still rather wear pants.

"Hang on," Tredd says, "why does the King wear gold then?"

Sola deadpans. "He's the King. He can wear whatever he damn well wants."

Who's going to tell the King no?

"Where are we meeting Prince Noctis?" Libertus asks, testing the draw of the knife tucked in the top of his hose. The small blades that are part of Galahdian formal wear are ceremonial, barely the length of Sola's hand span from tip to hilt, and so elegantly decorated Sola could hang them on her wall as art. Of course, being Galahdian, the blades are just as serviceable in combat as any of their primary arms.

They don't expect to need them tonight, but Galahdian sensibilities and Sola's current condition mean all of them are going to wear them anyway.

"At the doors to the banquet hall." Sola wishes she could wear a weapon herself, but there's nowhere she can hide one and still easily access it given her current outfit. Not being able to use her magic for the next several months is going to drive her nuts. “Noctis will enter first with Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto, and we’ll follow after.”

It will allow them to pull attention from Noctis, rather than Noctis’ arrival pulling attention from them. It’s even following protocol, thank the Six for small mercies, because while Sola’s held the position of Noctis’ Sword for nearly two decades now, without the bond Ignis, Gladio, and now Prompto have with Noctis, Sola is still technically a Wayward Sword.

A fact the Court has yet to realize, but Sola has no doubts some will figure it out tonight.

Another reason for announcing her marriage. Hopefully it’ll keep the idiots distracted. Because if anyone seriously tries to Court Noctis for the ‘open’ position in his Retinue, Sola knows her brother will leave them bleeding out on the floor.

Not, Sola muses wryly, that she’ll react much differently. For the best she doesn’t have access to her weapons then.

She’ll have to settle for gutting them with words. She can do that.

Libertus eyes the smile pulling at red painted lips. “You’re sure about keeping your brother in the dark?”

“Only until tomorrow.” Sola replies. “A surprise birthday gift.”

Noctis will have enough to handle as is, and Sola’s job tonight is to ease the load not add to it. She’d rather Noctis focus on getting through the gala and subsequent ceremony than worry over Sola not being able to use her magic.

He’ll do enough worrying over the next several months. Even though he knows full well that Sola is fine. It’s normal for female Lucis Caelums. Sure, Sola was hoping it wouldn’t happen for another couple days, but she’s adjusted since losing her magic yesterday and she has a full Retinue to protect her if anyone manages to get past Aunt Tiz and Uncle Cor’s security.

And even then, Sola is not so far along she can’t defend herself. She’s never needed weapons or magic to kill a man.

Luche snorts. “You just want to see how many people you can shock at once.”

“Well… yeah.” It’s funny. “I’m hoping to make Uncle Cor faint. Again.” She was there when Aunt Tiz announced her pregnancy and Uncle Cor dropped like a sack of wet cement. Highlight of Sola’s week and made taking over as acting-Captain during Aunt Tiz’s bed rest and maternity leave completely worth it.

Sola doubts Noctis or Ignis will faint, but she’s hoping to get Gladio. Papa is unlikely to pass out learning he’s to be a grandfather again, and Sola doubts nothing will shock Uncle Clarus as much as meeting the Triplets and then Axis in the span of fifteen minutes.

Prompto is proving to be increasingly unflappable, but the blonde at least plays along so Sola can expect a reaction from him even if it’s half-faked. At least one of her fellow Retinue finds her funny.

She’s even taken steps to make sure no one catches on early. None of the dishes tonight contain anything that will set off Sola’s nausea and she’s going to be avoiding all the wine served except for the bare minimum sips required at the beginning of each course. Libertus and Axis will be sitting on either side her, and are prepared for some misdirection to help fool everyone into thinking she’s drinking more than she actually is, and them having her magic means they won’t get as drunk as they would otherwise. Having her Retinue close by the entire night will help prevent anyone with magic sense the changes - and even then Sola knows it’s only because Noctis and Regis’ magic doesn’t give them the same level of sense Sola and Dyn’s gold magic affords them.

