#⟨⟨ words are knives that often leave scars — 「 threads. 」 ⟩⟩

[ruin-a-wedding]

The Broken Crown exists in two parts.

From the view of the street the bar looks indistinguishable from any other shithole. Faded decorations hint at a theme that has faded with time, leaving only ghosts of the original concept. It has stools and tables, as these places so often do, but nothing remarkable enough to draw any attention from passersby. Newcomers to the bar often remark that they thought the building was abandoned or the bar had closed years ago.

However long it's been since Meliza had left TGP, she’s held on to her skills just as you’ve retained your father’s training. You don’t know how the magic works and know better than to ask. The only thing you need to know is that people never find the front of the bar if they’re looking for it, and people only find their way to the lounge at the back of the building if they already know its location.

You consider this magic, along with what you have just performed, as you make your way up the basement stairs. Sanguimancy must be of a similar school: those skills which are innate at birth instead of passed down through teachers. There’s no explanation for why you think this, save for the taste in your mouth every time you enter the lounge. It’s the same way your mouth tastes now, fresh with the senator’s blood.

Or perhaps that’s merely the cocktail of drugs he had in his system when he died.

A promise awaits on the horizon, his blood tells you, formless and indefinite. These premonitions are never exact, but you can feel it rushing toward you like a car speeding down an empty stretch of road. Fate is a thread and you are the spool, winding it ever closer until your destiny arrives at your feet.

The rush of a magic you so rarely get to practice makes you giddier than any human drug, though perhaps that’s just the exhaustion hitting you after such a big cleanup. Transmogrification is more taxing when you’re so out of practice.

On your way to the lounge you make a quick stop at the kitchen, catching the attention of Cookie, the head chef. The scar that runs along the underside of his cheek dimples as he smiles in greeting.

“I was starting to think you only appeared when you smelled blood,” he says as he joins you in the hallway outside of the kitchen.

Casimir Koska, Cookie to the Crown’s employees, is one of your most regular stops in your capacity as the bar’s medic. Usually if the two of you cross paths it’s because someone is bleeding, be it Cookie or another, after feeling the bite of one of Cookie’s many knives. The frequency of these visits has allowed the two of you to become fast friends.

“You’re the one stabbing yourself every time you start to miss me.”

“And it works!” He laughs, throwing his hands in the air. “So what’s the occasion, Sosia?”

Few people in this world are allowed to address you so informally, but you’ve never heard Cookie address anyone by their given name. In Meliza’s words, no one’s really part of the family until he gives them a nickname.

“Got a pig needs butchering,” you say in a low voice so that no one will overhear you.

“The meat?”

“Not great, but there’s a market for it. Good pedigree.”

He gives some sort of exclamation in one of the many human languages you haven’t yet learned to recognize. What little you know of his background is almost as bloody as yours, though his affiliations are strictly human. It makes you curious about what the underworld of the mundane must look like; this is far from the first body you’ve offered him, and he’s never struggled to find a buyer.

“I will take him to the market tomorrow then.”

The money was never as good as it was when you had Theodore Saint-James as a buyer, but those days are far behind you. Still, you find yourself mourning the loss of your connections in moments like these.

You leave Cookie to butcher the body and make your way to the lounge’s staff entrance. One of the newer hires is lingering in the doorway, accompanied by a waitress hiding in his shadow. The two of them are watching someone and whispering between each other.

“Sightseeing?” you say, more out of courtesy so you don’t startle them.

Cindy, the waitress, lets out a small yelp at the sight of you and scurries off to find some task to pretend to do. Many of the staff have come to view you as a godsend, but some of the more intuitive humans are able to sense something unsettling about you. As annoying as it can be at times, you don’t fault them for their caution; in most other instances those instincts will mean the difference between life and death.

“There’s a suit,” Tyler answers with a nod at the center of the room. From where you stand you can’t see much of his face, but you catch the glint of a watch on his wrist. “Won’t order. Keeps turning entertainers away. No one knows how he got in.”

As you survey the area you realize every floor employee seems to be lurking in the corners of the room. He looks too obvious to be a cop, but the watch on his wrist is worth more than any of you make in a year. Money like that in a place like this, more often than not, means trouble is soon to follow. And you’re too tired to hide any more bodies tonight.

“I’ll deal with it.”

You step out onto the floor and are about to approach his table when your movement catches his attention. He turns in your direction, and you freeze when you realize the man looking back at you is the eldest living son of Nettie Corbeau.

[prcttydxvil]

(MAGGIE LINDEMANN) De longe avistamos DRUELLA passar pela entrada do Acampamento Jupiter! As informações que temos sobre ela é que ELLA tem IDADE INDEFINIDA, é uma semititã ROMANA e seu pai é JAPETO

Druella, irmã gêmea de Vitus e sempre foi grudada ao rapaz, que era apenas alguns minutos mais velho que ela.

Sempre ressentiu os deuses por punirem seu pai jogando-o no tártaro e por isso estava sempre criando problemas para eles.

Por não terem a segurança de seu pai, os dois semititãs viviam uma vida de fuga -o que Druella fielmente odiava e sempre planejou se vingar.

Certa vez, a semititã teve a brilhante ideia de profanar o templo de Júpiter de todas as piores maneiras possíveis, mas o rei dos deuses acabou descobrindo e lhe acertou com o raio-mestre, a matando.

Invés de Druella ir para o julgamento, a semititã acabou indo parar no tártaro, onde se juntou ao pai. Sempre esperta, a menina forjou sua própria foice, abençoada por seu pai e mergulhada do aqueronte -fato que traria ainda mais dor àquele que fosse atingido.

Quando Gaia acordou, a deusa ofereceu uma vaga para Druella em seu exército, mas a menina ficou receosa em aceitar, apenas fugindo de sua prisão e indo para o mundo mortal. Por anos ela tentou achar seu irmão, em vão. Ficou rondando por Roma até que Érebo lhe fez a melhor oferta: ir para seu lado na guerra e ele lhe traria seu irmão de volta.

Aceitando a proposta, Druella não sabia que Vitus estava vivo até Hécate trair o seu novo mestre, contando para a semititã que Vitus estava sim vivo e em Nova Roma. A morena foi com a deusa bruxa para o acampamento romano, finalmente reencontrando Vitus depois de tanto tempo separados.

[abraxas-m]

timestamp:  001 MEMENTO MORI , potter family manor, august 1st, 12:17 pm

privacy:  warded

tagging:  euphemia gibbon / @goddless​

Abraxas had been at Henry Potter’s memorial for a little over an hour and he already felt like he was suffocating. He had gone on the offence, keeping his eyes keen on whoever stared at him until they broke eye contact. But even that little game had grown tiring after a while and he felt the need to get away. It was not time yet, though; he had promised to himself that he would stay for at least a couple of hours, make his presence a statement and his support for the potter family -to the extent that was possible at least- known. 

He decided to head to the garden for a much deserved and needed smoke. He rested his back against a tree and lit the cigarette he quickly put between his teeth as soon as he stepped foot on the grass. It didn’t take him long to chose not to get lost in his own thoughts -an option he rarely went for, anyway- and focus on his surroundings. And part of those surroundings was no other than a face he hadn’t seen for the better part of a decade, almost forgotten. For shame, abraxas. He approached the woman, Euphemia, with a smile etched on his face. 

“They say nothing brings people together like death.” 

[delilaharmon-blog]

tag drop !

[minsyal]

The Fugitive: Finding Home, Pt. 2

Karl Heisenberg x Reader

Warnings: strong language, Resident Evil-esque violence and descriptions of gore, and dark/sexual themes

Summary: A once-in-a-lifetime trip turned dark. You're quickly exposed to the sinister and mysterious world of a cursed village under the control of dark leaders. How long will you last and will you ever return home in one piece?

The Fugitive: Finding Home Masterlist

Part 1 - The Beginning

“Mother Miranda, I’ve been requesting new maids for at least six months to this day.”

“That’s because you keep eating your other ones.”

You were shaken awake.

“I think that my castle would be best suited for her.”

“Oh, so you can bleed ‘er dry? You think that would really be the best use of anyone’s time?” A familiar voice retorted.

“Good morning!” A shrill voice squeaked as what felt like wood kicked at your face. “She’s up! She’s up! She’s up!” It exclaimed excitedly with a bounce, the voice became softer as the skittering of feet scrambled away.

“Ah,” the unfamiliar smooth woman’s voice cooed as your eyes adjusted to your surroundings. There were what looked to be six figures in the room. Miranda stood before you, perched upon a stage-like area that once housed what you could only imagine was a priest or preacher. To the left sat a cloaked woman with a blob of white resting in her lap. Another woman, also adorned in a white garb, sat towering over the rest, the light constant trickle of smoke danced upward from her vintage cigarette holder. On your right sat a familiar face, the man from the village who had saved you only a few hours prior. You’d come to know him as Lord Heisenberg. He maintained the large woman’s gaze, but the look held no love or any remote sense of familial belonging. Instead, his eyes were set ablaze, even behind the shaded rims of his glasses. Lastly, a shorter creature with a large hunched back moved ungracefully around. Its long gangly arms accompanied by its deformed face only aided in the growing unease.

The dull ache of your shoulder only distracted you from the bindings of your wrists for a moment. Your attention was quickly drawn to the rough ropes that dug their thorny threads into the soft skin of your wrists. Everything ached, mentally and physically.

“I do think she would be best suited with me.” The tall woman repeated herself. “There’s no doubt Moreau wouldn’t be able to handle her, and likely not the rest of you either.”

The hunched creature whirled back, throwing a forlornly glare in the woman’s direction. You supposed that was Moreau.

“You think I couldn’t handle her?” Heisenberg shot back, bent forward to rest his weight on his heels. His relationship with the large woman was clearly tumultuous given his outburst and her subsequent reaction.

“You always get them.” The shrill voice called. It was the doll; the fucking doll was talking... not that this should surprise you at this point. “She should come with us! We need more friends.”

“You’re not included in this conversation.” The tall woman mocked with a fierce glare shot violently at the doll as its mouth hung slack.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Thus far, nobody had managed to answer your simple question. The lot turned toward you, the majority with piercing stares. “Guess not.” You muttered, becoming quite fed up with the range of emotions you had been experiencing over the past day. If it kept going in this direction, you’d surely have to be treated for whiplash.

“She’s already proven to be a considerable pain in my neck.” Miranda loudly projected. Her steps were a clear juxtaposition to her tone, falling light on the church floor as she approached. “One villager is unable to walk, another dead.”

“Dead?” The words fell before you could stop yourself. She didn’t answer.

“Please,” Heisenberg leaned back once more, his hand moving to the interior of his jacket, “the dumb thing practically laid down when she was attacked by a lycan.” His fingers fumbled around the darkened paper of a cigar. Yellow, blonde streaks flashed upon his face as the distinguishable clink of a metal lighter was flicked. “I wouldn’t call that too capable.”

“My friend pushed me.” You argued, once again mentally reeling for the outburst.

Heisenberg let out a huff of smoke, intentionally blowing it in the tall woman’s direction, “sounds like a piss poor friend.”

“Enough.” Miranda had taken to her spot at the front near the alter once more. “The girl shall go to Alcina.”

A wicked smile crossed the tall woman’s face. “Thank you, Mother Miranda. It is so good to have you back.”

“Where are you from?” One of the girls ushered you through the depths of the castle. She wore a simple gown with stitches at the bottom, holding together the frail fabric that looked to be decades old.

“America.”

The girl cocked her head to the side like a newborn. “I don’t know of that town.”

Upon arrival you were escorted down to what was described as the maids’ chambers. In a small stone room, you were assigned a cot, given a chest, and told to change into uniform. Your arm ached and spasmed as you lifted the lid of the trunk open. Somewhere between being shot by the villagers and being transported to Castle Dimitrescu, the bullet was removed from your shoulder and replaced with gauze that limited the mobility of your arm. The distinct oily feeling of grease caused friction between the bandages and your clothes; the ache of alcohol still stung, causing a sore numbness.

The Lady insisted all maids conform to the strict code of dress. Long, unflattering dresses, short heels, and sometimes a headscarf if hair wasn’t pulled tautly into a bun at the base of one’s neck were a few things to name the least. You always wore the headscarf, which was a thin piece of grey lace that attached at the peak of your hairline, cascading over your shoulders to land at waist-length.

The rest of the day passed slowly. You learned the ins and outs of the castle, became acquainted with the sparse staff that only consisted of women, and met Alcina’s daughters from a distance. The next two weeks passed the same way.

Wake up, clean the castle, serve Lady and her daughters, go to bed. That was your routine. Though, the sounds that seeped from the halls at night prompted unwavering curiosity. Heisenberg had mentioned the ill-fated maids that had the luxury of serving the Dimitrescu women back in that church. Nothing at this point had you doubting that was the case. But you assured yourself daily that you would not accept the castle’s fate; you would get out of here one way or another.

You had only been at the mercy of Lady Dimitrescu once to this day. A small spat broke out between maids and the arrival of the head of house had the women squealing lies of how you were the one to start it.

“She stole our rations!” The girl with the wide nose accused her chubby finger outstretched in your direction.

“I didn’t steal anything, you dirty fucking liar.”

“She did. We were squabbling over how she should be punished.” The other girl replied, tucking a shaking hand behind her back as she straightened her poor posture.

“A thief,” Alcina regarded you, “that’s a shame.” Knives skid across the thin skin of your forearm. “Another outburst like this and there will be harsher consequences.” Red stained her tongue as she ran the claw through her cherry-red lips.

As she sauntered down the hall and out of sight, you uncurled your arm from your chest, wincing at the large crimson stain it left on your dress.

“Fresh face.” The words ricocheted off the wall in front of you. Footsteps steadfastly approached from behind. He walked with an effortless swagger, legs slightly bowed with each lyrical step. You’d gone for the quiet route after the situation, finding that silence often pleased those that ruled over the castle. “Here I was thinkin’ it would take you a little longer to lose that fight.” He stepped closer; the unmissable smell of tobacco seeped from his lips. “Looks like I was wrong.”

Instead of words, you held his gaze through unimpressed eyes. Hues of yellows, greys, and greens met yours from beneath his rounded glasses. You could see more of him from here. A large scar ran from the right of his face to the left, the lifted skin healing over leaving memories of whatever had happened. In fact, the majority of his face was plagued with scars. One ran from the bottom of his lip down to his chin, disappearing beneath the stubble of his beard. You wondered if his disdain toward Alcina was founded by those wretched claws of hers. His hair was wirey with shades of brown and peppered grey streaking through the ends. Quite honestly, he was an attractive man.

“I’ve got a name, you know?”

“I don’t think I cared to ask.”

“Then I suppose you aren’t deserving of one either.”

“Well,” he tapped at your chest with a gloved finger, “I think you’ve got a little spunk left in you, sweetheart.”

“Call me Y/n.”

“No last name?” He deadpanned.

“L/n.”

He nodded, but you felt as though your words had passed through him like a ghost.

“Karl.” He gave a lazy bow, tilting the rim of his hat. “But I think you probably already knew that.”

“Gossip and information don’t come easily from the maids here. Sorry,” you pressed your lips together, “I didn’t know.”

Karl gave a shrug.

“Do you know what happened to my friend?” The thought had been playing on your mind for the past few weeks.

He raised an inquisitive brow and turned his head to peer out the shaded window. “The so-called friend that left you to become lycan chow?” A hearty tut left his chest. “I think she’s assimilated into the town.”

“Dumb bitch.” You breathed.

“There’s that spark.” He stood tall with an artificial sense of pride. It had been a long time since somebody in the village was willing to use such crude language in front of any of the Lords, let alone Miranda. It almost astonished him that they’d let you live after the killing of Adelina’s brother. The gun misfired; it wasn’t really your fault.

Another week of growing suspicions and two newly missing maids, you finally attempted to seek out the dungeons that everyone spoke of but warned to stray from. You had to know what was going on here.

“Lost?” Heisenberg’s voice appeared at your right side. His chin almost rested upon your shoulder; the stubble of his beard scratched at your neck. “This isn’t a place I’d get lost in if I were you. In fact, it’s not even a place you should be exploring.”

“Are you going to run to Alcina if I do?” You didn’t face him, why would you? The hallway was cramped, restricting of any sort of movement other than in the direction you were going.

“Me?” He leaned backward to stand at full height. Your body cursed silently, wishing nothing more than to have him close again. How he wasn’t hitting his head on the rafter just inches above floored you. “I hate that bitch. You do what you want, but I won’t bail you out when you get caught.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on being caught then.” You descended the metal ladder, only looking upward for a moment to catch a glimpse of Heisenberg leaning over the opening. An eerie smile was plastered on his lips, it was almost smug.

The dungeons were as you imagined. Cold water trickled down some of the walls, likely due to cracks in the castle’s foundation accompanied by the ever melting of the outside snow. It smelled of mothballs and garlic, something musty was clinging to the air. You noted a few turns here and there, attempting to memorize the path you had taken in case you needed to make a swift escape. What didn’t help was the skid of your maid’s clothes along the rigid floor.

Muffled cries put you further onto the edge. The narrow hall gave way to a large room filled with arched stonework. Metal bars shot from floor to ceiling, hinges creaked as the sound of hands banging against them filled your eardrums. You didn’t want to go further, scared of any repercussions should any of the jailed women recognize and rat you out.

Turning to head to the ladder, you collided with a chest. “Leaving so soon?” Heisenberg again.

“Shh!” You slapped at his chest with a closed fist, only realizing what you had done when the action was completed. He looked rightfully amused. Everything that you had learned of these “Lords” up to now told you to act less casually with him, to put on an air of respect at the very least. But there was something surprisingly human about him. Something that told you it was okay despite it potentially not being so. At this point, you were only prolonging the inevitable.

“What?” He started, swiftly being cut off by approaching footsteps. Firm hands grasped at your arms, pulling your face forward into his chest. “Open your mouth and I’ll feed you to whatever’s coming.” He said through his teeth, trapping your arms between your two bodies.

The room grew dim, the wall behind your back became close even though you had not moved at all. Heisenberg’s grip was strong on your forearms, causing you to inaudibly hiss as his thumb dug into the slash Alcina had left weeks prior. The footsteps were accompanied by the soft cries of a woman, gasping pleas of being let go falling silent on the ears of her assailant. A minute passed; the dungeon fell soundless.

“You can breathe now.” His lips lingered close to your ear, once again sending a rush of chills crawling down your skin. He knew what he was doing.

“I’ve been breathing.” You breathily retorted sounding as if you had just run a marathon.

“Whatever you say, doll.”