Her adorable nephew sensed the changes in Sola shortly after Sola herself, and has since been sworn to silence. Dyn is rather gleeful in being in on the secret and is quite looking forward to surprising his father.

Of course, the scamp’s glee means that Noctis knows there is a secret, but he is indulging Dyn and Sola’s fun.

A knock before Crowe opens the door and pokes her head in. “His Highness is on the move.”

Libertus offers Sola his arm. “That’s our cue.”

Sola gets to her feet and takes it. Her Retinue arranges themselves around them. Nyx at the front, Luche on the right at Libertus’ side, Tredd at her left, and Axis bringing up the rear.

Sola grins, and knows it’s all teeth.

“Show time.”

[bibliocratic]

I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation.  Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

-

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

-

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

-

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

-

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

-

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

-

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

-

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

-

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.

[deewithani]

Raindrops in the Wind - Chapter 2

Chapter Rating: T

Work Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader

Word count: Approx. 2.1k

Warnings: Justice system abuse, light blood and gore, medical procedures performed by someone not medically qualified, discussion of potentially gross food.

A/N: Again, canon gets blown out of the water, borrowing from here and there to weave the narrative. OC's abound. No Jango in this chapter (he'll be back soon, I promise), we're learning about the reader. I know almost nothing about healthcare, so take that as you will and don't do what the reader does. Milvayne and the underworld are canon, but I took some liberties on my descriptions of the underworld (since I know next to nothing about it outside of this article: https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Milvayne)

Chapters will list their individual ratings, work is rated Explicit (18+) for eventual explicit content.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Word had spread quickly through the underworld on Milvayne, passing from mouth to filth covered ear, each resident hearing the words a multitude of times: from the mouths of bandits, scavengers, old men dying in the gutter, children picking the pockets of newcomers who hadn't yet discovered they came to a foul place even the light of the maker refused to touch.

“Aleda Vole has work.”

The nature of that work was never spoken aloud, and endless throngs of people came and went from Vole's pawn shop, with no end in sight. To you it looked like Aleda was working night and day, the colorful 'Open' sign lit up no matter the time you passed by on your way to another house call.

You had been sentenced to exile here barely a year prior, punishment for your part in a bacta heist that went wrong. It had became increasingly difficult for the clinic you worked for to obtain basic medical supplies, so you and several of your coworkers took it upon yourselves to steal the supplies from a medical supply transport that was scheduled to arrive in Milvayne City. The heist should have went off without a hitch. The proper palms were greased, heads were turned the other way, but if something seems to good to be true, it probably is.

The theft itself was easy. You and your teammates were able to load up everything you needed and leave the dock without a single pursuer following in your footsteps. A not insignificant amount of credits had successfully bought an easy getaway.

What it failed to buy was silence. Someone was a rat.

Several weeks went by, enough that you felt you had been in the clear, when Milvayne Authority officers kicked down the front door of the clinic, arresting anyone unlucky enough to be in the building. A slew of trials commenced the same day and people were found guilty en masse. Every man, woman, and child that faced trial that day was convicted without so much as a second thought, and people were forced over the ledge into the underworld by the hundreds that day.

Since then, you had used your meager medical skills to barter for food, shelter, and literally anything else that was offered to you. It didn't matter if you were paid in half a yard of soiled fabric, it could be turned into something you could use, it could be traded for something else that you may need, or the new item you traded it for could be bartered yet again. It was a shame you had no real medical experience, though. Being able to heal was worth it's weight in gold, but you had been educated in the upkeep and maintenance of technical systems. Unfortunately there wasn't much need in someone repairing holoprojectors or hover-stretchers here. Those things rarely ever came over the ledge, and when they did they were grabbed up by people with a lot more power than yourself.

What enabled your survival is the fact that your job in the clinic had a lot of down time. If it wasn't time for the scheduled maintenance of the equipment, or something wasn't broke, you made yourself busy straightening up exam rooms, stocking, and chatting with the nurses and doctors at the clinic. You watched them perform basic medical procedures and listened in when they explained to their patients the various illnesses and injuries they were experiencing. Because of the continual lack of supplies you saw cuts being stitched by hand, home-made poultices being applied, and injuries being cleaned and dressed. You were even asked to stand in and assist a handful of times, whenever the need of the patients outpaced the staff that was available.

But now here you were, trudging along a muddy path, checking on your next “patient”, an old woman who cut her hand on some scrap metal she had been trying to pull from a pile near her shack. A friend of hers had found you and asked that you hurry to help, as she was bleeding heavily and she heard that you had some antibiotics. It was true, but the vial had been hard to come by, and you hoped that it would be a secret until you absolutely had to use them.

But this is the underworld of Milvayne. The only time secrets are held is when it is beneficial to hold them, and that is a rarity.

The path kept winding, twists and turns bracketed by piles of junk that looked as if they would fall over with a gust of wind, if such a pleasant thing as wind blew down here. The air was stale and all things smelled of rot, as if the odor had wormed its way into the being of every creature that made this place its home. You got used to it, after a time, but occasionally you would be woken from a pleasant dream as a whiff of death passed by your nose.

You finally made it to the door of your “patient”, a shack that was little more than a lean to with a front wall and overhang. Makeshift metal chimes hung from eaves, but unless they were moved by the hand of a passerby they would play no song without the wind to blow through them. They were an odd thing to see here as well. It wasn't safe to leave anything of value outside your dwelling. The common rule was that if it was outside, it was scrap, and anyone could take scrap. Crudely made and as useless as they were, they had value as trinkets. There was little good and enjoyable here, but people loved things they could play, at least as tools to take their minds off the reality of their circumstances.

This peculiar shack stood alone among the debris, short and squat, but solid, it's back crammed against another tall pile of scrap. You raised your fist to knock on the door, but it opened swiftly before your knuckles reached the wood. Before you stood an old woman, petite, back bowed and leaning on a makeshift cane. You stared for a moment, she had a rough, worn face creased by the passage of time, and a strong nose that looked too long for her thin face. Her hair was pure white, and was pulled back in a tight pony tail. You tried to see her eyes, but her eyelids were heavy and swollen. She looked as if she may have been retaining fluids.

The woman before you lifted her cane and let the end drop to the floor, letting out a bang that pulled you back to the present. “Well, honey. You the healer? Don't just stand there”, she said, before turning and moving back in the shack. You followed behind quietly, entering her darkened home. Inside was much more inviting than out. It was only one room, and there were a few piles of scrap in the small space, but the rest was cozy. A small cot was placed against the back wall, covered with a clean blanket and a fluffy pillow, and on the front wall was a stove, cooking what smelled like a very delicious stew you had been served before by other residents of the underworld. Two chairs and a small table sat in the middle of the room, finishing out the rest of the space.

“Your friend said you cut your hand on some scrap, ma'am.” you told her. “I ain't no ma'am, honey, call me Zola”, the old woman replied as she gestured for you to take a seat. You sat down and took her hand, noticing the small bit of cloth she had wrapped around it. It was stained red with blood at the palm, but unusually clean around the top. Her hands were suspiciously clean as well, considering she was digging for scrap in one of the dirtiest places in the galaxy.

You opened your makeshift medical bag and found your small pack of needles and the thread you had made from the remnants of an old blanket you had found peaking out of the mud the first day you had arrived. It was filthy and too small to be usable as much more than a cleaning cloth, but you had painstakingly washed and scrubbed the fibers until they were clean and you could separate them one by one. It had taken you the better part of the week to get enough usable thread, but it had been worth it in the end. Another medic traded you a couple of bent needles for a handful of your thread, and you were able to start the business of survival.

You carefully removed the bandage from her hand, taking care not to pull where it had began to stick to the blood. “This is a deep cut, Zola. I'll have to sew it up. You'll need some antibiotics too, and I've only got a little bit.” The cut wasn't very dirty, but there was very little fresh water to be had here, and you had none on you. You were going to have to sew her palm up as is, and you hoped a shot of antibiotics would keep her from getting an infection.