The wall behind you gave way, moving on its own. You turned; the materials that had been pressed to your back laid themselves on the ground. Heisenberg’s smile was unmissable. “Go ahead.” His voice was gravely, gruff, a slight melancholy dismay underlying. Heisenberg desired for you to implore what just happened, but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. You refused to see him as anything but normal, for if you did give in to the village’s mental games, you’d likely find yourself going mad. He was a man, you told yourself, nothing more.

“I thought you weren’t going to bail me out?”

“I wasn’t.” He tightened his grip on your arms. “But I figured it’d be a shame to lose such a pretty face so soon.”

“I, I’m sure you say that to all the girls here.” You couldn’t hold his gaze at this distance. Perhaps Adelina was right, you were rather frumpy and unexperienced.

A huff came as he exhaled, a thoughtful tug of his lips upward accompanied it. He didn’t answer, a reoccurring event with those who inhabited this town.

Heisenberg had been keeping his trips to and from the castle a secret. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he felt so inclined to bother with the outsider woman who appeared in the village one fateful evening. Perhaps he was growing bored of his daily routine with no results to show. Maybe he was enticed by the well of knowledge you held of the outside world. Maybe it was something else, something human. The Lord’s weren’t allowed to stray far from the village. The other three lived delightfully oblivious, completely okay with never exploring the unknown. Heisenberg, on the other hand, was not. Your friend, Jess as he recalled you calling her, was far from interesting to him. It didn’t take a genius to tell how low her I.Q. had to be. She conformed easily to the village and by all accounts had been down talking you to the others she met. She quickly fell into the same brainwashed daze of worship.

It had been another turbulent week of utter chaos around every corner. Nobody knew of your adventure into the depths of Castle Dimitrescu and you had no intentions of spreading any gossip among the maids. They all seemed to have it out for you anyway. You were the “outsider,” as one described it. It was so blatantly evident to them that you were not going to conform to their ways. And that disturbed them.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t your fair share of punishment to this point. In actuality, you had received a significantly greater amount of beratements and surface wounds from Alcina and her daughters. You thought to Heisenberg often, continually wondering how your life would differ had Miranda bestowed you upon him. He was irresistibly charming in his own twisted sense. Every word that escaped his mouth heavily contradicted his actions. You received a good number of swats to the hand stemming from woeful daydreaming of the man you hardly knew.

He could be dangerous, you’d tell yourself before slipping into yet another sequence of fervent and unrelenting thoughts stemming from the mysterious man. He was a Lord, one placed in a top position according to the village’s hierarchy. You just weren’t sure why.

There had been countless times the man had sauntered into the castle, “accidentally” run into you, and held brief conversation.

The other maids were assholes. Though you had concluded this swiftly upon entering the castle, their recent actions only solidified your feelings.

It had been only a day since Heisenberg’s last visit. He strolled into the castle, easing his way past the maids as they hurriedly passed by. They paid him no mind. The evening sun had begun to set in the sky. Lady Dimitrescu had gone out for the night, instructing her girls to hold down the castle while she was away. The three of them had descended into the dungeons, not to be seen again until morning. This left the halls free and roamable for the savvy Lord.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Your voice caught his attention. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Marybeth.”

Shrill voices argued back and forth behind the kitchen doors. The sound of muffled giggles fell on his ears; it was an unusual sound within the castle walls. The girls must be relaxed knowing they’re safe from punishment tonight. At least, that’s what they thought.

In a second, the hinges of the door burst off, sending the heavy frame crashing down to the tiled floor. Shrieks came quickly and died on their lips as soon as the girls realized who was there.

“Lord Heisenberg.” One woman bowed her head, concealing something within her hands as she placed them in her lap, clasped tightly together. “Lady Dimitrescu has left for the evening.”

“I know.” His brow raised at the scene set before him. You stood to the rear of the kitchen, clearly irate at something the woman who regarded him had done. Five other women were huddled with the one who spoke, following her lead and averting their gazes. No aroma of cuisine drifted from the empty cauldron, only the stale scent of curing meats clung to the air.

“What’s going on in here?” He looked directly at you from beneath the lid of his hat.

“We were cleaning the kitchen.” The maid spoke through shaking breaths.

After a pensive moment, he waved his hand. “You’re dismissed. Except,” he held his hand at your chest as you attempted to pass, “you.”

The girls stumbled over the door, making quick work of getting back to their quarters and away from the Lord. You listened as the audience of feet trampled away. None of the girls here knew how to walk in heels causing for a rather elephant-like clomping of shoes wherever they went.

“What really happened?”

“Do you care?”

“Not particularly, but color me curious.”

“Don’t get them in trouble.” You demanded through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to deal with the aftermath.”

He chortled. “You seem more afraid of them than you are of me.”

“You’ve not given me a reason to be scared.”

Your back pressed to the wall, a glass chalice fell, shattering against the floor. The lapels of his jacket and dog tags pushed to your chest were still cold from the frosted night air. “Do I need to give you a reason?”

“I just,” embarrassment rose in your cheeks, “would you stop doing this?” There was no budging the man. His strength far outweighed yours, easily acting as if your pushing against his chest was nothing but a soft breeze.

“Doing what?” A smirk grew on his lips. God, he loved this.

“This!” Your clenched fist banged on his chest, not rattling him in the slightest. Droplets of claret liquid ran from your palm to your elbow. “Dammit, Karl. Move.”

The use of his first name was new. A solid hand closed around your wrist, bringing it up to eye level. He tilted back, adjusting his vision. The raise of his brow signaled that he wanted you to open your hand. Complying, you cringed as the reddened skin screamed for relief.

“They did this?”

“It’s no different from the other injuries I’ve gotten here.”

“It’s deep.” He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. “Don’t let anyone know you’ve got this.” A silver tin slipped from his hand to yours, you pried at its ridges with your nail.

Heisenberg disappeared after that, taking off with a dramatic throw of the castle doors as he disappeared into the dense forest. He had given you a tin of salve and a bandage.

“Lady Dimitrescu has requested your presence.”

The Fugitive: Finding Home Part 3 - Foreign Thoughts

I'm so excited for where this fic is going...

Feedback is always appreciated

Tag list: (let me know if you want to be tagged)

@ambiguous-g @ren-ni @metaphorical-love-for-a-car @lgbtomatoes

[ficsnroses]

Ultrasound; - John Wick x Reader

4.3k words

summary : you’re 4 months pregnant, and your husband john is everything you’ve ever wanted. however, he misses your ultrasound appointment, leading to you being upset with him.

warnings : pregnant reader. angst, but also lots of fluff! x f! reader. 

notes : requested by lovely anon! I really hope you enjoy this, lovie. I know you had asked for a heated argument, however, I just couldn’t bring myself to write John being angry at his s/o. he’s too much of a softie :) as always, please do leave comments and feedback, it means so much! I’m a little nervous for this one aH be kind pls ily xx

At the glass paned, brittle white front door, you stand, a cautious hand placed to the swell of your growing belly, a stray strand of hair falling to your eye as your husband John, kisses a gentle goodbye to your cheek.

“Are you sure you have to go?” You ask, off put, shining eyes with your lip bitten, as if you’d wanted to say more. John had been leaving on early mornings such as today often, far more frequent as of late; you’d be lying if you’d projected it didn’t chip off a small shard of your heart each time he’d leave you for the day.

He’d be back, later. In the evening perhaps, after you’d settled into the cozy depths of the living room couch, a sickly dessert in hand and your preferred 90’s sitcom portrayed in reruns on the blue TV screen, or as you’d retire to bed, awaiting his body to come occupy the vacant spot beside.

“Yeah.” John heavily sighs, briefly announcing his downcast glare to the floor, before reverting those much familiar, chocolate eyes to yours. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I really do.” Subtle guilt pinched at his darkened features, beard groomed fresh to a handsome trim. His hand smoothes over the small of your back, quietly waiting,

for you to end your farewell.

“It’s just…” You trickle, eyes focusing anywhere, but on his. You didn’t mean to press; you’d reminded him of today’s upcoming events much in the last week. “We have the appointment later this afternoon.” You allow, a final time, blinking back guilt for perhaps, over doing it with the constant reminders. “Are you sure you’ll make it in time?”

-an exchange for the true feelings that had been brewing inside, as of late. On the tip of your tongue they twirled, bubbling, bubbling, boiling, and you’d known, perhaps to the slightest mishap, they’d spill over.

But for now, as your husband holds you, tentatively sure he’d return in time, you bite your tongue, choosing to trust him.

Trust. It was the band that held your marriage together.

John softly smiles, offering a squeeze to your palm. “Promise.” Assuring, his Mustang 69’ keys fish out of his pocket with a jingle, equipped to his stockier fingers. “You’re still okay to meet at the doctor’s office?” With every cell in his being, John would have preferred to stay home, with you, awaiting the appointment time.

Yet, odds never worked in his favour. He’d have to go, he’d have to be reminded of the dark that wouldn’t let its best man go easy, even on the most joyful days, such as today. A day that should have been reserved for his loving wife, who meant the world to him and more, and their baby, who would come into the world in a mere 5 months. When nimble fingers reach for the collar of his brown leather jacket, his love nods, faking her best executed smile in return.

John knew you, well as the back of his hand. He knew you weren’t pleased with the idea of him leaving, wherever he was off to today. Yet, he knew you’d often

bite your tongue,

for him. John knew he’d struck gold when he’d found you, when you’d fell in love with him, and him, immensely with you. In your relationship, there had been much darkness. Much obscurity, much ambiguity to the life John lived separate from the one you shared together. You know about John’s profession, and the hurt he’d caused to many wretched souls. When he was home, with you, your John is a daydream, in human form.

Soft, gentle, caring. Words fall short of the mountain that is your man.

Yet the day he’d told you, of the culpability, the shame that resides within him; claws through each regret ridden seam, each sorrow droned bone in his body,

nothing changed within you.

You didn’t fall out of love. You didn’t fall less. The same hands that held yours, held knives and guns, slaughtered the lives of many. But they’d given life to you. The day your John told you he’d lost count of the souls he’d taken, you’d vowed to love him regardless. To accept him with whatever baggage he came with. He kept the details of his whereabouts, and the deeds he’d succumb to scare.

Mixing you with the life he so desperately wanted to escape was the last thing he’d wanted to do. So you let him, you let him keep mum on scattered details and fine points of who the famed Boogyman was,

You promised to see in him, just John.

John Wick, your husband, who deserves more than anyone the life you’ve built together. A beautiful home in a secure neighbourhood, a house filled with love, a house feels warm, painted with white crisp walls that hold no dark, enveloped in the anticipation of tiny feet sputtering down the open halls someday soon.

“I’ll meet you there, then. Drive safe, and call me if you change your mind, I’ll send a taxi your way.” He quietly reminds, still holding the hand that had painted colour to his black and white guarded walls. You’d opened long drawn curtains that closed to all that came; you were the first to let sunlight in, allow it to kiss his skin for the first time, in a long, long time.

“I love you.” John smiles. “So much. Stay safe, okay? I’ll call you.” He adds, a final time, before instilling a soft kiss to your plump stained lips, your own hand smoothing a wrinkle off his shirt clad chest.

“Love you too.” You quietly smile, holding your bump as you gaze him out the white paned front door, off to somewhere you’d never asked.

You’d bit your tongue, for him,

Yet again.

The doctor’s office air proves cold, chilled to an icy, unsympathetic hail. With a hand to your bump, and a much growing pierce to your now aching temple, your brows frown and an uneased anger surfaces inside.

John promised.

One minute to appointment time.

       ‘He’ll come. He’d walk through the door any second,’ muses your heart.

       ‘He won’t. He hasn’t responded to any calls, or messages.’ Punctuates your mind.

He didn’t forget. Something must have come up. He wanted to be here.

Thoughts, ponderings, half attempted assurances to your own worn out mind.

He shouldn’t have gone. He shouldn’t have left. He shouldn’t have let anything come up. That was his job as the father of this child.

He needed to be here today. He knew how much this means to you.

It should have meant enough to him to be here.

You, your baby,

       should have meant enough.

“Mrs. Y/N Wick?” The call of your name disrupts your whirlwind of destructive thoughts. Perhaps it was your emotions that had been working overtime as of late, perhaps it was the distance between you and John.

Perhaps it was the scars burned into your tongue. The toxins that burned being bitten down.

Gnawed, bitten,

concealed,

covered.

Sat in the cold leathered office bed chair, your OB-GYN spins you a warm smile, and you smile back best as you can, although reluctantly so. Masquerading joy had proven tough, when the hand that should have been holding yours right now proves absent. You sink further into the bed, hem of your top rolled up just below your breasts to allow the doctor access.

“How are you today, Y/N?” She shines, layering on a pair of blue latex gloves, prior to smearing a cold, frigid gel to your tummy. The chill of the balm had always sent shivers peppering down your spine, you’d clenched John’s hand firmer to the feel at your previous check ups. “I’m doing well.” You lie, you bite the truth. Wispy fingers thread together, placed on your lap.

“John’s not here today?” She wonders, preoccupied with the transducer probe equipped in her left grip, her right still smearing the cold gel to your bump. The sound of the radiology machine powering echoes your ears, and you relieve a soft exhale, sure not to cast your dreary emotions too much.

The last thing you needed right now, was to spill your long shielded, buried emotions to your OB-GYN, who was solely trying to do her job. “No, he’s not.” You dryly return, swallowing thickly in declaration more to yourself, than to anyone else.

Her eyes gloss over your features, eyes focused on the beige office walls, fingers twiddling in your enclosed grip. “Everything alright?” She wonders, to your half lost execution, a noticeable dread on your mind, weighing.

“Of course.” You lie, you smile with an emptiness void of usual warmth, through untruthful teeth. “I would appreciate it if we could get started as soon as possible.” You request, wanting none more than to be left alone.

To sift through long pent up feelings, frustrations and worries that brewed inside; to allow hostage feelings pleading to be let free, overtake your mind.

The couch feels colder than normal; or perhaps it was the room.

A room, that fell cold, longing for someone else to be in it.

John.

The appointment concluded a little over an hour ago, a full pot of mint tea sits brewing on the coffee table as you await his arrival. The clock ticks in the distance, your mind shuffling a million thoughts a minute.

He’s not home. He hasn’t been home.

You’d bit your tongue, far too long.

He’d seared a cut. He’d butchered into a part of you, and you wonder when you’d forgotten the way you used to be.

You ponder; when you’d started to settle for his absence. A fire boils inside, lathers, toils. The scorch of long concealed feelings pent up, brewing in secret. Had the sound of a heavy door closing shut not broke your contemplation, you’d perhaps shed a few warm tears, unannounced. Unwelcomed dew that may have just glided off your cheeks, the weight of a million bricks released.

You’d heard his heavy footsteps on their way in, the sound of Dog’s excited paws trotting along the floor as he runs towards his bestest friend.

John-

the one person you’d thought you could share anything with. Count on for anything, had left you deserted. He’d been building a wall around, leaving you left all alone, in the grey dark. Shackled with dread, the conversation that you knew would follow tonight, is something you’d prayed would never rehearse between you and your John.

Yet, perhaps that was the problem. Your John, seemed to be lost. The man you fell in love with, would leave the world behind if you’d asked him to.

He’d made it clear; you and him against the world.

Nothing was larger, nothing was sweeter than what he’d made with you. He’d been ecstatic when you’d found out you were pregnant, promised to never leave your hand the entire way through.

You yearn for that John again;

Beg.

Hope.

Plead.

Yearn. You yearn for your husband, again. Burn, crash, crumble, the feelings become too much, the anger pounds inside. Indignant, blue, muddled, hurting, hurting, hurting-

“Y/N,”

His voice. A confliction at it’s finest. To fall into his arms and pour out your heart, or to fight. To make him feel the ache he’d doused your heart in.

The toxins on your lips threaten to burn; they’ll sear your cheeks, drip a dark tar with each syllable, each vowel that falls. The sharp edges will only cut further. A faint frown lingers the planes of your face, and you shake your head, gaze downcast when he inches further into the room, stance preparing to kneel in front of you on the hardwooden floor. He smells faintly of the air outside; crisp, winter auburns and sharp wind. Yet there’s that familiar, warmer spice. Something that kisses his skin, reminds you of home.

You don’t remember when you started looking at him, and seeing home. It’s been far too long, and now, it’s all you know.

        It’s tough being angry at someone, who loves so deep;

John loves with his entirety. John feels with each inch of his battered skin; his bones remember the chill of feeling null.

Stare melting into the crackling fireplace, you avoid his gaze, ignore his touch when a heavy hand rests to your thigh. Warm, comforting, a reminder of the way his touch had the ability to stitch each ripping seam inside you; to mend, and adorn flowers all over.

But his touch, holds no triumph today.

The flowers didn’t bloom,

the slits only gushed.

“Baby, I’m sorry-”

It comes in flashes. Bold, like a lightening bolt.

       Boom

               Boom.

“Don’t.” You whisper a grit, jaw tightening with a pounding ache to your temple protruding. “Do not try and explain yourself.”

Firm; like a lightening bolt. Much to your dismay, his cocoa kissed hair falters in hues; long, curtained along the frame of his face. Coffee eyes show repulse, a certain sadness you remember from long, long ago.

A sorrow you hadn’t seen often since you’d given him your heart, for his in return. “You don’t get to explain yourself.” You speak; firm, assertive, tears pricking in watery jewels in the corners of your orbs. Perhaps it was the high of pregnancy hormones, or the dire of the situation. For the first time, with John, today marked the start of something you’d never felt before.

You felt forgotten. Less than.

“I told you how much I wanted you with me. I told you how important today was to me.” Tone dreary, John’s heart practically sliced into a million pieces, at mercy of the dagger that was your wounded voice.

Grim, an aching pound stings his nerves, crinkled lines of stress embroidered to his forehead, and his spine unravels in a lean into your skin, his hands coming to engulf around yours in a tender hold. “Baby, I know and I’m-”

Lightening. Swift; sharp.

“No!” You almost shout, hands pulled out of his larger, rougher ones. “You do not get to explain yourself.” The words had come out harsher than intended, the cuts had been deeper than thought. They pour, and a river streams. A flood of built up emotion, a cry your tears won’t bear hold.

“Baby, don’t yell.” A quiet John speaks lowly, barely heard with a gaze avoidant of yours. “It’s not good for our baby girl.” He seems tense. He feels, he feels with each inch of his bones. Still, his hand never leaves your thigh, resting, reminding you that he’s there now. And he will be.

He will be, for good.

Yet, his words only pierce into you further; the blade twists in your skin. Huffing a sneered chuckle, your eyes blink away unwanted tears, the moment needing your assertion more than a wave of vulnerable grief. “Our baby?” Veins course with something so icy, so frozen; an agonizing burn claws away at your temples, features far from forgiving. You knew the words that threatened to brew up on your tongue were far from the truth. You knew they held far more weight than he deserved to bear.