Carefully you threaded one of your needles and went to work. Zola was quiet while you worked, but you could see her scrunch her face and hold her breath whenever you would push the needle through her skin. The wound continued bleeding as you worked, so you used the wrapping she had bandaged herself with to clean up as you went along. By the time you were through you had placed 7 stitches in the palm of the old woman's hand, and the bleeding had finally stopped.

“There, good as new Zola. I need you to stand up and pull down the top of your pants for me so I can give you the antibiotics.” You filled your needle with the antibiotics and injected them into the top of her buttocks, a place that was least likely to cause her too much pain.

You were worried about the old woman, here alone at the end of the winding path. Afraid that she would meet her end here from whatever was causing the excess fluid. “Zola, you need to see a real doctor about the fluid you're holding. I'm worried that you've got a bigger problem than a cut on your hand. I'll ask around to see if there is someone who can help, but I don't know if I can find anyone. Have your friend ask around. Please.”

“Don't worry honey. I will. I'll be alright until I can find someone. Don't worry about me.”

“Alright, now that I'm finished, what are you going to pay with?” Zola looked up at you and cocked her head to the side. “Well, honey, I don't know what you charge. I don't have any money, and I don't have anything of value I can give you.” You thought for a moment. You hadn't survived here for a year without being flexible with how your clients paid you. Your kind heart wouldn't allow you to not help someone, even if they didn't have any way to settle up with you. You had been left in dire straits from time to time by your personal policy, but your kindness had also won you friends who looked out for you as well.

“I don't do credit, but if you give me a bowl of that stew I'll consider you paid in full. Does it have any meat?”

If the stew did have meat, it was best not to ask what kind. There were very few animals down here, anything not sentient was quickly grabbed and put into the closest stew pot for dinner. The meat in this pot could be anything from a scrap rat to grubs and worms. It didn't matter, though. That bowl was a matter of survival. Jabba the Hutt could be cooking in that pot and it wouldn't make any difference.

“Honey, you may have saved my life today. The least I can do is have you here for supper. Sit down for a while and let's talk. I think I have some information you can use.”

You sat in silence and ate your stew as Zola spoke of her years in the underworld. How she came to find herself in this place. How she found love. How she raised a fine, strong daughter. How they survived. The stew was delicious, and it was a rare treat to hear stories that held more than pain and sorrow.

As you finished your meal Zola rose and walked over to you. She placed her hand on your shoulder and leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“Aleda Vole has work. You should go see her.”

__________

Taglist: @latenightsthoughtsnstuff @gummywurme @bobabitch88 @the-empress-strikes-back @tacticalsparkles @rebelpitstop

If anyone wants added to my taglist, let me know ☺️

[moribundanchor]

The Pelle/Dani Receipts, Post Ten: Plots

After the Ättestupa, stuff moves very, very quickly. Team Hårga ASSEMBLE. Dani has been broken down both by witnessing a gruesome senicide and being forced to look into Pelle’s earnest blue eyes and confront that not only does Christian not love her, but maybe, just maaaaaaybe, she might could love somebody else. Christian is being broken down both by contending with Josh for his mcguffin thesis and being seduced by a cute underage redhead (SO GROSS CHRISTIAN YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TALKED). Plus Simon and Connie, by virtue of completely flipping out and demanding to leave after the Ättestupa, have unwittingly nominated themselves to be off(er)ed first. Once newbloods start disappearing, they disappear at a pretty rapid clip.

Simon and Connie’s disappearances, and Christian’s shrugging indifference to both, trigger Dani big time, as she confronts both how self-absorbed Christian is and how little credit he gives Dani's thoughts. At lunch, after an upset Connie vanishes, Dani is, as usual, seated between Christian and Pelle. As the scene opens, Dani’s back is to Christian and we can’t even see her face because she is looking into Pelle’s smiling eyes. For several seconds. They’re not talking. Just...looking. Like you do. With your buddy what was holding you on your bed and telling you how you deserved better than Christian. And this is the first time we see them since Ari’s impish smash cut from Dani hesitating on the verge of something to Dan’s crushed head.

Dani does eventually ask after Connie, prompting Jarl to give her the super believable official story that she was driven to the train station. Sure, Jarl. And Dani is still having a hard time buying that Simon would just leave without Connie. Especially in the Director’s Cut, we see how Dani notices how devoted they are to each other. But Christian is dismissive, and Dani goes cold. “I could see you possibly doing that,” she says. YASSSS QUEEN. She’s looking straight ahead, jaw set and eyes flinty, as Christian asks her, “What that’s supposed to mean?” She doesn’t answer and Christian should be grateful because the energy is very FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. As it is, we just see Pelle notice and quickly look away, hiding a spreading smile that is practically another hit of the sunshine motif. Meanwhile, Mark is lured away by Inga, a different kind of fool for love.

Simon, Connie, and Mark down; who’s next? Josh! Thesis Goggles strapped on tight, Josh sneaks into the temple to take pictures of the Rubi Radr and is summarily dispatched by an unknown Hårgan male. (2000 quatloos on Ingemar.) We do get a little gratuitous Pelle shirt changing the next morning (which Dani notices and quickly looks away from), and that’s important, but not as a hint that Pelle killed Josh. To begin with, there’s a bunch of reasons Pelle is unlikely to have killed Josh, not least of which our theory about why he isn’t sacrificed at the end: a) We see Pelle in bed when Josh sneaks out, b) even assuming there’s a secret door, Pelle really would have had to book it to get in there behind Josh and we see Josh make it to the temple without any indication of being followed, and c) assuming Pelle was involved in murdering or butchering Josh, we think he probably would have brought a spare shirt. Come on. He did the cake thing.

Pelle changing his shirt is not just eye candy/misdirection though. It’s actually a clever direction from Ari. If you notice, from this point until the Fire Temple ceremony, Pelle is wearing a different shirt with a different rune, Wunjo in black thread, NOT Fehu in blue. We will get more into this in Post Twelve, but Wunjo (”joy”) is an incredibly positive rune that represents everything we know Dani craves: joy, perfection, harmony, overcoming alienation, kinship and family. It literally describes positive, healthy wishes coming true. Pelle wearing this rune on the day Dani wins the dance competition and he kisses her is incredibly significant and indicates not just his intentions, but it shades the meanings of Dani’s runes as well. He is practically wearing a nametag that says, Hi, my name is Dani’s True Love.

At breakfast, Christian is icy about Josh, butthurt that Josh isn’t letting him steal his thesis with good humor, and Elder Sten announces the Rubi Radr is missing. Pelle, as usual, sneaks a look at Dani, presumably to see whether she’s buying it. The real Pelle/Dani content comes afterward, when Sten and Arne question them about Josh and Mark’s whereabouts and make insinuations about the missing Rubi Radr. (Everyone just step back and consider for a second this is all really for Dani’s benefit. While Christian's [sort of] consent clearly is important, they could have drugged him and gotten what they wanted from him at any point here. Dani is the one they want for keeps, and all these elaborate ruses only further isolate Dani from Christian and cushion her absorption into the family.) Everybody just...sort of assumes Mark is snuggling Inga still, I guess, but Christian cannot sell out Josh fast enough, and Dani and Pelle both look at him with undisguised revulsion. Meanwhile, Pelle does take responsibility for his missing friends and the missing holy text, and thus Odd magically appears (Pelle might be fidgeting his fingers or he might be affekting a secret message to Arne during this scene, too) and he’s given leave to go...look for them. [shifty eyes] 

It’s much like the birthday plot. Pelle gives Christian an opportunity to basically be himself, which makes Pelle doing the right thing, even something as simple and baseline human as not immediately forsaking your friend, a total repudiation.