“Because I feel almost as if she’s just my baby with how absent you’ve been, John.”

After thunder, after lightening, comes rain. Perhaps the worst, of them all. Cold, condescending, long pouring rain; it pelts in darkness, loud, leaving its mark on the drought terrain. It pours quietly, yet stridently all at once. It seeps, and it seeps, and it seeps, until it stops.

       Only, no one knows. When it’ll stop.

“I’ve been alone. I’ve been feeling alone. You’ve made me feel alone.”

Rain. Pelting, and pelting, and pelting.

This stream of misery, these awful words, declarations. You know he’s hurting. You’re hurting him. You’re doing the one thing, you promised you’d never do to him. His breathe remains calm, collected, his eyes seldom avoid yours. His hand leaves your thigh, allowing, respecting your space. Those cocoa kissed eyes hold a weight heavier than the sear of a million burns.

You almost want, plead for him to say something back; to anguish the fire.

       It’s hard getting mad at someone who doesn’t raise their voice. Its tough being angry at someone,

       like your John.

You’ve knew you were lying. You knew your words held zero truth. He hadn’t been making you feel alone. He’d been waking up curled into your skin, holding your hand through the dreadful nights. He’d been sacrificing sleep, putting himself second to make sure you were alright.

To make sure his baby was alright. Yet, his efforts had proved unsuccessful, nonetheless. Because as of late, he had been coming home later. He had been leaving earlier, he had been away. He had left you alone.

Quiet, filled with regret, his voice carries a burden; the burden of hurting the only person that had ever truly mattered to him. Of hurting the women who he loves, adores, more than the stars adore the moon. “I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I promise.” John speaks, eyes insistent with guilt.

Make it up. He’ll make it up. Another broken promise, your mind threatens, yet your heart whispers. It whispers, that he will. John had a way, John has an inherent kindness. Your lips pursue, the words needing to come out. You needed to be heard today. You needed to know he understood.

Laced with aggravation, your voice flows off your lips in rougher tides than intended. “I don’t need you to make it up, John.” You explain, calmer, collected. Firm. “I just need you to be here. And if that’s something you can’t do, I need you to tell me now.” Twisted with agony, your heart feels heavy in your chest. “My child needs a father who will be there.”

“Our child.” John interrupts, correcting, quietly, respectfully.

He knew better than to argue with his pregnant, hormone loaded wife. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean he would let her abdicate the fact that he is the father of their child. Although they hadn’t met yet, John knew. He could feel it in his bones. She would be the payoff. His baby would hold his entire heart, along with her mommy.

Each part of John yearns for nothing but his wife and child. They are all that matters. They are the payoff; the decades of grim sin that conjure on his fingertips would finally, at last lay to rest because of them. For them.

Quietly, a muffled sigh, heavy, tense, leaves your mauve stained lips. A faint frown lingers the depths of your face, something filled with melancholy confession. A heaviness fills the silent room still, occupied with nothing but your two worn out souls, desperately longing for nothing more, than for this nightmare to be over.

John and you don’t argue. Despite small disputes over shoes left at the front door, or a towel left discarded without care to the bathroom floor, this isn’t something John and you do. It isn’t something small. It isn’t something you can brush off, forget about a minute thereafter.

John and you, complete each other. You compliment each other. You fight for each other.

         His heart and yours, are old, old friends.

The water rises, a river flows from your mouth. Steeping thoughts the stitched seams even, cannot bear hold. With a lingering sadness peppered to your tenor, you sigh heavily, head falling downcast to gaze the floor below. John watches you, in a drown of his own guilt; sadness of his own.

He longs to hold you; it had been far too long without.

“You’re always away in the day as of late, and I hate that the only time I really see you is when you come home to sleep.” You begin, voice cut with sorrow. “Sometimes I lay awake in the late of night, savouring the feeling of you just holding me. Touching me. Because I’ve began to get comfortable with knowing moments like that only happen during the night.” Deeper and deeper, each cut wounds into your skin. “I hate it John.” You confess, longing for those strong, toned arms to scoop you up and assure you everything would be okay. That he would tell you what’s been going on, let you in. “I don’t want to be comfortable in knowing you’re not around.”

A slight chuckle shines through your raspy throat, yet the utter sorrow never fails to paint each feature as the words continue to fall. There’s a certain vulnerability in your tone, a certain weakness you wish you could hide. “My body is changing, and I’ve been feeling low. I’m scared of not being what she deserves when she comes.” You barely whisper, tears pricking, a hand resting on your growing belly. A small drop falls, the pent up weight of a billion timid thoughts. “Feeling like you’re maybe not all in anymore makes me feel,” If a word, could even portray the density, the sheer torment of the thought of life with John being anything less than what you hoped. “..Awful.” You cease, a lip quivering. “I feel so awful, John.”

Downcast, your eyes scan the floor, heart pounding, the stillness killing you. John watches you, eyes doused with remorse. Quietly, he’d barely heard your words, strung together. A pair of beautiful eyes dilate with nothing, but blue, as they search his dark orbs.

“John, are you falling out of love with me?”

       Sharp.

       Shrill.

You swore something inside him broke. Something twisted and turned, left a deep puncture; wounded him for good.

       Like a lightening bolt. You’d sunk the needles where it hurts the most.

Weary of his silence, you continue. Unsure of the outcome, yet allowing the river that falls your lips, to flow free, full, at last. “I just…I miss you so much. I don’t need anything but you right now.” Bitten to your lip, a choked sob threatens to surface, although you manage to keep yourself collected. “I don’t want anything but you; I never have.”

And with those words, John’s weary limbs resist the hold no more. Kneeling in front of you as you sit still on the grey couch, John pulls your frame close, so close, that you hear the steady rhythm of his heart. His body is warm, brimmed with love; you feel the soak of a few strayed tears from his eyes seep into the supple skin of your neck.

       He holds you so close.

       And you hold him; the way it was always meant to be.

With your arms firmly wrapped around his body, you sink into his skin, melting in the touch of the man you love most. Eyes closed, you breathe in his scent, and he threads his fingers in tender strokes to your hair. Honey drenched kisses press to your shoulder, your neck, the side of your head as he quietly finds the right words to surface; nevertheless, feeling as if anything at all would fall short for what he felt in this moment.

John Wick, sees nothing in this world, but you. As a few more moments of silent relish pass, he pulls his head back a mere few inches, still holding your body so close. With his callous thumb brushing a gentle stroke just under your eye, his thin taut lips kiss a tender, soft peck to where a tear had once fell from your cheek, his eyes still soaking in gloom. With his voice, deep, rich as butter, yet rasped, he speaks softly, silked into your ears, never breaking eye contact.

“I’ve been trying to get out.” Velvet. He speaks, as if the finest of velvet. “And I did, I left that part of me behind today.” Swallowing thick, John inches in closer, kissing a soft, gentle kiss to your eye, that had been haven to nothing but drifted tears earlier. “For you, and for our baby girl.”

Close, proximate, he holds you. His touch alone, fixes everything. “You are all I want. Here, is where I want to be. I’m so sorry I made you feel that way.” He whispers, his forehead resting to yours as you cup his perfectly groomed, bearded cheek. “I didn’t want you worrying; I needed you to stay happy. You’re carrying our baby, I wanted you to be carefree, and nothing else. I never wanted to hurt you.” His heart pours, his heart sears. “I will never hurt you, or our child.” Looking down at your belly, his hand rests to your bump as his lips press a gentle kiss to the top.

And with his lips, holding the only remedy you’d ever need, he kisses you with all the love he holds, all the love he feels for no one, but you. “You are my everything. Please believe me when I say it. I wanted you then, I want you now, and I will until we take our last breath.” His words hold sincerity, something reserved for no one but you.

“From today on, baby, I’m all in. I’m all yours, and hers. I’ll be here for it all, the sleepless nights, the cravings, the aches, everything.” He pours his heart to you, never letting go, as if he’d been scared you’d disappear. “You are it for me, Y/N. I love you more than I could ever tell. Please believe me when I say it.”

And with your eyes, shining into his, you keep his cheek cupped, and your foreheads locked. You stare, and you stare, and you stare, into the eyes of your world. Into the eyes of the man who you knew would become the best father; perhaps greater of a father to your child than he is a husband, if only it was possible.

Your husband, deserves the stars. And if you could, you’d pick them out of the sky like apple blossoms in summer, and decorate them in his hair. And with every ounce in your being, you smile, and you kiss him tender, you hold him so close, so near.

“I do.” You smile, holding on.

       “I believe you. I trust you.”

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

[revasnaslan]

🍧🕷️✏️for Hec-Tor 😭💐🌱 for Anillis and 💢🌪️☁️ for Cadu! Hope it's not too much ^^

I'm gonna put this a read more for length but thank you for the good choices anon 👀👀

Hec-Tor

🍧 - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

Trinket!! She's gone through a few different body iterations as he got better at tinkering, but the AI is still the same one that he originally created when he was a child. She is his oldest friend that's still alive, and I think if anything happened to her he'd be extremely upset.

🕷️ - what is their biggest fear? do they have any irrational / mundane fears?

already answered!!

✏️ - is there a particular quote / lyric that you associate with them?

If you love me let me go

Cause these words are knives that often leave scars

The fear of falling apart

And truth be told I never was yours

The fear, the fear of falling apart -- This Is Gospel by Panic! At The Disco

Anillis

😭 - what makes them cry? do they cry easily?

He does not, actually. Hec-Tor is the one between the two of them who cries easily, Anillis has a much better handle on his emotions after decades of burying them. But one thing that brings him to that brink are memories of his parents.

💐 - create a bouqet for them! what do those flowers mean? are any of the flowers their particular favourite?

The first flower that comes to mind are plum/peach blossoms. The fruit tree that is his favorite in the gardens aboard the Velvet Glove is actually from old worldbuilding I did for VLD, and the fruit off of it is based on a mixture of a peach and plum.

Plum blossoms apparently mean perseverance and hope, while peach blossoms mean purity (hA), loyalty, and longevity. Make of that what you will.

🌱  - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

It's really sad but the first memory that comes to mind is his father dying. Anillis was only 18 when that happened, and As We Can See, it fucked him up pretty bad. I believe I described that memory in the fic itself so I'm not going to bother doing it here.

Caduceus

💢 - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

Much like Hec-Tor, I think he struggles to actually be straightforward with people because he hasn't been permitted to be that way in the past. He internalizes a lot of what goes on around him, and since his situation is so unique, there really is only one other person who is able to speak with about it come Fic 3 😔😔 even Hec-Tor is kind of kept out of the loop with a lot of his trauma because Caduceus doesn't want Hec-Tor to feel like it's his fault.

The Etherians kind of think he's a dick for that reason I think. He isn't particularly open with any of them, Glimmer especially doesn't trust him, considering the circumstances. He's very self-isolating in that way... but he does eventually make a friend aboard the ship, so It's All Good.

🌪️ - what is the biggest change you’ve ever made to them? how have they changed from their original version?

Believe it or not, he was originally supposed to be far more in line with Anillis, the perfect Minder who fell completely in line and never deviates. And he does still appear that way... to Anillis. Which is actually important for the climax of Everything But A Door.

Also I did not expect him to have the driest sense of humor in the entire cast. Really surprised me when I was drafting the climax and he kept letting loose some of the funniest lines in the whole fic.

☁️ - a soft headcanon

He mostly picked up embroidery/tailoring to help fit Hec-Tor's outfits, but he also genuinely enjoys the work, and Hec-Tor comes up with new designs he "absolutely must have" on his outfits so they have a reason to request new thread for Caduceus to use.

[punsandfuturekingsmen-archive]

//If you go to read this, also consider reading Splatter’s original version here!

A lot of the events are very much the same as they are in that piece, and the dialogue parts are pretty much word for word since it’s from Splatterlewis’s perspective! I just added a bit from Arthur near the end and here and there, and just played around with describing things haha.

~

He thought that might be the end of it, or at least he thought he knew what to expect next, given his own history with his own Lewis.

So when the next flash didn’t involve trucks or fights with tree yokai, he felt confusion fuzz at the corners of his brain. No… it was somewhere deep and dark. He wandered in some kind of stupor, filled to the brim with a hundred thoughts and feelings, all of them cutting at his skin like knives and a rage that continued to burn in his chest. The rest was vague to leave an impression, but it still stabbed at him as he stumbled along.

But even in the haze he wandered in, he noticed when something began to stalk him from the shadows. The signs of their presence were clear: the area seemed to shift green and bleed it from the earth and sky. Smoke filled every nick and cranny, thick enough to choke on by any who might need to breathe.

He felt himself pulled from the daze with a snap. Something about the spirit set off alarm bells in his mind and left the hairs on his arms and neck standing on end. The smoke and the green consumed everything, the shade just right to remind him of somewhere else. His brain fired on all cylinders, trying to remember anything Vivi might have said that could help him. All that came to him was that this was something powerful. Something dangerous.

He still couldn’t see it in the smoke, but he could feel the weight of its presence. He called out for it, shouting into the green void an almost challenge. Seeing the cave’s greens made him wonder, and he asked if it came to finish what was left of him. The cry reverberated around him in the emptiness, seeming to ricochet off smoke.

The feeling of something dangerous grew stronger, rocking against him like a crescendo in a song mourning his end. But he didn’t want to end here, and his hands ignited with shimmering violet-pink flames. His eyes darted around the whole of the place, searching for movement.

A laugh alerted him, though the aura of power from the thing that found him might have done just the same if it hadn’t. A voice old as time and antique in accent spoke. The tone was something that itched at his skin..

       “Boy, I have never met you… Lewis, is it? Such a lovely name, for a lovely soul… So full of fire, of power, and rage. Why would I wish to drive you to hell, when you are the key to my freedom?”

He could feel himself heating up. The fires in his hand seemed to brighten until they blurred the air at the edges of each flame. His hair felt warmer, and shades of pink glistened and reflected off green smoke from where it was now glimmering, ready to ignite.

A clarity struck him, that this was not what he’d met before. It was something greater.

“Show yourself!” He called for the thing, teeth flashing in a grimace. Anger bubbled at the notion of being scared by this thing. By it trying to intimidate him. He was not about to lose, not after everything he had gone through.

But then they obliged.

The skeleton that moved into view was verdant, a hue of green that was deep and dark. Scant remains of decaying flesh still hung from putrid bones, and each piece that lingered had names endlessly scrawled, carved and etched into every inch of skin until they nearly lost meaning, but did not overlap. A cloth kilt and robes hung from its form and swayed with the steps it took, barely clinging to the emaciated remains of the creature and worn in places to threads.

On the head of the skull was a carving. One that recognition pricked at him distantly for. It was the one he’d seen on Lewis’s head for years. But this one, blackened as char and cracked, seemed to give off a shadowy aura, absorbing the light to nothing around it in way that made it seem to glow. It had never looked like that on Splatter. Or… not that he knew of. But what did he really know?

The memory seized him again. “Such a demanding tone, for someone about to lose their soul… You have a fire in you, a fire I need. And you will give it, aye?”

He felt a flash of pride, or protective fury, and he pointed to the creature with a fist wreathed in fire and a glare Mrs. Pepper would have been proud of (the thought hurt as it struck him).  “You can never have my soul, I refuse. No one can have it!”

The skeleton moved in a way that divulged something of its thought of what he had said, but he didn’t have the moment to process it. The corruption that hung in the air seemed to thicken and shift, forming blade-sharp arrows, tainted and green. He barely moved out of the way as they streaked by. A few sliced holes in his already damaged shirt, a testament to how close they managed to get to striking him.

With a growl that twisted his face in a snarl, he returned fire. But as the flames blasted over the creature, it stood there, taking the attack without flinching. It laughed, even at it stumbled back from the force, seeming wholly unfazed.

The shock after seeing what his fire could do held him still, and it was enough for a return blast from the skeleton to strike true. The bolt crashed against his chest, the pain hard and heavy and making him double over with a wheeze. He gasped for breath as if he needed it, clutching at his bruised chest and stomach.

The creature seemed amused and its tone held danger, a promise of a cruel fate. “You have no idea who you fight, boy…. In life, centuries and centuries ago, I was once known as Professor Hean Feramin. A genius of studies of names and their power and origins, as well as medical studies… But now, in death, I am known as ‘The Splatter Man’… Do you have any idea the number of people I have killed? The souls I have claimed and the power I wield…? The hordes of monsters that followed me, and respected me, their king?!”

It laughed again, something deeper, and with a flare of green smoke, a quill formed that he took between thumb and forefinger. It twirled with a flourish as it brought a skeletal hand up as if to write on a chalkboard, stroking the tip of the quill against the empty air.

Where it scratched, letters formed, Large and flamboyant in a way letters often were when they began a chapter of a book, like fanciful olden English. Each letter that adorned the air became red, droplets of it falling off and towards the ground.

L.

His head began to spin, and he stumbled.

E.

W.

He didn’t realize when he hit his knees, but he was on them now, the energy to return to one knee felt like it took all he had. His stomach lurched and a sense of exhaustion burned at his eyes.

The Splatter Man held the quill as if poised for the next letter, but instead he twisted the quill against his palm and crushed it to nothing, blood dripping from his hand where it had been before fading.

Hands laced behind his back, the Splatter Man approached. He could see even more names along the pallid skin, burned in or cut in jagged lines. The skin on his face was gone, and he could see fire-red embers aglow in the sockets, sizing him up. He felt something touch his feet. Something scaly and thick, and the sound of hissing told him what it was.

“Are you starting to understand? I can use your name against you, I can learn any name by staring… And everyone’s’ name holds their soul, their strength… And can be manipulated… Hold still now, and welcome the warm embrace of death. You will free me from this prison.”

He was down on his knee, fighting for that will to stand again, hissing through his teeth at The Splatter Man. He could feel blood soaking the tatters of his shirt, spilling red in thick rivers from what once had been the scars of his death. They were open now, weeping blood until he was slick with it. Weakness had sunk into his bones. His thoughts slipped to his name, but they quickly snapped back as a boney hand found the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric tight. He was sure of one thing.

The Splatter Man was preparing for the kill.

The thought ended nearly the moment the hand lifted, hoisting him easily into the air.  He gagged, choked on blood and agony, and looked down at The Splatter Man, panic seeping in and turning everything icy. He was aloft, feet not touching the ground.

Fear crept along his spine. A fear he’d only felt once before.

It made him sick.

He could hear the way a smugness threaded the chuckle of the Splatter Man. He watched, limp in his hold as his free hand twisted, and a dagger formed, hilt curled perfectly to his hand. The gemstones along the hilt glittered with the green light, and the runes also etched almost seemed to glow in their reflections.

He realized what the intention was, when the dagger raised back with the hand.