Speaking of Christian being himself, while we don't believe Pelle killed anyone, he's laser focused on helping Christian get himself sacrificed. He takes every chance to stoke Christian’s most selfish impulses from his very first line, and more than that, he really seems to enjoy Christian’s fall. Again, Ari Aster doesn’t make many things in this film simple and plain, but Pelle’s delight in Christian’s corruption is one of those things. We already talked about the smirking in the Director’s Cut version of the car scene and the birthday setup, but once the plots start spinning, we get so much more. 

First, Pelle encourages Christian to think of Maja sexually by teasing him about her “taking a liking” to him and informing him she is of the age of consent. His affect is so permissive and tempting, as though Dani doesn't exist and Pelle is only being his wingman, and when Christian replies "Good for her" a little too grumpily, we know Pelle's aim was true. Pelle visibly savors Christian’s predicament. And he's aware of every bit of the spellcasting on Maja's end. When Christian eats and drinks the pie and beverage with (ahem) a little love story added by Maja, Pelle restrains a smile and a laugh. (This is the same lunch scene where Dani snipes at Christian, so he must have been high-fiving Ingemar behind the chicken coop afterward.) Later, Pelle smirks and watches from the corner of his eye as Ulla tempts Christian with special tea during the dance competition. This scene is particularly loaded in the Director's Cut, where Siv has made it explicit to Christian that Pelle showed Maja his picture prior to their arrival in Hårga. Yet when Christian takes a seat next to Pelle, he says nothing, knowing everything, and neither does Pelle. The masks are all but off. Christian knows what he’s going to do, and he’s ashamed; Pelle knows what Christian is going to do, and he’s triumphant.

And most sexily damningly, when Christian succumbs to a nice puff of paralysis powder courtesy of Father Odd, we see (and Christian sees) Pelle peep in through the chicken coop door. In the script, Pelle is described as looking away in shame, but that’s definitely not the Pelle we have on film. Film Pelle is HERE FOR IT. Film Pelle is gloating. And we think he really wants Christian to know it was him in the end, not out in front, but behind the scenes. While one could look at all of this as a refutation of Vilhelm Blomgren’s emphasis in interviews that Pelle is full of love or proof positive that Pelle is actually a (gasp) villain, consider that, flashes of annoyance at Mark aside, he doesn’t show that kind of animosity toward the others. Mark is willfully ignorant and gross; Josh is disrespectful in the sense that he wants to mine Hårga for his own gratification and ambition. But Christian is the only one he clearly delights in destroying, and that destruction is consonant with his love. Because of Dani. Soft, love-filled Hårgan boy loves Dani enough to hate someone for her sake, and that is a fucked-up wish fulfillment fantasy, make no mistake, but...it is still a very valid and common and powerful wish-fulfillment fantasy. That chicken coop smirk is, at its core, just as much an act of love as the birthday sketch. Dani is one of his family. He will lure his friends to their deaths for all of them, but he will scheme Christian to death just for her.

What? Just because it’s unhealthy doesn’t make it less true.

For more, click on The Pelle/Dani Receipts Masterpost

[lit-in-thy-heart]

hehe im glad you joined us for the hug prompts! I'll ask you for 14 - leaping hug with... mergwaine! hopefully that works for you otherwise second option for a ship would be mercelot!

thank you for the prompt!!! you will notice a theme with the other prompts (and each one that came in made me grin even more, you'll see why throughout this week) and i'll stick this under the cut because it is quite long for a prompt, i'm sorry.

hope that you enjoy it! 💖

feel free to send any other prompts

It was when Merlin’s eyes started to lose the mirth that Gwaine had suggested lightening their load with a game. Merlin had been reluctant, at first, to stray from the task at hand, but Gwaine had pointed out that they were halfway through the army’s boots and that they needed to take some sort of break before their arms cramped up.

Quite how hurling boots across the throne room alleviated the tension in their arms, Merlin wasn’t entirely sure. ‘Only with the ones we haven’t cleaned yet, right?’ he uncertainly asked Gwaine, picking up one particularly muddy boot.

Gwaine, having swung two boots over his shoulders, flicked back his hair. ‘Your choice, Merlin. We can either scuff the clean boots, or have to clean mud off the throne afterwards. Which I see as a rather appropriate metaphor.’

Frowning, Merlin turned over the boot in his hands. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s always the common people cleaning the king’s image, isn’t it? Sanitising it. He’s always idolised by them, when he never deserves it.’

Mouth set in a grim line, Gwaine retreated to the back of the throne room and gripped the shaft of the boot, swinging it around his head and sending mud flying in all directions. As Merlin sheltered his head with one arm, Gwaine let go of the boot and watched with a satisfied smirk as it sailed across the room and landed firmly on the throne. The dim sunlight scattered across his face painted him in a mosaic of stained glass and Merlin’s hand faltered slightly, boot beginning to slip through his grasp.

Sparing Merlin a brief glance, Gwaine removed the second boot from his shoulder and squinted up at the balcony behind him. Merlin, catching his meaning, really did drop the boot as he held out a hand. ‘No. No way. Arthur will string both of us up, now that I’ve put that idea in his head, if you do that.’

With a shrug, Gwaine dutifully turned away. ‘I believe it’s your turn.’

Picking up the boot again, the servant adjusted his grip and moved to stand beside Gwaine and flung it towards the throne. His arms, already weary from cleaning at least fifteen boots, didn’t provide enough power and the boot crashed into the polite queue stretching across the floor, scattering them like birds after a stone had been hurled at them. Gwaine suppressed a snort.

‘In my defence, I’m usually the one getting things thrown at me,’ Merlin muttered, approaching the chaos with a small sigh.

Gwaine’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Who throws things at you?’

‘The townspeople when I’m in the stocks. Arthur. The knights, sometimes. Arthur again—’

‘Why does Arthur throw things at you?’

Merlin, his back still to Gwaine as he rummaged through the footwear to find the boot, shrugged. ‘Because he feels like it, I suppose. It’s fine. I’m used to it.’

‘And I thought you said he was different.’

‘He is different,’ Merlin replied, finding the boot and turning around. ‘It’s just that—Gwaine!’

Gwaine was clinging to the central statue,shaft of the boot between his teeth, his legs wrapped seductively around its waist as he tried to hoist himself up. There was a muffled: ‘What?’ and he twisted his head with an attempt at a grin.

‘You’re going to fall off.’

‘M’not.’

Shimmying up the statue, Gwaine reached up for the wrists of the two angels, hauling up his feet from the shoulders of the statue to the sculpted towers above, lurching unsteadily. Merlin desperately wanted to look away, but couldn’t bring himself to alter the direction of his gaze. He felt his eyes slide down Gwaine’s body and rest on his very prominent arse as he squatted momentarily and, catching himself, Merlin pushed his stare to what seemed to be the safe region of Gwaine’s shoulders.

Then Gwaine moved and the muscles in his shoulders bulged beneath his shirt. Merlin could feel the heat rising in his neck. As Gwaine’s foot slipped, Merlin darted towards the statue, hand outstretched to intervene if necessary. Regaining his footing, Gwaine’s hands caught the railings of the balcony and he tumbled over the top, landing with a muffled thump.

‘Arthur is actually going to kill me.’

Leaning over the balcony, Gwaine removed the boot and spat out flakes of mud with a look of disgust. ‘I’ll protect you, Merlin, don’t worry,’ he said, taking a knife from his boot and throwing it in the air with a grin.

It catapulted through the air and embedded itself in the floorboards only inches from Merlin, who had watched its progress with an ever-increasing sense of doom. ‘You saying that fills me with feelings of safety, Gwaine,’ Merlin drily said, folding his arms. ‘There’s no way that you’re going to be able to get that boot to hit the mark.’

‘Not without you up here for moral support.’

Merlin took one look at him, bathed in sunlight, and sighed heavily. Wordlessly, he pushed through one of the doors leading to a narrow staircase – why Gwaine hadn’t elected that route, Merlin was none the wiser – and ascended them two steps at a time, emerging onto the balcony. When Gwaine turned, his head was haloed by the rich woven threads of his hair, face illuminated by his smile. With a wink, he backed up as much as he could, took three decisive strides, and launched the boot over the railings. It curled in on itself as it sliced through the air in a graceful arc, mud spraying the floor like droplets of water from a salmon leaping upstream. It landed in the centre of the throne with a shudder from the sudden breeze it had created.