It came forward at an unnatural speed, piercing his chest over his heart so hard he felt sure he was about to cave inwards. He screamed, screamed as he felt like he was being torn asunder, screaming louder than he thought himself capable. Blood seeped around the blade and it ripped another cry from hi as the dagger twisted, cutting deeper, opening the wound ever further. His chest was on fire and his voice gave out as his scream reached a climax, even his own ears ringing with the sound. The tendrils of corruption magic began to ebb towards the new wound, and he felt slithering along his clothing, before seeing the snakes he’d only heard and felt. They also pressed against the bleeding wound in his chest, and a sound escaped as it seared, the curls of his shirt at the edge of the blade blackening from the heat.

“Ah, you have some fight in you. Good, I will need that… You will free me from this purgatory. This prison. And I shall reclaim my throne… The death left in my wake will be unlike anything this world has ever seen, and you will help me, boy. Your essence will be mine.”

The torture burning him turned to lava, melting through the wound and his veins and then melting down to the organs and viscera. The sounds he thought he would make were gone now, rendered to silent convulsions. He could hear something, and he swore it was his soul, creaking and shuddering as agony struck blows that threatened to crack it in pieces.

But he grit his teeth, jaw squaring, and a snarl crept along his face. He couldn’t end here. Not when…. Someone needed him. Someone….Vivi.

Vivi.

VIVI.

VIVI! HE HAD TO PROTECT HER!

HE HAD TO PROTECT ALL OF HIS FRIENDS!!

A second wind surged through him, his heart beating fast and wild as his eyes widened. Gold light reflected off the bone in front of him from them. The skeleton paused.

“NO! I SAID. THAT. I. REFUSE!!”

His fingers stiffened on one hand that he reared back with, and then he jammed it forward, letting them force their way through the bones of the Splatter Man. His fingers searched blind, until he felt something. It felt rotted, soft and dry like the withered husk of a jack-o-lantern left out far past Halloween, and his fingers squeezed it to his palm.

The Splatter Man flinched as he did, yelling himself, and then howling as his flames returned, glowing violet inside the skeleton’s chest and hungrily eating at the thing left in his hand.

The Splatter Man summoned things, things that snapped at his body and slashed at his skin. Magic that pounded against him with bruising, bone breaking force. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t falter. His eyes stayed focused on his task, and his hands stayed tight around that heart as the flames began to grow and eat. He held on, determined with every fiber of his being, fighting tooth and nail for every inch over what felt like eternity locked together.

But inch by inch he gained traction, pushed further. The Splatter man’s eyes widened, a grimace taking it and a trickle of fear seemed to stitch itself to the edges of his expression. He could hear it in his voice, the slightest way it quavered even with his anger.

“What the hell are you doing?! You will destroy us BOTH YOU FOOL! What is keeping you from giving up the ghost?!”

He ignored him, hissing in his fury like a skillet of oil. His fire crackled and popped within the other, and he grabbed the Splatter Man’s wrist with the hand not in his chest, holding tight. His voice was a battle cry.

“Because I have REASONS TO COME BACK! I will use YOU!”

His hand on that rest continued to move, shooting forwards at lightning speed. He dug his fingers into the bone of the skull in front of him, grip crushing and bones creaking at the sutures. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he held on, and pulled at the energy of the Splatter Man.

The Splatter Man seemed to realize what was trying to do nearly the moment he started, and he tried to pull back, retreat with fervor. The blade in Lewis’s chest came out, spraying them both with red so red it was black and bright red from the arteries and purple that glowed. It all saturated their clothing until they dripped with his blood. But he didn’t falter. Didn’t once blink.

Well. Lewis didn’t falter. He probably would have.

The Splatter Man screeched.

“Release me!”

“Never.”

The fire in the Splatter Man’s was glowing brighter, white hot as it lashing out in heated waves like solar flares. The skeleton screeched, something high pitched and bone grinding, and he just leaned closer feeling vitality running through him, strengthening him.

He screamed one last time, and then his skull gave way beneath Lewis’s other hand, crumpling inwards like dried paper beneath a vise grip.

Purple and green light flashed, and Lewis fell the short drop to his feet, and then his knees. He panted for breath, clutching his chest, but watched with a sense of satisfaction as the skeleton crumbled, falling to pieces on the earth in front of him, a hallowed husk.

But with that power came a price, and he could see it seeping into the tips of his fiery hair, that curved just over his eyes. What had been pale shades of embery pink was now shifted, flickering green. Thoughts were flicking through his head over what the Splatter Man had meant and triumph at defeating him, even if he was exhausted by the effort. He could feel the power now, pulsing through himself.

Clambering to his feet, he rubbed at his face, before looking up, and seeing the same emblem that had adorned the skull of The Splatter Man, hovering in the air. It still glowed as it seemed to hum, before it arced forward, making him jump. It slammed against his forehead and he screamed as it burned, melting, burning through his flesh and then further into the bone of his skull and just a little further still until the imprint was etched into him, unmistakable for what it was. It continued to burn and burn and tear at him and—

Arthur woke up screaming, hand going to his forehead and chest where blood had started streaming down the side of his face and torso, down along his side where he was still pressed into the grass. His fingers turned slick as he held them against his forehead and shirt and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking so hard he convulsed where he lay.

He couldn’t die. But at this point he almost wished he could.

[peteywillproceed]

Stitch Me Back Together

A/N: Ahhhhhhh! I had so much fun writing this one! It’s not at all edited because I wrote it as a distraction from some shitty things at the moment and it 100% worked! I hope you love this as much as I do x

Summary: You’ve known Peter Parker for as long as you can remember, and for the past few years you’ve been fixing him up after his patrol nights. But it only takes one thing, one word, to change everything you believed about your relationship.

Word Count: 3,303

You groaned into your Chemistry work, wanting nothing more than to slam your head against the desk and throw the damned thing out the window. Shapes and equations swam through your vision, seeming to lift off the page and crawl through your brain the more tired you got. You knew the sensible thing would have been to call it a night, but that stupid, unreasonable side of your brain kept insisting you finish it tonight. God, you needed a distraction.

As if on cue, your phone pinged, lighting up with the familiar head of curly brown hair, his mask half off as he reached in protest for your camera. You remembered that day, when he’d slipped through your window after one of his first patrol nights, and you’d begged him to let you take a photo, just for you to know the truth. As if you could forget your best friend was Spiderman.

“Hey, Parker,” you grinned against the phone “what’s new?”

“Hey, listen, um…are you still awake?” he sounded breathless, wind blowing into the speaker like he was running. You were suddenly bolt upright, ignoring his stupid question, all your tiredness gone as you gripped the phone with renewed panic.

“Yeah, of course I am. Please tell me you’re alright.” Your heart was pounding against your chest and you barely noticed your pen had clattered to the floor, the ink spilling over your floor.

“I think I am,” he said, almost making you choke.

“Peter Parker, you better give me a damned sight better answer than that!”

“Alright alright fine! My arm’s pretty shredded, can you fix me up? Aunt May will kill me if I go back looking like this.”

You sighed into the phone, abandoning your work for the night and collapsing on your bed. It was always the same with Peter; go out and fight some weird ass bad guy, get hurt, come crying to you. Well, alright, you’d never seen him crying about it, but for Christ’s sakes he really needed to tell his aunt about this. You’d been the fall guy enough times, and it was starting to grind on your last nerve. Friendship be damned.

“You know where I am,” you mumbled into the phone, and with a brief ‘thanks’, the line went dead, leaving you staring up at your ceiling.

It wasn’t that you hated stitching Peter up, it was that you hated having to do it in the first place. You admitted that would make no sense to any normal person, but in your mind you understood why he was doing what he was doing. He’d told you enough times about the responsibility he felt with his abilities. You’d always accepted he had to do it, you’d just never signed up to bearing the fall out from when it inevitably got him hurt.

The first few times he’d done it, you hadn’t even questioned it, grabbing a needle and stitching him back together, ignoring the new profanities he’d let slip. But now, at 2am, you were really wondering whether watching your best friend get hurt and not being able to do anything about it was worth it, because it wasn’t just him getting hurt at this point.

You didn’t know when your feelings towards Peter had changed, but they definitely had at some point. Maybe it was senior year, when he’d saved you from falling off a building, or maybe it was back before all this Spiderman crap, right back in middle school when he’d held your hand in the school play. Either way, the fact you still hadn’t figured it out and you were in college said enough about your brain, and you weren’t sure you would ever be in the right head space to fix it.

Suddenly, a light tap on the window dragged you from your thoughts, and you looked up to the familiar sight of the red and blue suit, the mask clutched in one hand whilst the other was grasping his bicep. Without hesitating, you threw open the window and let him in, staring in horror at the blood trickling down his suit.

“Peter!” You exclaimed, grabbing his arm in shock “What the hell happened?”

“Can you be careful?” he winced, almost jerking away.

“Sorry,” you shook your head, too dumbfounded to say anything. This was bad, much worse than it usually was – he had a long, deep gash running the length of his arm. It had torn open the suit and the blood was falling faster than you could catch it, staining your wooden floors with a deep scarlet.

At last, you met his eye and bit your lip. “Pete, you need the hospital. I can’t do anything.”

“No!” he almost shouted, his eyes becoming pleading. “Please, Y/n, if I end up in the hospital they’ll need to know how it happened and how the hell can I explain that? And all the tests they run? They’d figure out who I am in no time!”

“Pete, this is really really deep.” You were training to be a doctor, you knew these things – you could see the fat underneath for God’s sakes!

“Please? I know you can do it,” he was basically begging now, and you could feel your resolve start to cave.

“You’ll be the death of me Parker,” you rolled your eyes, ignoring the palpable relief in his face and starting to root in your cupboard for your suture kit.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah save that grovelling. If I lose my license because of this, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Good thing you’re not an actual doctor then,” he joked, and you threw him a withering look.

“Seriously, Parker you’re not making this any better for yourself!” You raised an eyebrow and he only grinned, watching your face as you threaded the needle.

“You’ve gotta be an expert at stitching me up by now, though.”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured non-committedly. It was true, you could absolutely have done this blindfolded with your hands tied behind your back at this point. You were so used to what his skin felt like, the little pock marks and endless scars you’d helped to heal; you could practically have drawn a map of every inch of his body if you really had to, although the thought was enough to send shivers through your mind. You really didn’t need to think about him naked right now.

“It’s true,” he continued, wriggling out of the suit “it’s like you’re my own personal medical advisor.”

You scoffed, sanitising the needle and pushing the two edges of the skin together. You bit your lip, about to open your mouth to remind him it would hurt, but you’d done it so often that he was just looking at you with quiet understanding, so you plunged in. You felt him tense every time the needle pierced the skin, and you worked as quietly as you could, so you didn’t have to keep causing him pain.

“Jesus, Parker, you could’ve tried not to cut all your arteries on the way!” your eyebrows shot into your hairline, knowing full well that without his super healing, he would’ve been dead hours ago.

“Sorry, sorry,” he held his hands up, laughing as you slapped them back down. “You’re feisty tonight, what’s got you in a mood?”

You shook your head, not wanting to get into your frustrations, but cool fingers resting against your temple made you freeze and look up to meet his gaze. He was concerned, looking at you like you might run away at any moment, and you cursed yourself for being so obvious. Peter Parker had known you since you were two – of course he’d know something was up.

“Seriously, Y/n, what’s wrong?”

You bit your lip, holding back a sigh as you wiped over your progress with a sterile wipe. Thank god for first aid kits. “It’s nothing, honestly.”

“Well it’s something,” Peter countered, still staring at you. When you didn’t offer him anything, he looked mock offended. “C’mon, I’m your best friend – I’ve seen you eat your bogeys. The least you could do to repay me is tell me what’s up.”

“Fine,” you snapped, and it wasn’t just Peter who was surprised at your tone. “You wanna know what’s up? I hate having to stitch you up, I hate having to make sure you’re okay, always petrified every night you’re gonna come crawling back here and this time it won’t just be a few stitches. It terrifies me, the thought you’re out there, getting hurt, and nobody but me knows about it!”

You were breathing hard, balling your hands into fists anxiously. The point of the needle dug into your palm, and you felt a little bead of blood trickle across your palm. But you barely registered the pain, still staring at Peter’s stunned face.

“Well I never asked you to stitch me up…” he said slowly, looking stricken, and you nearly rolled your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t get it.

“That’s not my point, Parker. It’s just one night I might not be able to help you, and I might have to watch my best friend bleed out in my arms. Then what do I tell people? Oh yeah, he just died in my room, totally normal!”

“Woah, Y/n, what the hell’s gotten into you? I thought you knew why I did this?” He was frowning, but his voice was barely a whisper, and your heart hurt at the thought of the daggers you were driving through him right now. But he’d pushed it, you’d been willing to leave it alone, and now the frustration that had been slowly building these past few years was flooding out, and the dam had broken.

“Pete, you’re not getting it! What if it were me, huh? Coming back to you at god knows what hour, cut up every night in some different way. Wouldn’t you be terrified for me? Wondering what was happening? Constantly paranoid you were dead in some alley?”

It wasn’t even about you loving him that way anymore, it was about the fact that you loved him period. The very thought that your best friend was in harms way constantly drove knives through your heart, and some days you could barely function, too worried about where he was to concentrate on your work. That was no way to live, but what was the alternative? Peter didn’t have anyone to stitch him back up? That thought was too horrible to think about.

Realisation slowly seeped into his face, and he drew in a deep breath. You could see his mouth working, trying to form some kind of explanation, but you’d known him too long to be fooled by the pretence. His face crumpled, and he raced towards you, still mostly naked, engulfing you in a massive hug. His head was buried in the crook of your neck, but your arms went around him almost automatically, surprise rocketing through you as you felt him heave against your chest.

“I’m so so sorry,” he mumbled, your t-shirt suddenly getting damp. “I didn’t realise how much I’d put on you.”

“That’s…okay,” you replied, frazzled. You hadn’t expected an apology, and you certainly hadn’t expected this. Not from Peter, not when it was something so…trivial. Something else was up, and it had to be something bad. “Parker, this isn’t you to break down over something like this. What else is going on?”

He shook his head and buried himself further into your neck, the sobs getting louder. Your heart was beating faster, suddenly more afraid at what was lying underneath than this surface issue. Whatever it was, it was dark and dangerous – Peter never cried. Not since his Uncle. Not since Tony.

“Seriously, Pete, you’re scaring me,” you gently pushed him away from your shoulder and looked at him. Really looked at him. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair was all out of sorts and his cheeks were hollow. Was he eating enough? Now that you thought about it, he was much skinnier than when you’d started college earlier this year, and he felt completely brittle; like something was broken, and he couldn’t fix it.

“There’s nothing you can do, I’m being stupid. ‘m sorry,” he mumbled, wiping his tears roughly. He reached for his suit, clearly determined to leave, but you pried it gently from his trembling hands and grabbed one of his old shirts he’d left here ages ago instead. Once he was no longer in just his boxers, you covered his hands in yours and guided him to the bed.

“It’s not stupid, and you don’t know I can’t do anything. Don’t underestimate me, Parker,” you smirked, trying to draw a laugh out of him. To your relief, a small smile cracked his features, only to be wiped away as soon as he met your gaze.

“It’s not something anyone can fix, I think.”

His sadness broke you, snapped your heart in two like it was just a rotten twig. You almost wanted to cry yourself; your best friend had clearly gotten himself into a state these past few months, and you wanted to kill whoever had caused it.

“Is it the Beck? Is he back?” you hated saying that name, hated the way Peter’s muscles tensed up at just a few syllables. He’d nearly lost everything because of that ma, it was only you, MJ and Ned that had stopped that. It wasn’t fair he’d nearly lost everything because of some vindictive, evil bastard.

“No, not Beck. It’s not anyone like that,” he choked out.

“Okay, so is it MJ? Did she break up with you?” You doubted it, thinking at least one of your friends would have mentioned it, but when his chokes got louder and his body started spasming you knew you’d hit the nail on the head. You tried to hold back your surprise, gathering him deeper into your arms, rocking him slowly back and forth.

“It was two months ago, just before we left for college,” he admitted, and now the tears were starting to dampen your jeans and you were feeling incredibly guilty for yelling at him. “She said I wasn’t emotionally invested in the relationship.”

“What?” you jumped in shock, mentally making a note to remind yourself to call MJ at some point “that’s horse shit!”

Peter didn’t say anything immediately, and the silence was deafening. “Well, she wasn’t wrong,” he murmured at last, and your mind boggled at the thought.

“Pete, you were madly in love with the girl! You’ve liked her for years!”

He slowly sat up, hands lacing with yours. It was a weird gesture, and your eyes snapped down to your fingers, hating the shivers that raced through your arm. “I did like her. But I never loved her, Y/n.”

“But you told her you did,” you said slowly, well aware you were probably not making things any better. But God, why hadn’t he told you? He was supposed to be your best friend, and you knew this was painful for him. You were surprised he hadn’t broken before now. You just wished you could’ve been there for him from the start.

“And that was the problem,” he shook his head, tears slowly drying. “I said I did, but I didn’t.”

“Oh Pete,” you pursed your lips, cupping his cheeks. “Why did you never say anything?”

“Because,” he swallowed, suddenly staring intently at his lap “how do you tell the girl you’re actually in love with that your girlfriend broke up with you so you could be with her?”

You could’ve sworn you’d misheard him, but how could you? He was staring at you, eyes filled with both hope and crushing sadness. You could barely breathe, feeling your chest tighten, not sure what to say next. You’d imagined him saying this for years, but this was not the way you pictured it. You’d never wanted him in tears, practically at breaking point, telling you something he seemed ashamed of. It made you almost wish he hadn’t said it, you didn’t want his feelings for you to be something he thought was dirty.

But then, you realised, this had nothing to do with you.

Peter hadn’t known where he was going for years. You’d always known it, you’d just never wanted to admit it. If you were honest with yourself, you’d seen that it wasn’t right with MJ – he talked about loving her, but he’d never proved it. Never gone out of his way for her more than a friend might have done. Never made it glaringly obvious that she was his one and only. If you had been an outsider looking in, you would’ve guessed he was with you. That was the truth of it, and suddenly you understood why he seemed ashamed of how he felt.

“God, this is a mess,” you covered your face with your hands, barely wanting to look at him. “That wasn’t how I pictured that going.”

“Me neither,” Peter laughed, and you almost giggled yourself. It was a stupid, overwhelming situation, and you just needed some space to breathe.