When Merlin looked towards Gwaine, his eyes travelled down to the exposed skin of his chest as he leaned over the railings and hastily drew his gaze to Gwaine’s smile. ‘See? Having you near me makes all the difference. Now, your turn.’

Merlin raised his eyebrows. ‘If I couldn’t do it down there, what on earth makes you think I could achieve what you just did?’

Levering himself from the railings, Gwaine stood in front of him, hands firmly on his shoulders. ‘Believe in yourself a little, Merlin. Anyway, being higher up actually makes it easier.’

Still unconvinced, Merlin gripped the shaft of the boot a little tighter. He cast one more look at Gwaine to give him the strength to aim as his friend moved away to give him space. Drawing his arm back, Merlin focused his gaze on the stern throne, pictured Arthur’s face when he’d said about there being no downside to Merlin being strung up, and hurled the shoe with all his remaining energy.

It shot through the air, collided with the top of the throne and dropped down on top of Gwaine’s.

In one smooth motion, Gwaine had launched himself at Merlin, hugging him in the same manner he’d embraced the statue. Merlin, thankful that he was steady on his feet for once, laughed into Gwaine’s neck and put one arm beneath his thighs to support him. There was the faintest scent of pickled eggs buried in the depths of Gwaine’s hair but Merlin didn’t mind it as much as he would have thought. There was a murmured phrase of congratulations breathed into the echoing crevice between his neck and neckerchief and both parties were vaguely aware that the appropriate time had elapsed for physical contact, but neither moved to detach themselves.

As Merlin marvelled at how much lighter Gwaine was than he’d expected, Gwaine was busy wondering if it would be possible to push down Merlin’s trousers with his legs and believably claim it was an accident. He wasn’t quite sure what had possessed him to launch himself at Merlin, though perhaps it had been prompted by the smile of disbelief that had spread across his mouth like the dawn when the boot had hit its target. And if this was the first victory that Merlin had secured in a short while, then Gwaine had thought that it deserved to be honoured properly.

Adjusting his grip so his hands fell to Merlin’s shoulders, Gwaine inhaled the delicate aroma of cinnamon that had folded itself in Merlin’s clothes. Perhaps he could be happy here, in Merlin’s arms. If Merlin didn’t get tired of him, that was. Beneath his body, Merlin shifted, other arm skimming Gwaine’s thighs. His head was still turned towards Gwaine’s neck, their cheeks grazing gently against each other, and Gwaine resisted the urge to nip at the skin covering the top of Merlin’s spine. One collision at a time. He was just about to try and push down Merlin’s trousers – because that wasn’t a collision, that was simply testing the waters – when the door below them crashed open and Merlin dropped his arms, startled.

Gwaine’s legs dropped with them and he slipped down, dangling from Merlin’s neck with his feet several inches above the ground. Tentatively, Merlin leaned forward to peer over the balcony and Gwaine swung with him, eyes moving with a growing sense of dread to the disrupted line of boots. Arthur was stood in the centre of the room, arms folded, with a stony expression sketched across his face.

‘One of you had better have a very good explanation for why exactly you are up there.’

Merlin and Gwaine turned to look at each other, and Gwaine’s witty reply was lost along with his breath as he caught sight of subtle flecks of gilt in Merlin’s eyes. As he grasped for words that he no longer had, Merlin twisted his head to look back at Arthur. ‘I was giving Gwaine a tour.’

‘I’ll be giving you both a tour of the stocks if you don’t get down here instantly,’ Arthur threatened.

As Gwaine detached himself from the servant, he let his hand run discreetly across the back of Merlin’s shirt, smirking at the subtle shiver Merlin emitted. Perhaps if he stuck around, then perhaps he could see just where else Merlin could successfully aim.