Finally, you dragged your gaze up to meet his, determined to make him see how you felt. “I’m in love with you, Peter Parker, and this was so not the way I wanted to tell you. But tonight has been so heavy, and all I really want to do is crawl into bed and never get out of it again. It’s 2am, and I’m exhausted, so I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

Peter looked as numb as you felt, his mouth falling open in shock at your words. You knew he was having trouble processing what he’d just heard because he was moving his mouth like a fish again, and this time you did giggle. “No need to look so stunned.”

“Sorry. It’s just…it’s just I built this all up in my head that you’d crush me and tell me there was no way you’d ever think of me like that. And MJ was my escape from that. I figured if I could forget how I felt, then I didn’t ever need to jeopardise us, ruin what we had.”

You nodded, but the tiredness was overwhelming by this point, and the bed behind Peter’s head was looking so tempting. “I think maybe we need to sleep on this. I can’t think straight with everything that’s happened tonight.”

“I think you’re right,” he eyed the bed too, turning to meet your gaze at the same time as you turned to look at him. An unspoken question passed between you, like it had a thousand times before, but this time it was different. This time it was charged with a million different meanings, and although you never said it aloud, there was a nagging feeling in your stomach that nothing would be the same again.

But maybe that was okay, you thought as you climbed into bed, Peter’s soft form curling around yours like you’d always done at your weekly sleepovers as kids. Maybe things changing was for the best, maybe there was nothing to regret about it. You smiled as Peter’s soft snores immediately began echoing throughout the room, and you gently turned to face him.

He had a serene smile on his face that you hadn’t seen in months, and, whatever had caused it, you were pleased it was back. He looked so peaceful like that, so safe and warm. As you turned back to face the wall and snuggled further into him, you couldn’t wait for the morning. Peter had come here to get you to stitch him back together tonight, just like he had every other night you could remember.

Except tonight, there’d been one difference – he’d stitched you back together, too.

Taglist:

@zabdisamor @jinxfanfics @jillanaholland

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: In My Life

Sara Lance said goodbye to Leonard Snart nearly two years ago, before he sacrificed himself for his Earth-X self's future.

But goodbyes aren't always forever. And love doesn't always hurt. And, sometimes, even a crook and an assassin can get a happy ending.

*

This is for @larielromeniel​. <3

It's a sequel to "Did You Lose What Won't Return," and I highly suggest reading that first. We've planned a follow-up for a while, but life got in the way. (Who knows? There still might be more to come!) That story, I know, broke a lot of people’s hearts. I promise you, though, there’s nothing but happy CC endings (and beginnings) here. ;)

Many thanks to Pir8grl!

Read “Did You Lose What Won’t Return” here on AO3.

Read “In My Life” here on AO3.

*

Though I know I'll never lose affection For people and things that went before I know I'll often stop and think about them In my life, I'll love you more

-- “In My Life,” the Beatles

*

The Waverider looks the same.

Leonard stands there, in the empty lot the ship is parked in, and stares at it. It doesn’t seem like it should look the same. Nothing…nothing else is the same, after all. He self-consciously rubs his right hand up and down his left arm, noting that it, also, feels the same.

But it’s not.

“What’s the hold up, mate?” Leonard jerks forward as the trench-coated Brit pokes him in the shoulder, smirking as he turns to glare. “You’ve been gone a while, I get that, but I’d think you’d be running on board, not standing here staring.” The smirk modulates into a leer. “She’s on there, you know. Only one right now, with everyone else off on shore leave. You’ll have lots of privacy.”

He vaguely—very vaguely—remembers the man from before. From that interlude they tell him, now, was nearly two years ago. The span of hours his consciousness—his soul, they say—had surfaced, separate from the man called Leo.

The man who is now in possession of his…their…body, while Leonard…

He catches himself rubbing his arms again. Stops.

“She’s not expecting…me,” he mutters. “You really…you should have warned her.”

Those words do make the man—John Constantine—pause, an odd expression flitting over his face.

“Maybe,” he acknowledges, after a moment. “Maybe. But you heard Leo. Once the experiment worked…well, there was no good reason for waiting around and lots of reasons not to. Don’t you want to go home?”

Home. Leonard stares at the Waverider again, feeling totally at sea.

The man besides him sighs.

“Go on, mate,” he says, a little more gently. “Tear off the bandage. I remember how you kissed her, back when…well. You’ve got a second chance now. Take it, right?”

Leonard doesn’t move. “You said, though…there was someone…”

Constantine eyes him, pulling a cigarette out of nowhere and passing it back and forth between his hands.

“For Sara?” he says finally. “Yeah. After you…Leo…left. But that’s done now.” He winces a little. “Didn’t end well, really.”

It hurts. Of course, he didn’t want Sara to sit around pining, but… “So, what?” Leonard asks, knowing his voice is harsh. “I’m the consolation prize now?”

That gets a scowl. “Look,” the warlock says tersely, pointing the cig at him. “What and who you are now…it wasn’t without risk. To me, to…my counterpart…to Leo himself. A lot of people worked on this. You gonna throw it away? That’s up to you. But I think you owe it to all of us…and to yourself…to go talk to the woman on this ship. She deserves to know you’re back.”

“Kind of,” Leonard mutters despite himself, making a fist. Feeling the lack of scars on his palm.

“Kind of,” Constantine acknowledges. “In all the ways that matter, mate.” He sticks the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and shakes his head. “Well. Good luck. I’ll be back with the others in a few days. See you then.” He shrugs. “Or not.”

Despite how disconcerted Leonard is, and how irritating he finds the other man capable of being…well, he also didn’t think he’d be walking back on board this ship alone. “You’re not…”

Another flash of sympathy. “Mate, I think this is the kinda thing you need to do yourself.”

*

It’s not much of a surprise, really, that Leonard’s back on the Waverider only a moment when he hears a familiar voice lift to greet him.

“Mr. Snart,” Gideon says quietly, as he stops. “Leonard. Welcome back.”

He can’t help himself. “Is it back?” he asks her, knowing there’s a little bitterness there. “Really?”

The AI is quiet so long that he nearly starts walking again. But when Gideon speaks again, there’s enough irritation in her tone that Leonard’s taken aback.

“You ask me that, Mr. Snart?” she asks. “Me? Truly? Whether it is your…your shell…that matters or the spirit or soul inside? You know better than that.”

When she puts it like that… “I didn’t think of it that way,” Leonard admits, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. “It’s just…”

Gideon capitulates, tone gentling again. “…odd, I’m sure,” she acknowledges. “Especially as, yet again, you didn’t think you’d ever be returning here.”

“No. I didn’t.” They share a moment of quiet before the AI sighs.

“Captain Lance is in her office, Mr. Snart,” she tells him. “I have warned her there is a…a visitor…on the ship. What sort of visitor, well…”

“That’s up to me. Right.”

*

Gideon, having informed Sara that she has a visitor onboard, promptly refuses to say any more, other than that the person is not a security risk. Sara, irritated, nearly gets up to go investigate anyway, but eventually decides in a fit of pique that on the AI’s head (so to speak) be it. She stays in the office, going through Rip’s old papers, trying to decide which can be safely put in storage, which to digitalize, and which to keep in the file cabinets.

So, when there’s a hesitant step at the door, it takes her a moment to even glance up. Since they’re in Central City, it’s probably just a member of Team Flash. Maybe Iris, or Caitlin. Mick or Ray could have told them where the Waverider was parked.

Just about the last thing she expects to see is the tall, lean shape that pauses just inside the office, backlit just a little because Sara has the lights low, facing her but coming no farther.

Even now, her heart gives a single, painful “thump” at the sight, but her heart, Sara knows, is a liar. Leonard is gone, giving up his second chance so that Leo could live on with his Ray and his Freedom Fighters on Earth-X. He’s gone. And he won’t be back. She’s had nearly two years to come to grips with that, not to mention the time before that. After the Oculus.

“Leo?” she asks after a second, having hastily gathered up all those feelings and shoved them back in the mental box she keeps them in. “Are you OK? Is Ray…?”

The figure takes a step forward, and Sara gets to her feet, allowing one of her knives to slide from her sleeve into her hand. Sure, Gideon had said this…this person is OK, but Leo would have simply sauntered in, smiling at her, by now. And she remembers all too well the Legion Leonard who’d thrown things into such turmoil.

“Leo?” she asks again, tone tight. “Say something. What’s going on?”

Another step. And Sara blinks, as the figure’s face and eyes suddenly become more visible, as is the intent expression directed at her.

“Sara,” he says, voice low and uncertain. “I…”

The words trail off, but Sara is suddenly just as sure as she’d been back during the institution incident.

She’s looking at Leonard Snart, the one and only Earth-1 original.

*

Leonard, in the month or so he’s been “back,” has become quite steady on his feet. Certainly, they wouldn’t have let him go if he’d been as wobbly as he’d been at first.

But now, having subsided into a chair in the captain’s office…Sara’s office…on the Waverider, he feels every bit as shaky as he had when he’d first woken up in a new body, there on Earth-X, staring up at a face that was the twin to his own.

That was his own.

Sara, having made sure he’s steady enough in the chair, brings him a glass of water, but he doesn’t miss just how white her knuckles are as she hands it to him, nor how still her expression is. She sits down across from him, still silent, and watches as he takes a drink.

Leonard sighs. “I told them someone should warn you,” he says, staring down into the glass. “I know things were…”

Sara stirs, then. “Who’s ‘them?’” she interrupts, not without a thread of uncertainty.

“Leo,” Leonard informs her promptly. “Ray…his Ray. The Ray. That Constantine guy. The magician from Earth-X.” He glances upward. “And I’m told Gideon was in on it too.”

Sara follows his glance, but her expression is…well, murderous. Gideon must agree, to some extent, because she speaks up promptly, sounding a touch unsettled.

“Not…quite,” she says carefully. “I replicated and sent along some technology native to the Waverider, at Leo Snart’s request. He’d contacted Mr. Constantine and Mr. Rory,” she adds hastily at Sara’s continued silence. “And Mr. Constantine took it over with him on a visit. Neither I nor Mr. Rory know what became of the request.”

“Mick was in on it?” Leonard asks in surprise.

“Again, to some extent. He knew that Leo…”

But Sara holds up a hand then. “Just…before anything else,” she says, carefully looking elsewhere before letting her eyes dart over to Leonard. “I need…is it you? The real…”

She stops. Leonard hesitates. Is it? he thinks. Is it really him? But Gideon’s words from before stand, and he nods, meeting Sara’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

*

“How?!”

Sara just can’t help it. The single word explodes out of her, as she sits there and stares at this Leonard, who looks just the same and still somehow not, though she can’t put her finger on precisely how.

And this Leonard gives her a rueful smile. He puts down the water glass and puts his hands down on her desk, palms down, long fingers splayed, and stares at them.

“I’m...a clone, I guess you’d say,” he murmurs. “Product of Waverider tech and the Earth-X tech that helped create Red Tornado.” He glances up at her, eyes cautious. “And then...well, Constantine and their Zatanna went about, well, banging on doors in Leo’s head until they...woke me up. And they...shoved me in here.”

“He’s asleep,” Sara remembers Leo saying, all that time ago, after John had put Leonard’s reawakened soul back into hibernation inside their shared body. Leonard’s choice, that had been, well and truly, a sacrifice for his other self, but not without regrets...

“They didn’t ask?” she blurts out, thinking suddenly of how it’d felt to be pulled out of...wherever she’d been, after she’d died, and thrust back into a repaired body. “Are you OK?”

Leonard blinks and then looks...well, he looks gratified. Like no one else had asked that, expecting him to simply be grateful for all the trouble they’d gone through, grateful to be back. And to be honest, there are few people who get the other side of that better than Sara.

After a moment, he shrugs. “I’m...all right,” he says, watching her carefully. “They did ask, sort of, but I wasn’t very...coherent, at that point. And once they mentioned...”

He stops short, and Sara wonders...but only briefly, because he starts speaking again, glancing down at his hands. “I’m still getting used to it. Most of the muscle memory...it’s gone, and so are the scars.” His hands close into loose fists, and he turns them from side to side before looking back up at her.

“I’m younger,” Leonard admits. “Now. Physically, anyway. Closer to you. Lots of the damage taken over the years, it’s gone too."

And that’s good, that’s great, but...Sara nods, slowly. “But it was your damage,” she says, meeting his eyes. “And it’s weird without it.”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and for the first time, she sees him really relax, at least a little. “Shoulda known you’d get it.”

“You know I do, crook.” The nickname slips out before she can stop it, and Sara glances away, clearing her throat. “Why didn’t someone come with you?” she manages. “Help explain all this? That’s not much like Leo, honestly.”

Leonard makes a thoughtful noise. “He wanted to,” he admits. “But there was a bit of an uprising, some remnants of the Reich, I’m told. Leo said to assure you that they’ve got it, but they wanted me safely out of it for now.” His expression darkens. “Especially after they...put a lot of...work into me.”

Sara stares at him. “Leo didn’t say that.” It’s not a question, but... “Did he?”

He seems to shake himself, giving her another of those rueful smiles. “No. I guess I just...felt like a liability instead of a help, to them. Didn’t like it much.” He shrugs. “Your...Constantine came with me. From Earth-X. But he seemed to think I needed to do this myself.”

Sara snorts, an expression of exasperation that she knows she uses a lot when it comes to John. “Of course he did.”

They share a smirk, then, before apparently realizing yet again how awkward this all is. Leonard looks back down at his hands, and Sara looks too, realizing just how many tiny scars and lines have vanished.

“May I?” she murmurs, reaching out before she can stop herself.

After a breath, he nods, and Sara picks up his right hand gently, running her thumb across the palm, hearing his intake of breath. But it doesn’t seem to be an uncomfortable one, so she continues, gently stroking the long, nimble fingers, feeling the relative lack of callous and scar tissue.

Rebirth, she thinks. So like her own, in some ways. Another thing they have in common, now.

Eventually, Leonard clears his throat, and Sara glances up, realizing just how dark and intent his eyes are as they stare at her. Realizing she’s really, err, been making love to his hand, she drops it quickly, glancing away—and then gets up to cross the room again, pulling out two glasses and a bottle, one of the few remaining from Rip’s collection.

“Scotch?” she asks, staring down at the bottle, trying to calm her heart rate.

“Please.”

When Sara returns to the desk, she doesn’t bother sitting down behind it again. Instead, she hands Leonard his glass and then hooks another chair with her foot, pulling it over and near his own, taking that one. This time, when she sits down, they’re close, more on an even footing, knees almost brushing.

More than close enough to touch.

They both drink, and Sara hears him sigh again, though it seems to be a content sound. Blue eyes dart to hers over the top of his glass, and she sees that rueful smile again.

“I heard,” he murmurs. “About Rip. I’m sorry.”

Sara sighs. She holds her glass up then, in a clear toast, and he clinks his against it before they take another drink together, a tribute to the man who’d once owned the libation.

“He wasn’t perfect,” Sara says quietly, looking down into the amber liquid. “But...none of us are. And without him, we wouldn’t...well...I don’t know where I’d be.”

“Same.” Leonard takes another drink, glancing over at her. “Mick,” he says suddenly, and it’s not quite a non sequitur. “Mick’s OK?”

“He’s fine.” Sara smiles a little. “I think he’s off rambling around with Charlie right now. Charlie...now, she’s an interesting addition to the team. I...” She catches herself. “Well. There will be time. Later.” She looks over at Leonard, who looks slightly amused. More like himself, really, like the man she remembers and less like the unsettled and unsettling stranger who’d first appeared in the doorway.

Maybe that’s why she takes that particular plunge next.

“Well. So. Ah,” she says, carefully if somewhat nonsensically. “You remember...what do you remember?”

The blue eyes grow a little hooded as Leonard studies his scotch. Then he sighs.

“Everything,” he admits. “I think. At least from when I was...me. I remember my life, up to...to the Oculus.” He glances over at her, and Sara throttles back the memory of desperation and the realization of what was happening…what she couldn’t stop from happening. And a kiss.

“The Oculus,” Leonard repeats, still holding her gaze. Is it her imagination or did his eyes grow darker? “Then...waking up after the weirdest dream, and…seeing you.”

His voice trails off. And his eyes are definitely darker, warm and intent on her. And Sara remembers.

“You gonna make love to me, Leonard?" she’d murmured into his ear, running her fingers down his spine and feeling him sigh under her touch. "You better be a hell of a thief."

Oh. He remembers too, remembers their night together, the gift Leo had given them. Sara feels her face heat again, but she holds his gaze a long moment before clearing her throat. The office feels a little too warm, a bit too stuffy, and she remembers so very clearly the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands on her body, the way he’d said her name as…

Sara tosses back the remainder of her scotch, then drags in a deep breath. “I…” she starts hesitantly, gathering her courage—only to realize that Leonard’s looking away again. And when he looks back a moment later, his eyes that seem to have their walls up again, walls she hadn’t yet seen in this new version of him.

“Hey,” he says, looking away, voice quiet. “It’s OK. There’s no pressure. I get it; things have changed.” He closes his eyes as Sara blinks at him. “I can head into the city, look into getting some ID, maybe...”

But he shuts up as Sara, unwilling to let this confusion go another second—hey, she’s learned something in the past few years--snakes a hand behind his head, pulls him toward her, and kisses him. Hard.

It gets out of hand pretty much immediately, but they’re both OK with that.

*

By the time they come up for more than a breath of air, Sara is sitting in Leonard’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck, their foreheads still touching. Her shirt is completely unbuttoned, and the skirt she’d been wearing is rucked up around her waist. Leonard’s hands are, at the moment, still, high on her thighs…where his questing fingers had accidentally brushed against a (fortuitously sheathed) hidden knife, drawing a startled oath from him and a peal of laughter from Sara.

He’s still mostly clothed, though he’s pretty sure Sara has definite plans for remedying that. For the moment, though, they’re just breathing, watching each other, unwilling to let go but needing that momentary break for, well, oxygen purposes.

Leonard can’t deny a sense of gratitude that Sara hadn’t let him persist in what had, apparently, been quite a misconception. He pulls back just a little, far enough to look in her eyes, marveling.

“Oh,” he says, finding a real smirk for one of the first times since his…rebirth. “I guess you want me to stay?”

That gets another ripple of laughter. Sara closes her eyes, a slow smile spreading across her face before she opens them again.

“What was your first clue?” she teases back, but then shakes her head. “Why on Earth would you think I wanted you to leave?”

There’s a little pain in the question, and the last thing Leonard wants to do is exacerbate it. He hesitates a moment, then sighs.

“There was someone else,” he says finally, watching her. “For you. Constantine said so.” He takes a deep breath. “And I’m not...I’m not the same. It’s been a long time. And I haven’t been here. For you.”

It’s halting and not very eloquent, but Sara, he thinks, gets it. She nods slowly, still looking him in the eyes, but her hands holding him close don’t loosen at all. And when she speaks again, her words are just as thoughtful.

“There was,” Sara says quietly. “Someone. It didn’t work out. She...we wanted different things, ultimately.” She moves just a little, looking around at the room and the ship around them before glancing back at him. “The Waverider...it’s my home, Leonard. My home, my life, and my responsibility. It took me a little while to realize that, to know that I couldn’t be happy going back to a...a more normal life.”

There’s a question in the words, too, though maybe someone else wouldn’t have heard it. Leonard thinks about what Constantine had said before, studying him as he’d stared at the ship and tried to figure out what he was doing here.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

Maybe, he admits to himself, that smartass Brit is more perceptive than Leonard had given him credit for.

“Never had what I’d consider a normal life,” Leonard admits finally. “Don’t think I’d know what to do with one. But going back to...well, being the criminal king of Central City doesn’t have the same allure to it anymore, either.” He offers her a sly smile. “And I figure...maybe...that a team of troublemakers set on protecting the timeline might still need a hell of a thief.”

Sara’s answering smile makes his heart contract. “Definitely,” she whispers, shifting in a way that makes him catch his breath. “Very definitely. And someone who makes the captain...happy...is always a good idea.”

The room is warm. Very warm. Leonard clears his throat again, trying to clear his thoughts a little, moving his hands up and over her skirt and around to the small of her back.

“Happy, huh?” he murmurs, adjusting her a little and smirking at the sound she makes. “Just...happy?”

Sara’s eyes flicker closed. “Content,” she purrs. “Pleased. Satisfied.” Her eyes open a little, heavy-lidded in a way that makes Leonard lick his lips. “Euphoric.”

“Hmm. Hope I can live up to those lofty goals.” With barely a momentary tensing of muscles to warn her, Leonard stands, balancing Sara against him as she laughs and wraps her legs around his waist. “I think it just might be a good thing I’m a little younger now.”

Turning, he carries her to the doorway of the office, pausing only a moment before Sara steers him toward the captain’s quarters. While he’d once cased them for valuables during Rip’s tenure, that’d been a while ago—and Sara is doing her damnest to distract him now, kissing his jaw and neck as he tries to navigate.

“Younger, hmm?” she says playfully when he pauses. “Interesting. We should have some time, here…are you suggesting you might be up for a bit of a…marathon?”

Leonard’s startled into a chuckle. “Hey, you didn’t have any complaints about the older model before,” he objects, glancing over her shoulder as they approach the door.

Sara hums thoughtfully. Leonard looks down at her as she gently places a hand on the side of his face, noting the affection and emotion in her eyes along with a healthy helping of lust.

“I liked the older model,” she says quietly. “I like this one, too. Or perhaps I should say…I like the driver.”

Leonard carefully puts her down on her feet, there outside the door to her room, and sets his hands at her hips, feeling—just about for the first time--fully comfortable in this new body he’s inhabiting.

“So, you want to take me out for a test spin?” he asks suggestively, letting his hands drift a little south.

A smile tugs at Sara’s mouth. “I was thinking more like a lengthy road trip, perhaps.”

Leonard responds in the only way he can.

Gideon opens the door for them without comment.

*

At one point over the next few days, Sara asks Gideon to remind her when the time approaches for the team’s return. Just in case.

In all fairness, she figures, padding to the galley for a tray to take back to the room, she should be allowed to lose track of time for this, of all things. Right? It’s a miracle, really, Leonard’s return. And soon, she’s going to have to share him—in some ways, anyway. Not that that’s a bad thing—she can’t wait to see Mick’s reaction—but it’s still a thing.

To Sara’s great amusement, there’s already a tray waiting for her in the replicator when she arrives at the galley. She regards it a moment, studying the perfectly ripe strawberries, the chocolates, the cheese and sliced baguettes. There are even two glasses of what appears to be champagne, along with some glasses of spring water. The AI, it seems, might have a romantic streak.

“Thanks, Gideon,” she says, collecting it, turning to head back to the room. “Appreciate it.”

“You are welcome.” Gideon pauses, then says, tentatively “Are you…well, Captain Lance?’

Sara blinks, pausing. “Don’t I…seem well?”

“I keep an effort not to…listen in…on moments that should be private.” Gideon’s voice seems a little prim. “And frankly, that’s all there have been on this ship, lately.”

The laugh bubbles up before she can help it. “I suppose that’s true,” Sara admits, continuing on. “Yes, I’m well. And so is Leonard.” She can’t help the smile that lurks around her mouth then. “I think he just needs…refueling. And maybe a little rest.”

“As you say, Captain Lance.” Gideon’s tone is rather definitely amused now. “As a reminder, you have about 24 hours before the others return. Enjoy.”

“Oh, believe me. I intend to.”

*

They don’t get 24 hours, though. Later, Sara will figure it’s rather early the next morning when she hears voices in the hallways outside and Gideon’s resigned voice interrupting their sleep.

“Captain Lance,” she says regretfully. “You have visitors. And they seem to be…”

A familiar voice in the hall cuts in before she can finish. A very, very familiar voice.

“Captain Lance! Sara! Are you here?!”

Sara sits bolt upright, startled for a moment before the true identity of the voice’s owner gets through. Then she sighs, smiling a little, and reaches out to put a hand on the shoulder of the man who’s been sleeping besides her.

“Len,” she says quietly. “Wake up. I think someone wants to check on you.”

“Sara!” she hears again, worry clear in the tone.

A moment passes before her lover opens an eye. He doesn’t seem horribly enthused about the idea. “They had plenty of time to make sure all the parts worked before they sent me here,” he mutters after a moment. “What now?”

“I think we’ve had plenty of proof of that, too.” Snickering, Sara gets out of bed, reaching for a robe. “C’mon. I think we at least owe him some thanks and some reassurance, don’t you?”

Leonard growls, but he does follow her. Sara waits only a minute for him to grab a sheet and…arrange it…before she crosses the room and throws the door open.

Right in Leo Snart’s worried face.

“What?” she asks innocently, as he blinks at her. “Who on Earth are you looking for?”

Leo’s mouth drops open…and then, as Sara watches, he clearly sees Leonard approaching from behind her—presumably wearing nothing but his sheet.

“Yeah,” he says, just as innocently, reaching out to put a hand on Sara’s hip. “Who are you looking for?”

Leo’s mouth snaps shut. For once, he actually seems speechless.

Behind him, Ray Terrill closes his eyes, clearly trying to hold back laughter, and not very well. Opening them again, he nods in a friendly fashion to Leonard, who nods back.

“He was worried,” Terrill notes with amusement, glancing at his husband. “Things didn’t go at all the way he was planning. For once.”

Leonard shrugs. “Well, you know. Make the plan, execute the plan, expect the plan to go off the rails…”

His doppelganger recovers enough to glare at him, though amusement clearly shows through around the edges. “That’s an awful motto!” He shakes his head as Sara laughs, then gives Leonard a more even look.

“Ah,” he says with a sigh. “I see you made it here all right. As soon as we had things sorted, I meant to follow, but then we weren’t sure where you were…”

Sara eyes him. “You were worried?” She folds her arms. “I figured sending him off alone with John Constantine, of all people, was maybe a little…”

A voice rises again, then, from farther down the hall, and all four of the players in the little tableau roll their eyes.

“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” Constantine asks, strolling down the hall with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He spots and studies them all—especially Sara and Leonard in their state of dress, or lack thereof—and then smirks. “Ha.”

Leo sighs at him. “When I asked you to bring him to Earth-1,” he says, rubbing his face with a hand, “I meant to wait somewhere for us to help explain what was going on.” He points at the unrepentant warlock. “Not to abandon him here to fend for himself and then fuck off to a bar. But Zatanna said that’s precisely what you did.”

Sara decides she wants to know more about this Zatanna, but John merely grins around his cigarette.

“What’s all the fuss, anyway?” he asks, removing the cig and glancing around. “Clearly, things went…well.” He leers at Leonard, who looks evenly back, and then shrugs.

“They needed to deal with this on their own,” John continues in his world-weary tone. “The more people around, the more time they’d spend staring at each other and coming up with reasons why they shouldn’t just kiss and fall into bed.” He points at Sara. “Am I right?”

Sara opens her mouth. Closes it. And then sighs, thinking that John’s going to be even more insufferable for the foreseeable future. “Pretty much.”

Leo looks like he’d like to argue, but very obviously shakes it off. He gives John another piercing look, then glances back at Leonard and Sara. “Everything worked all right, I take it?”

He obviously means their relationship, but…Sara actually giggles as John guffaws next to her and Terrill sighs.

“Perfectly,” Leonard drawls back at him. There’s a light in his eyes as Sara glances up at him, and it gleams even brighter as he pulls her just a little closer to him. “I gotta say…thanks.”

Leo smiles in return, and while there’s something that makes them look more like, say, twins than the split souls (wow, that’s still a weird thought) they are, at that moment, the gleam is very much the same.

“Good,” he says softly. “Good.” He looks over at his Ray, smiling, then back. “You are so very welcome. Make the most of it, will you?”

Memory crashes in, suddenly, and Sara draws in a breath.

"This is a gift, Sara, the most precious gift I could ever have been given," she remembers that same voice saying. "And I swear to you I'll make the most of it."

And now, he’s given her, them, a precious gift in return.

Leonard may not remember that promise from before, but he’s not so unobservant as to be unaware of the undercurrent. “Promise,” he tells Leo in return, voice just as serious.

Sara eyes them a moment, then decides that’s enough seriousness for such an occasion. She looks back down at a (nonexistent) watch on her wrist, then back up at the men around her.

“Well, boys,” she says, in a bit of a drawl of her own. “We still have some time until the rest of my chaos crew gets back here. John notwithstanding.” She looks up, smirking at Leonard, as John makes a cheerfully obscene suggestion in the background. “Sorry, but I have more time to make the most of, right now.”

And with that, she grabs a handful of Leonard’s sheet in her hand, winking at them all before turning and hauling him back in the room with her. The door shuts behind them, and Leonard promptly turns her grip around on her, backing her against the bed while Sara laughs out loud.

He kisses her, then pulls back just a fraction, watching her, blue eyes dark. Different, but still so very much her crook.

“I love you, Sara Lance,” he murmurs.

Sara smiles up at him, as somewhere inside, something that’s been wounded and bleeding for years finally starts to heal. “And I love you too.”

[alydiarackham]

(Cover by me)

Curse-Maker: The Tale of Gwiddon Crow by Alydia Rackham

Prologue

               There is great freedom in darkness.

               I wrap it around me like clothing. I move without sound. And even if my boot treads upon a twig, and it snaps through the silence…

Mortal eyes can only strain to find its source, and then, to no avail. I am already gone.

               I walk through Winterly Wood amongst the ghosts of dead trees and the spirits that haunt the hanging branches. Moving as a wraith. My eyes see more keenly than any cat, my ears catch the slightest whisper. My skin tingles with each breath of dank air, my heart beats in time with the deep, ancient mutterings of the wood.

               In darkness, I perch amidst the arms of the tangled oak trees, watching like the mire owl, but invisible, though I loom just above the traveler’s head. I creep along the banks of the river, watching the threads of moonshine ripple against its languid surface, spying the drifting fishes amongst the reeds, yet I am never touched by the fingers of silver light that grope weakly down into the black.

               I spin webs of spells, like twinkling nets, whose edges set fool-fires and will-o-wisps that lead wayfarers to their deaths. I press my palm to the cold surface of the water, and henceforth anyone who touches the river will fall asleep and drown. I lay illusions upon the trees—illusions of dreadful fiends that horrify villagers into abandoning the path. I breathe out a blanket of fog to stifle the remnants of old elvish spells.

I snatch at the ranger’s legs and send him tumbling into the arms of the bramble thorns. I loose false cries of children to lead the woodsman to the mouth of the bog. I crush blue fairies with stones and put out their light. I ensnare the noisy white deer, send pale phantoms wailing up and down the roads to terrorize encroaching gypsies. I lie down amongst a fellowship of wolves.

I am never seen.

I am not bound by borders or the commands of any king; I am not enslaved any longer to chains and hammers and toil; I bear my own name. I wield my own weapons. I rely upon no one.  

I can breathe with all the depth in my lungs, and no one hears anything but the rustle of the leaves. I fly, and they shrink from the shadow of a raven. I run faster than wind, leaves swirling around my feet and the edges of my cape, the night air tearing through my wild hair—and they recoil from a banshee. I scale trees in an instant, then leap down onto horsemen like a nightmare—and throw them from the saddle. I ride frightened beasts down paths unknown by men, with the hands of a herald of Hel. I appear and disappear at will, with the suddenness of death.

               I am the darkness.

 Chapter One

                  On the night of a full moon in late autumn, I sat in the arms of a knotted wych elm, my back to the trunk, one leg bent, the other hanging easily off the thick branch. My black cape tumbled all around me, its edges fluttering like feathers touched by a breeze. I crossed my arms, gazing out to my left at the narrow road that passed beneath me and wound away into vanishment like a dead river. I listened.

               The young night air hung heavy with frost. Silver foxes slipped through the underbrush, disturbing the leaves of the greying ferns. I could hear their careful, clever feet padding across the fallen leaves. An owl passed like a winged reaper overhead, the cloak of his wings eclipsing the cold gaze of the moon.

               As I watched below me, the fog slowly rolled in, hiding the roots of the trees. Dew beaded on my fitted, leather travel clothes and on the long, tangled, mane-like lengths of my white hair. I reached up with both hands and wound a strand around my slender, pale fingers, studying the way the crackled moonlight caught my hair’s coal-black flecks and shining silvers. The way it cast shadows across the scars on my knuckles, the black rune tattoos on my thumbs. How it sparkled in the jet stone in the silver ring on my right hand.  

               I released the tangled end of my hair and tapped the symbols on my thumbs, absently muttering their meanings under my breath like a chant, first one hand, then the other.

               “Cuir, neartu, freimhe,” I hummed. “Nimh, betha, cothaigh. Cuir, neartu, freimhe; Nimh, betha, cothaigh…”

               Plant. Strengthen. Root.

               Poison. Feed. Keep.

               I tilted my face back to the interwoven maze of branches above me, smiling as they swayed in time to the rhythm of the wood—the rhythm I had memorized since childhood, even before I knew the words to the song. I tapped my toe, tilting my head side to side. I drew in a deep breath.

“Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks. Fair weather often turns to rain And wondrously it makes its switch.”

 A lively, wicked wind suddenly cut through the branches, whirling and swirling like a tattered gown, catching up leaves in its skirts. Night birds began to hoot and call in time with me, and deep, guttural, creaking grunts issued from the marrow of the trees.

“Therefore, man, you do bethink, But all shall fail, your fields of green!

 Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

 The cold wind cackled now, throwing the leaves toward the skies and ripping delightfully through my cape and hair. I rapped my fingernails against the bark, raising my voice as the tune slithered rapidly every which way through the forest.

“Alas, there's neither king nor queen, That shall not drink of death's drink!

Man, ere thou fall off thy bench, Thy sins thou shalt quench!

 Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks.

Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

 As I let the last note ring out, warming and vibrating through my whole body, the autumn wood and its creatures roiled and rattled with the full strength of their merry voices. I grinned, appreciatively slapping the trunk of the tree, feeling it chuckle down within its wood.  

               Then—

               A screech.

               Far off, yet not so far that I couldn’t feel the ripple of it strike me in the side of the neck.

               I leaped to my feet, standing freely balanced on the branch, holding onto nothing. My cape went still. I faced the east, not breathing, my gaze wide.

               A deep, single-noted hum traveled through the earth, as if something in the roots of the mountains had cracked. For a moment, I stood, studying the vibrations that passed up through the roots, the trunk, and into my boots.

               Then, I launched myself up the tree. With swift, sure steps and firm handholds, I maneuvered my lean body between the limbs and toward the height of the canopy. At last, my head broke through the leaves, and moonlight spilled over my hair. I grasped the rough branches, and peered toward the east.

               Winterly Wood stretched on in every direction, its impenetrable tangle rolling far, far away from me toward Rye Valley, which now lay shrouded in blackness.

               But there, at the very edge of my sight, I glimpsed birds that had taken flight. All along the entire forest wall, they flapped frantically upward, toward the mountains, away from the valley.

               I frowned hard, my left-hand fingers closing tighter around the branch.

               Then, I let go, perched precariously on a limb that could not hold my weight.

               “Eitil,” I muttered—and clapped my hands together.

               The limb gave way beneath me—but that instant, my cape flung all around me like a python, swallowed my frame, and crushed it.

               A moment of blinding pain snapped all my bones—

And then…

               I flung out my arms—and they were wings. Great, black wings.

My face had changed to shining black with a long, gleaming beak. My body had covered with sleek ebony feathers, my feet to wiry claws. I sprang straight into the air with a hoarse “caw!”, beating my wings as I climbed heavenward. I reeled in midair, switching direction, and hurtled down over the face of the forest, my feathers spread wide.

Leaves flittered just below my breast as I skimmed over the beeches, oaks and elms. I dodged bare, protruding twigs; I fleetingly scanned ahead of me for owls. Though none would challenge me—I was thrice the size of any other crow in Edel.

Ahead of me, rising suddenly like black knives from the heart of the wood, this portion of the Eisenzahn Mountain Strand stood like the walls of a giant fortress. Black pines covered their faces, cloaking the shimmering white stone of their bones. I glanced down, and glimpsed the Sopor River glittering like a seam of silver weaving through the immovable wood—leading straight for the Flumen Split: the narrow gap in the mountains that provided the only passage between Albain and the vast Thornbind Wood beyond.

Canting my head, I spied a narrow track below me, and a familiar fork in it. With a breath, I folded my wings and dove straight down.

The wind whistled through my feathers, the stars flashed around me—

I plunged into the shadow of the wood.

I pulled up, brought my wings out with a loud flap—

Shook myself, and threw off my cape.

               Another howl of pain split my body—and my booted feet struck the dry dirt of the path.

               Pulling in a swift, measured breath and gritting my teeth, I lifted my human head and straightened my human shoulders, never breaking stride as my cape turned back into a garment, and roiled behind my steps.

               I took another deep breath, smelling the smoke of a familiar hearth. In a few paces, I spied flickering torches standing at odd angles, lining the crooked path. My boots left prints in the frost.

               I finally approached the first set of torches: human skulls upon tall pikes, their gaping mouths seething with crackling flames, their eyes enlivened by brilliant sparks. The flame blackened the teeth of their sagging jaws, and glowed through the cracks in their crowns. The light threw stark shadows against the figures of the trees to either side, making them look like they moved. I strode between the leering pairs, tipping my head back and forth as I had since I was a girl, silently reciting the names I’d given them: Arseny and Afanasy, Vadim and Vasily, Bogdam and Boris, Ivan and Ilia, Pavel and Pyotr. I glanced ahead of me at the familiar cottage.

               The cottage of bones.

               Instead of beams and bars and thatch, the mistress of this house had built with the bones of kings who defied her, women who went back on their promises to her, children who had been traded for spells. But the front door and the lintel above had been constructed of very special skeletons indeed: the bones of all the Caldic Curse-Breakers—except one.  

               I finally arrived at the front door of the cottage. For a moment I stopped, glancing toward the window to my left.

               Flickering orange light peered through a ragged cloth that hung over most of the opening. Quiet music wafted out: music from a stringed instrument, plucked by careful fingers. It was a swaying, tilting sort of tune—like treading gleefully toward some sort of mischief. I snickered.

               I reached out and put my hand on the forehead of Aleric Blackthorn’s well-polished skull, and shoved.

               The ancient door creaked crankily as I stepped up into the cottage. I immediately dodged a mobile of fingerbones and a set of dangling glass balls. My footsteps went silent as they met the worn-out bearskins on the floor.

               The scent of burning tallow candles filled my lungs—a mountain of them, all dripping onto each other, stood upon the mantel in the far corner, lighting up all the herbs, spices, bones, and trinkets hanging from that section of the ceiling.

I maneuvered around the towers of dusty books and locked trunks, aiming for the beaten armchair that sat near the fire—its legs so stacked with tattered papers and odds and ends that it looked as if it had grown out of the floor.

Enfolded in the arms of the chair sat a very old woman, wearing rags. Only if I peered closely—which I often had—could I detect the threads of gold and silver woven into her garments, and the faded silk patterns of flowers: patterns sewn by the finest weavers and tailors in Izborsk.

Hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

A scarf that had once been maroon bound around the top of her head, and her feathery white hair stuck out from beneath it. She had a face of leather, riddled with wrinkles; the end of her long, hooked nose nearly touching her protruding chin. In her lap she held the stringed instrument, a triangle-shaped balalaika, and her bony hands plucked the strings of the melancholy, mischievous melody that filled the house. The firelight bathed her gently-swaying form in rich light, and for a moment—as I always did when I first came inside—I felt like I was gazing back into the shadows of a lost world.

I paused, but she’d caught my movement. Her glinting silvery eyes found me, and narrowed as a low, sly smile carved her wrinkles even deeper.

“Crow,” she creaked, still playing at the strings with her skillful fingertips.

“Babushka,” I nodded to her.

“You have something to tell me,” Gwiddon Baba Yaga—called “Babushka” only by me—noted, turning back toward the fire, and I watched as the flames danced across her iridescent eyes. Eyes that had seen so much—so much more than I could ever imagine…

“Yes,” I said. “I saw something.”

“Sit down, eat,” she nodded to a space in front of her.

I frowned, and leaned around a particularly tall pile of books…

To see that a small table set with a bowl of food, in front of my chair, steamed readily, as if it had just been laid out. I eyed her, and lifted an eyebrow.

“You were expecting me to come back early.”

“Da,” she hummed.

I sighed, stepped around the pile of books, peeled off my cape and flung it across the back of my chair, then sat heavily down. I tugged the table closer so it stood between my knees, and I scanned the food. It was a bowl of shchi, filled with cabbage, chicken, mushrooms, carrots, onions, garlic, celery, pepper, apples and smetana. Three pieces of hot, buttered bread sat to the side, along with a wooden goblet of rich, heady red wine. I picked up the goblet and took a long swig of the wine, hoping it would dull the ache in my bones left over from my transforming.

“So,” I said, setting the goblet down and tearing into the bread with both hands. “What was it that I saw?”

The witch across from me diddled on the strings with her long nails, and pursed her lips.

“I suppose you saw a bit of a disturbance on the eastern border of Winterly,” she replied, with a thoughtful lilt to her tone. “And perhaps felt a touch of startlement from deep within the earth?”

I frowned hard at her, stopping my chewing.

Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, and then she returned to her music. I finished chewing, watching her, then sat back in my chair.

“So what was it?”

“Mm,” she grunted. “I do not know.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What do you think it was?”

“Eat your shchi,” she said, jerking her chin toward it. “And put some slype on your hands.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“I see a spot.” She pointed with a gnarled finger at my left hand. I lifted it toward the light, and spied a dark blotch on the back of it.

“I haven’t noticed that before,” I murmured.

“Mm,” she grunted again. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Just a strengthening spell on the fog.”

“Ah, but you haven’t put slype on yourself for weeks,” she noted, arching an eyebrow.

“It stinks,” I shot back. She snorted.

“Put it on,” she ordered. “Unless you’d like to look like me far earlier than you ought.” And she bared her pointed teeth in what was meant to be a ghastly grin. I rolled my eyes and reached up to snatch a little black bottle off the mantle.

“I don’t mind a little spot on my hand,” I muttered.

“Mm, you may not,” the witch sat back in her chair. “Not now, when you’re only four and twenty, with a body still strong and quick. But you will wish you had listened to your babushka,” she wagged a finger at me. “When you try to shake off that flying crow someday, and two of your bones stay broken. Mark me.”

I smirked, not replying, and popped the cork off the bottle. I dripped just a bit of the black, oily liquid into my right palm, put the cork back, and rubbed the slype onto the back of my left hand.

“Keep rubbing,” Baba Yaga ordered. “Until you cannot see the spot.”

“Yes, I know,” I glared at her, but kept doing it, until the oil rubbed in and the spot on my hand faded. I feigned a gag and shook my head, putting the bottle back on the mantle.

“Smells like dead fish.”

“Hehe,” the witch chuckled. “Not so bad.”

I said nothing, just picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring my steaming soup.

“So what was it?” I pressed, slurping a spoonful, then wincing at its heat. But I kept eating. The witch gazed at me, tapping her fingers on the face of her instrument.

“I said I do not know,” she repeated. “But someone is coming who will tell us.”

I stopped with my spoon halfway to my mouth.

“Who?” I asked in a low voice. But she didn’t respond—just smiled.

The fire in the hearth guttered.

My attention flashed to it.

Then, fingers of smoke began to creep out past the mantlepiece, as if something had blocked the chimney.

Slowly, I lowered my spoon back into the soup.

The smoke thickened, blackened. It trailed upward, past the candles, mingling with the flames and disappearing into the shadow of the ceiling.

Without a sound, I lifted the table in front of me and set it to the side. Then, I slowly settled back in my chair, draping my arms over the rests. With my jaw set, I waited.

The thick smoke pooled on the ceiling, and began slithering down amongst the witchly ornaments, dripping onto the floor beside Baba Yaga. It writhed out of the corners of the cottage, seething over the bearskin rugs, filling the air with the exotic musk of myrrh.

As Baba Yaga and I watched, the serpentine smoke began to twine around itself, crawling from the floor toward the ceiling again. Forming an ever-thickening pillar. All the lights in the cottage changed hue, taking on a pearly emerald—and sparks danced freely around the flames.

A figure formed within the shroud of smoke: tall and willowy, like an iron lance. Surrounded by sinister, cobweb draperies that stirred with their own wind. Ripples of clarity brought forth the shapes of strong, graceful arms bound round with silver bracers; long, white hands—the right one bearing a glittering ring. An elegant, figure-hugging black tunic with upward-sweeping shoulders, evoking the visage of a horned asp. A sundering cape dripping and slithering from the back of his shoulders and round his flowing skirts, hiding his feet. Jewels of jet and poison-red sparkling like scales across his chest. A tall collar guarding a graceful neck.

A raven head, with midnight hair spilling down to the front of his chest, crisp and feral as the feathers of a crow. A sharp, refined face with perfect features, and skin white as moonlight. Eyes like chips of silver, with an ethereal, shining distance. Coal black eyebrows, black lashes; grey, unsmiling lips. And across his face—upon his delicate cheekbones, brow and nose—lay deep red discolorations, like the sear of heat, or the welt of a deep bruise. But it did not mar his beauty—in truth, it accentuated it. And the ice-cold ferocity in his bearing added terrible power to his heavy glance.

A dark light swelled out from him, tightening my chest. I didn’t move. He lifted his chin, and looked directly at me. His bright, pupil-less gaze darted through me to my spine.

“Gwiddon Crow.” His musical voice like the surface of a lake at twilight.

“Crow,” Baba Yaga motioned to me, then to him. “This is Mordred.”

Chapter Two

   Mordred inclined his graceful head to me. I didn’t move—just narrowed my eyes.

“He is a draid,” Baba Yaga told me. “A dark elf.”

“I know what he is,” I answered quietly, not taking my eyes from him. “What is he doing here?”

Mordred almost smiled, and lifted his right eyebrow-slightly.

“He is also the king of Albain,” Baba Yaga added.

I slowly leaned back, stretched out my legs in front of me, and crossed them.

“Well, then,” I raised my eyebrows. “He should know right now what I think of kings.”

Mordred truly smiled now, and chuckled.

“I like her, Vedma,” he glanced at Baba Yaga. I gave him nothing but a cold look.

“Please, sit,” Baba Yaga waved a hand—and her guest chair appeared.

The bear skin near Mordred’s feet writhed and twisted, and rose off the floor, warping itself into the shape of a tall armchair, with the mighty, toothy head crowning the top. When at last it had stopped its transformation, Mordred stepped around it, swept his skirts out of the way, and sat down with the casual elegance of a cat, his right elbow propped on the armrest.

“Would you have something to drink or eat?” Baba Yaga asked him. He absently flicked his fingers.

“No, thank you, I’ve just eaten.”

Baba Yaga shrugged, and sat back in her own chair.

“What brings you here, Mordred?”

He looked at her for a moment.

“I’m certain you noticed the disturbance at the edge of Winterly Wood not long ago,” he said.

“I did,” Baba Yaga nodded. “But Crow was out in the wood at the time, and saw the birds take flight.”

Mordred glanced at me. The firelight glinted off his silvery eyes.

“What did you perceive?” he asked me.

“I am keeping my thoughts to myself, until I hear what you have to say.” I canted my head. “That’s the reason you’ve come, isn’t it?”

He peered at me, his brow furrowing, then leaned slightly toward me.

“Tell me,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Where did you get such an ugly and unusual scar? It covers the entirety of the left side of your face, all the way down to your neck, and looks like the white craters of the moon.”

I lifted my chin, unmoved.

“I was struck by a hot fire shovel when I was fourteen, by my father,” I said. “I killed him with it.” Then, I narrowed my own eyes to slits. “Where did you get yours?”

He grinned again, laughing softly.

“Child, I am older than you can imagine,” he said, looking over at me with something like warmth. “I honestly cannot remember when I first noticed these marks on my face. But I do know they’ve arisen from my struggles, my pain, my suffering…” He considered me again, his mirth fading, a sadness entering him. “Just as yours have.”

I blinked, and glanced down.

“Tell us, Mordred,” Baba Yaga urged. “What is this all about? I don’t like the feel of it.”

Mordred gazed at her long.

“What do you feel?”

She set her jaw crookedly, and leveled a look back at him. Her voice lowered to a deadly, rasping tone.

“That a curse has been broken.”

Mordred’s mouth tightened, and he gazed down at the hearthstones with a cold consideration.

“It may have been,” he murmured. “I fear that someone has pulled the Sword from the stone.”

Baba Yaga gasped.

The sound made me sit up—set my heart bashing into my ribs.

“The true sword Calesvol? How can that be?” Baba Yaga rasped. “It has been lost for centuries! Ever since you killed Merlin the Wild!”

               Mordred suddenly looked at her without moving his lowered head.

               A chill passed through me.

               “I…did not kill…Merlin,” he said, with painful and precise decision.

               “Whaaat?” Baba Yaga stared at him, her eyes wide and terrible. “Why did you lie to me?”

               “I lied to everyone,” Mordred answered icily. “After Merlin appeared to me and declared that he had laid Calesvol in a stone, and none but the true king of Albain could pull it loose—and that he had hidden it from all eyes but those of this true king—I hunted him more relentlessly than I had ever hunted anyone. But Merlin had vanished. I assumed that he had fled Albain, either across the sea or into the Eisenzahn Mountains. I cast hundreds of spells searching for him throughout Edel, but all came back to me empty. He was gone.” Mordred’s gaze grew distant, and he studied the dance of the flames. “So I made my own sword in the stone, my own Calesvol, and in the presence of ten thousand witnesses, I drew the sword from the stone. And I have been king this past age, questioned by none. And none have passed through my borders alive, either in or out.” He sent a flashing glance to Baba Yaga. “I will not have my throne threatened by some peasant who pulled a trinket from a rock.”

               Baba Yaga watched him for a moment.

               “What would you have us do?”

               Mordred took a deep breath, turning back to the fire.

               “The pulling of the sword has weakened the barriers around Albain. Strong Curse-Breakers will soon be able to cross, and the elves and rangers that have been enchanted in the woods will begin waking up.” He turned to me. “I require your help, Gwiddon Crow.”

               “Why?” I demanded quietly.

               “I wish to take your master with me, back to Camelot,” he said. “And I need you to destroy the Seal of Astrum.”

               “What?” I said, stunned. “Destroy the Seal? A great Seal?” I looked over at Baba Yaga, but she said nothing. I turned back to Mordred. “Why?”

               “To take back Thornbind,” he answered. “Once I put down this usurper who has found Calesvol, I will have the true sword in my hand. With it, I can breach the gap in the mountains and enter the Eorna Valley, which will bring us just steps from Maith. We will finally bring the fight to the doorstep of the Curse-Breakers. But we cannot do so if that Seal blocks our way.”

               I shook my head.

“Destroying a great Seal is impossible, and you know it.”

               “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Anything made can be un-made.”

               “Yes, by a Curse-Breaker,” I shot back. “The nature of a seal itself is set against us. It was built to withstand just such an attack.”

               “Curse-Breakers are not infallible,” Mordred shook his head. “I have killed many.”

               “Well, be my guest, then,” I growled, waving my hand.

               “Crow,” Baba Yaga warned. I sat up, and leaned toward Mordred.

               “A Seal is not a Curse-Breaker,” I bit out. “You may have killed many Curse-Breakers, but the Seals have killed far more of us,” I said, and slapped my chest.

               “Yes, and many were my friends,” Mordred answered deliberately, looking right at me. “Which is why I spent half my lifetime searching for this.” He lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers.

               A bright light flashed in front of him—

               And a small book lay in his palms.

               I recoiled, sucking in a breath.

               I could feel tendrils of pure, sharp, untamed magic twisting and winding around its beaten leather binding, emanating from the dark red stone in the center of the cover.

               “What is that?” I hissed.

               “It is the Leabhar,” Mordred said quietly. “The Book.”

               “Where did you find it?” Baba Yaga whispered.

               “In Camelot, in Merlin’s vaults beneath the castle.” He glanced wryly at her. “Why do you think I was so eager to conquer Albain? It has nothing else to offer.”

               “I thought the Book was destroyed by dragon fire,” I muttered, still staring at it, feeling like it might leap up and sink teeth into me.

               “So did I,” Mordred nodded. “But, it appears that those on the other side can concoct their own share of clever lies.” He moved his white fingers to lift the cover.

               “Don’t open it!” I yelped, throwing out a hand—stopping just short of grabbing his wrist. He laughed.

               “You mustn’t be afraid, Crow,” he admonished. “You’ll be needing this.” And he held it out to me.

               “I am not touching that,” I said through my teeth, withdrawing from it to sink my fingernails into the armrests of my chair.

               “Why?” he asked simply. “Are you afraid?”

               I glared at him.

               “Only a fool is never afraid.”

               His expression shrugged.

               “True enough,” he acknowledged. “But the power in this book cannot harm you. You can only learn from it.”

               “And what am I supposed to learn?”

               A slow, mysterious smile touched his lips.

               “How the Caldic Curse-Breakers made the Seven Seals of Edel.”

               I narrowed my eyes at him.

               “You have the Book. Why don’t you learn it, and attack the seal yourself? I’m sure you’re powerful enough.”

               “I am,” he nodded. “But I cannot read it.”

               “Ha!” I barked. “You just told me how old you were, how experienced. How can you not read ancient Caldic?”

               “I cannot because it is enspelled, you impatient shrew,” he snapped—and his words knifed straight through my gut. My mouth clapped shut.

For an instant, Mordred’s eyes blazed at me with a fiendish light…

               Which diminished, turning to frost and snow.

               “It will not allow a draid to read its words,” he muttered, flinging open the cover, as he seemed to have done hundreds if not thousands of times. I flinched back…

               But the magic just kept winding round and round the book, penetrating its pages, in a steady, unbroken flow.

               “It rebels against my very blood, the way the light meets my eyes. It’s maddening,” he muttered. “I have tried many, many times to understand, but even if I untangle one phrase, the next moment, it is gone from my mind.” He shook his head. “I saw no pressing need to decipher it at the time I found it. It was enough to have the Book in my possession, and keep it away from the Curse-Breakers, who could do untold damage with it. But now…” he raised his eyebrows at Baba Yaga. “I need a Curse-Maker.”

               “Would you rather leave this task to me?” Baba Yaga asked him. “I am willing, if Crow is not.”

               Mordred was already shaking his head.

               “I need you in Camelot. You must re-lay the curses that are breaking, or replace them with others. The curses of Albain are old, and bone-deep in this realm, and as they snap they may lash back at Camelot itself. And I can already feel Curse-Breakers advancing on my borders. They will need to be waylaid. I cannot keep all of this at bay with only my two hands. This work is as complex as it is dangerous, and I need you at my side.”

               “But is this not equally complex?” I demanded, pointing to the book. Mordred looked at me.

               “No,” he said. “It is quite simple. As simple as untying a knot. You must simply undo what has been done. But first, you must see it clearly.” And he held the book out to me again.

               I didn’t move. Instead, I looked at Baba Yaga.

               “Do you think I ought to do this, Babushka?” I asked her.

               She tilted her head, and shrugged again.

               “I believe you are fully capable of doing it,” she finally said. “You are strong enough, and cunning enough. If you are willing enough.”

               I took the book from Mordred.

               My fingers hit the binding, and the magic hummed—

               But nothing bit me. It didn’t hurt at all.

               I studied it, turning my head to try to make out the runes imprinted on the cover. I set my finger to the opening edge of the cover…

               “Nocht,” I whispered.

               The magic flickered against my thumb. I lifted the cover…

               “Well?” Mordred asked, leaning even closer.

I stared down at the words.

               “I…” I started, then trailed off.

               “What?” he demanded. But I couldn’t speak. I could only read the words, over and over, written in an ancient, inky hand.

                 Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?            

  Chapter Three

                “What?” Baba Yaga demanded leaning forward, her chair squeaking.

               “It…” I tried. “It says ‘Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?’” I lifted my head, and stared at my teacher.

               Slowly, she grinned at me.

               “Fascinating,” Mordred whispered, watching me with a gleaming eye. “Answer it.”

               “Answer it?” I repeated. “How?”

               He gestured to the book.

               “Answer it. Tell it what you want to know.”

               I stared down at the weathered page and the cryptic writing. I narrowed my eyes at it.

               “I wish to know,” I said slowly. “…how to un-make a great Seal.”

               The writing melted away and disappeared. The next moment, it bled back up through the paper, forming different words.

                 You must first learn how the Seals were made. Do you wish to know?

                         “What is it?” Baba Yaga hissed.

               “It says I must know how they were made, and asks if I wish to know,” I answered.

               “Tell it yes,” Mordred told me—in a tone like he was instructing me to step out onto thin ice.

               “Yes,” I said.

               The words disappeared. Then, they melted back.

                 I will tell you. But I will not tell the other two.

                 My eyes flew to the others. They frowned at me.

               “What now?” Mordred wondered.

               “It says,” I answered carefully “That it won’t tell you or Baba Yaga.”

               Mordred laughed and slapped his thigh.

               “This magic,” he grinned. “Such splendid cleverness.”

               Baba Yaga ground her teeth.

               “Why would it say such a thing?”

               “Perhaps it knows us,” Mordred guessed.

               “Perhaps it can hear us,” Baba Yaga raised her eyebrows at him.

Mordred smiled and shrugged.

               “Perhaps it can. Leastways, this still serves our purpose.” He rose to his feet, his skirts rustling uneasily around his legs. “Vedma, will you come with me back to Camelot?”

               “I will,” she grunted, laboriously rising to her feet. “If food is provided.”

               “I shall have my kitchen prepare the finest meals for you, and you’ll sleep in the quarters designated for the queen, as I have no such partner yet.”

               “Oh, who would marry you?” Baba Yaga jibed.

               “Why, you would, if I asked you,” Mordred grinned at her.

                “You flatter me, draid,” she cackled. “What of Crow?”

               “Crow, you will remain here,” Mordred said, looking down at me. “And you will keep that book with you at all times until I come to retrieve it, or I will kill you where you stand.”

               I glared at him.

               “I’m not a fool,” I shot back. “I would have done that even without your threat.”

               “It isn’t a threat,” Mordred said simply. “It’s a promise.”

               I didn’t answer him. He turned toward the fireplace and straightened his coat.

               “Best get to work,” he advised. “The Seal must be broken by this time next week. Our spells should be in place by then. Keep in touch.”

               I still said nothing. Baba Yaga reached over and patted my head.

               “I have faith in you, vnuchka,” she smiled. “You will make me proud.”

               “Thank you, Babushka,” I said, keeping my eyes strictly away from Mordred.

               “Remember,” Baba Yaga held up a finger. “Do not forget the lineages. We hold them to no esteem—but our foes value them more than life.”

               I frowned, but nodded once.

               “Your hand, my lady,” Mordred said, holding his white palm out toward Baba Yaga.

               “Thank you, sir,” she said, and wrapped her gnarled fingers around his. Mordred glanced down at me, his silvery eyes flashing.

               “Goodbye,” he said.

               And he and Baba Yaga dissolved into black smoke.

               They swirled like a cyclone, writhing and twisting, then wound their way up the chimney, and disappeared.

                   I sat for a long time in the silence, watching the fireplace where they had vanished. Then, I set the book aside, pulled the table back in front of me, and finished my meal before it got cold.

After that, I performed a simple cleaning spell, put my dishes away, made the guest chair sink back onto the floor, came back and prodded the fire. The flames leaped high, and warmth spilled over my boots. I tossed another log in, then snapped my fingers and lit the hanging lamp by my armchair. Sighing, I sat back down, stretched my legs out in front of me, and took up the book again. I opened it to the first page.

               It was blank.

               My brow furrowed.

               “Hello?”

               Hello.

               I cleared my throat.

               “What is your name?”

               My name is Leabhar.I am The Book.

               “Who made you?”

               The Caldic Curse-Breakers.

               “How do you know me?” I wondered.

               I know all beings in this world, alive and dead.

               I bit the inside of my lip.

               “Tell me how the Great Seals were made.”

               Do you wish to know the truth?

               “Yes, of course I do,” I insisted. “Why else would I ask?”

               Very well. The realm of Edel had been swallowed by shadow. This time was called The Curtain. Curse-Breathers had arisen and overwhelmed the servants of light, binding them in curses and spells, ensnaring the borders of the kingdoms, causing wars to erupt amongst brothers. The Source Himself summoned the Curse-Breakers and sent them to stand upon the pulse points of Edel. Then, he journeyed Beneath, and gave his life in sacrifice to the Dragon. But his death fractured the Fountains of the Deep, and his blood mingled with the water. The water surged up through the Mountain of Maith and spilled down across the land. At the same moment, his power, channeled by his Curse-Breakers, pushed up through the earth where each of them stood, and each Curse-Breaker used this force to create a mighty Seal of protection. The breaking of the Fountains broke the Dragon’s curse, and the Source was restored to life. The Curse-Breakers then bound each Seal to the lifeblood of the royal family nearby, and charged each true ruler with the protection of that Seal, a task to be passed down through the bloodline.  

               I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes.

               “I could have read this in a book of fairy tales,” I muttered. “Be more realistic.”

               What is it that you find doubtful?

               “The Source is dead. Everyone knows that,” I answered, gesturing vaguely. “The water is just latent magic from the days before the Curtain, and it power is fading.”

               The Book went blank.

               I thumped the page with my finger.

               “Be more realistic about the Seals,” I demanded. “And specific.”

               If you do not accept my premise, then what I tell you has no foundation. We have no frame of reference from which to understand each other.

               I released another sigh.

               “All right, I will acknowledge the death and resurrection of the Source as legend,” I said. “Now, tell me.”

               The previous ink bled away. And it returned in one word:

               No.

               “No?” I cried. “Why not?”

               The ink faded.

               And none replaced it.

               I shut the book and threw it on the ground. It bounced away from me across the bearskin rug.

               “That isn’t Leabhar,” I scoffed. “Mordred’s a fool.” I stood up, and kicked the book across the floor as I walked back toward my bedroom. “It’s just a stupid Answer-Back book. I could make another one just like it for him in two hours…”

                    I shut myself in my room and lit the candles and lamps, and glanced around. It wasn’t a large room: it had a single window hung with leather curtains, a narrow bed covered in skins, a woven rag-rug on the wooden floor, and the left and right-hand walls had been built in with bookshelves. Several battered trunks stood in the corner.

               I lit extra lamps beside the bookcases, peering at the spines as I passed the hundreds of packed volumes. I grabbed one book, jerked it out, and tossed it on the floor behind me. I grabbed another, and another, and another. Their covers slapped together as each one landed. Then, I went to the top trunk, flung open the lid, and dug out a piece of parchment, ink, and a pen. Then, I came back to the center of the room, sat down cross-legged, snatched up the first book, opened it and set to work.

                    It took me four days.

               With aching neck and back, I poured over the volumes, checking and checking again. The first volume was The Book of Common Curses; the second: The Foundations of Ancient Magic; the third: The Master’s Curse Book; the fourth: Natural Spells, the fifth: Blood Spells.  

               I carefully made lists on the parchment, drawing out steps one, two, three and so on. I counted ingredients, muttered words. Interchanged some, rejected others. Added more.

               I stopped working when the sun arose, ate, and slept. I performed refresher spells rather than sponging myself off or washing my clothes. I didn’t have time to dally. I gave myself a headache every night, and rejoiced when I could lie down amidst the bearskins and relax the muscles in my neck. But the dusk came all to quickly, and I forced myself to arise, eat again, and hunch over my work once more.

               Soon, I was able to confirm my initial conclusion: that any magic specifically found in the Book of Common Curses  or The Master’s Curse Book would not suffice against a Seal or any guardian, since the seals had been specifically designed to withstand them. In fact, casting one of them could prove deadly to me.

               I also concluded that many blood spells and natural could be executed to act like curses. It was the one weakness, the loophole that the Caldic Curse-Breakers had forgotten. Indeed, Baba Yaga often told me that the Curse-Breakers of this day and age bitterly regretted that their predecessors had not included spells that bore fatal consequences as curses, also.

               These would do nicely for me. And once I had the words aligned, the work would all be in the casting. I wouldn’t even have to set foot in Astrum.

                 I flew with the rolled parchment in my beak, over the jagged roof of the forest, toward the gap in the mountains where the river ran. I carried Mordred’s book in a pouch in my claws. If he wanted it later, fine. He’d find me with it and I would give it to him. I wasn’t about to die over something so silly.

Silvery moonlight poured down over the pines, glistening against the white stones that dotted the foothills. My feathers rustled through the chill air. Fog hung in the wooded paths, shrouding the tiny villages that stood in the narrow clearings. I beat my wings and picked up my speed, arching higher and higher, swooping beneath the low clouds.

               At last, I spotted the low, jagged foothill of Mount Stell, the craggy peak that wreathed Astrum in its arms. This foothill rose up to half the mountain’s height, and overlooked a small valley, on the other side of which, at a great height, stood the castle.

               I plunged down, cutting through the frosty wind, swooped between the trees, flung out my wings…

               Transformed back to a human with a furious rush, and my booted feet struck the frost-covered stone of the Maven Overlook. The pouch with Mordred’s book tumbled to a stop next to me.

               Silence fell all around me. I took the parchment from my mouth and drew in a deep breath, then let it out. It clouded around my head in vapor. I cast a look around. Behind me stood the ruins of the Maven Watchtower, used long ago in the War of the Gemstones. Now it lay dead, its stones asunder and covered over in brown ivy and moss, the bones of its slain watchmen picked clean by the birds.

               Unmoved, I turned my gaze away from it, and down into the valley before me.

               Far, far across, clouded by mist, the face of Mount Solem arose like a great wall. In the depths of the valley, between Solem and Stell, like a great crack in the earth, wove the Sopor River, its edges frozen, trees crowding its banks. I traced the upward slant of the foothills of Stell with my sharp gaze, watching the ripples in the forest and the protrusions of the stones, until I found the Castle Astrum.

               There it stood, as if it had grown from the living stone of the mountain. Dozens of piercing towers, like arrows poised to launch to the heavens, their caps blue as sapphire, their stone white as snow. Balconies and arched corridors adorned its walls like lace, colored windows decorated it like jewelry. But all those windows lay dark, for none inside were awake, save the watchman—and I could glimpse his single torch from one of the tower tops, winking like the faraway eye of an owl.

               I smiled to myself.

               He would be the first to be surprised, then.

               I unrolled the parchment, glancing across my careful writing by the light of the moon. As I did, a snowflake landed upon my glove. I glanced up. The sky was clear, but the low-hanging mist had begun to crystalize, filling the air with a deep and intimate silence.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Curse-Maker-Tale-Gwiddon-Crow-Curse-Breaker-ebook/dp/B07N7V3K4T/ref=pd_sbs_351_5/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B07N7V3K4T&pd_rd_r=51133e1c-5438-4cae-bec3-a817e25bb633&pd_rd_w=kiB1I&pd_rd_wg=f02WA&pf_rd_p=52b7592c-2dc9-4ac6-84d4-4bda6360045e&pf_rd_r=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72&psc=1&refRID=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72

[feelthepxwer]

Under the cut is a thread backdated to May 3rd in the canon timeline. Please be aware it contains highly sensitive subject matter such as adult themes, blood, gore, knives, pregnancy and scarring.

making the assumption to how awful the stupid sex ed class had been right on point. it had been -- dreadful. boring, dumb, and utterly pointless. still, harry had gone along with it mostly to please uma, carlos, and gil. that was literally the only reason he'd ever agreed to any of this. the first mate had all but pouted throughout the class, shooting dark glares at anyone who dared tried to get him to speak or take whatever the hell they had handed out. thank fuck it was over now. harry let out a dramatic sigh as he flopped onto the bed in the captain's quarters, scowl still present. "tha' was horrendous. jus' as i expected."

Of course it was a shit show, what had auradon expected? Genuinely interested pupils? No, the only reason they went was because it was being forced; and on Umas part because frankly birth control was a definitely good idea. “You lived through it, didn’t you?” Scoff falls because honestly, talk about dramatics. “Besides, it’s not like you have to go to any other ones. I said one class, and —-“ arms branch out around them. “You did just that!” Newly bare feet pause by her desk, fingers ghosting across the wood. “You keep complaining, you won’t get any reward for being so good.”

huffing, he stares up at the ceiling. no, harry is still not remotely pleased that he had been dragged into this stupid class. the only reason he had even agreed to go was the promise of a reward afterwards. he could have giving a shit about anything that had been spoken about, tuning most everything out. they'd gone and uma had gotten the birth control. that was that. "still awful. but yes, 'm glad i don't gotta go tae another one." her words make him sit up, blue hues leveling onto her. "fine, fine i won't complain. i'd rather 'ave the reward."

Of course he would clue into her words, if he hadn’t ? Uma would be worried he was ill.  The corner of her lip twitches upward, desk drawer opening and shutting in silence. “Here.” Single word is spoken as a dagger is offered, palm up to Harry. “We aren’t married yet but we are engaged ——- even if we weren’t, I ...” breath inward. “I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine.” They had two others in their lives now that they belonged to, and while Uma wouldn’t dare diminish those bonds ether, the one she shared with harry was deeper rooted. “Make a permanent mark.”

eyes widen as he takes in the dagger, listening to uma speak. his heart was racing faster now, sucking in a sharp breath when harry realized just what his captain was implying right now. he had often thought about this himself, thought about asking uma to carve her name into his skin, make him hers forever. let the world know who he belonged to. hearing her offer it now, well -- he could hardly believe it. reaching out with his right hand, he grasps at the dagger, eyes locked on her. "i would want nothing more, love. it's been a thought i've 'ad fer a while now."

For a moment she’s terrified that there’s a line she just crossed, that maybe just maybe he’s going to turn her down. That moment feels like a god damn life time, the relief she feels once he speaks is overwhelming. So much so that Uma literally sags in posture with the sigh she lets out, eyes shutting briefly. “Yeah?” Shes moving now to join him on the bed, “can I ask why you didn’t bring it up?” ——- “You can use your hook if you want, the dagger is.... more symbolic I guess than anything else. “

shifting to face her once uma has settled onto the bed, gaze is intense, studying her carefully. he'd never thought that this was something that she would be offering to him. harry had always assumed it would be him bringing this subject up. "didn't know 'ow ye would react tae it, honestly. i know this is different from me jus' making lil' cuts without leaving any lasting marks. it's something permanent on our bodies. an' i never want tae hurt ye." he leans against her, gaze falling down to the dagger. "really?" excitement has grown even more now, heart still racing. "i -- i would like tha'. a lot. but are ye really sure 'bout this? can't be undone."

It makes sense to Uma but she can’t help the soft scoff, of course she would want this. Anything to do with Harry, she was right there wanting any part of it. “We belong together, like ships to the sea.” Hand raises to stroke at fallen locks, a nod from her own. “Of course. I want this as much as you do, Harry. I want people to know who I belong to, before and after we get married.” To her there’s nothing more sentimental. This act proves everything. “Use your hook. “

like ships go the sea. smile is ever growing on his lips, unable to stop it. not that he would ever want it to he stopped. they had always belonged to one another even before they'd known it themselves. it only made sense that the world saw it as well. relaxing into the touch, his grip tightens on the dagger. "I've always been yers. ever since the day we first met." harry shifts away, giving a small nod of his own. "alright. lay down, love. want ye tae be as comfortable as possible." not that she would be once they started. it wouldn't be the most pleasant feeling.

Pain wasn’t something that ether of them shyed from. The isle was home to many demons, many nightmares in fact. The pain of having something carved into you, would be akin to being stabbed multiple times. At least, that’s what she’s hoping it’ll feel like, god forbid it’s worse. All the same she moves in accordance until head hits pillow and she’s breathing in sharply, “whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.” Be it remove a shirt, keep still or you know - don’t pass out from pain.

a part of him still couldn't believe that all of this was happening right now. it all seemed so surreal, like this was a dream rather than reality. swallowing, harry watched as she laid down, shifting further onto the bed as he sat up on his knees. for the moment he laid the dagger down, hook gripped tightly. "tell me 'ow we're gonna do this. initials, first name? an' where ye want me tae put it. yer choice, love."

There’s a nervous energy surrounding them, a level of genuine concern radiating from the two of them and yet they both are committed. “I...” silence for a long moment and then she’s sitting up, quick to remove her shirt, twisting it in her palms. “My side or my abdomen. Don’t care which one.” Gaze studies Harry, checking for any hint of uncertainty. “Do what you want to do, mark me however you desire.—— I’m ready.”

a small part of him is nervous about all of this. harry had planned just for him to be marked, not the both of them. but he knew uma meant it, wouldn't be allowing it otherwise. nodding, he shifted to straddle her waist, right hand gently pressing against her chest to have her lay back. "tell me if I need tae stop at any point and we can take a break, okay? last chance tae change yer mind."

Short breath inward as she readies herself for what's to come. The pain will be something she's only partly used to, being stabbed isn't exactly new but it also means she's going to have to attempt to remain still. Hard.  "I know Harry." Uma nods as she lifts the hand holding her twisted shirt, biting down on the fabric in preparation.

gaze roams over her, heart hammering away. he's both nervous and excited about this whole situation. after a few moments of just gazing down at her harry brings down the hook to her side, pressing it into the skin deep enough to leave a scar -- carefully beginning to write out the 'h'.

For a moment Uma wonders if he's going to back out of this, but then he's moving and there's a sharp pain radiating through her body, brows knotting while muffled screams melt into the fabric of her waded shirt. Oh, it definitely hurts -- more than she anticipated. It'll be worth it in the long run, she knows this. She wants this, wants to be marked as his forever. Wants to prove to everyone in Auradon, on the Isle -- EVERYWHERE, that she belongs to Harry.  Fingers twist into the bedsheets to keep herself as still as possible, knowing if she keeps moving it'll be harder for Harry to continue.

he absolutely hates knowing that uma is in any sort of pain that he's causing. yes, she wanted this but it hardly helped harry when he was supposed to protect her. but there's no protesting, just the clear obvious discomfort and pain from the action. he forges ahead, finishing up the 'h' and moves onto the 'a', hand moving carefully, trying to ensure it's as neat as possible.

No, this is nothing like being stabbed. How could she have possibly thought it would be similar, no this is far more painful than being stabbed. Hell, she would rather be stabbed by a RUSTY blade than go through this again. Once will certainly be enough.  Eyes fall shut as another letter begins to be carved into her skin, tears falling behind shut eyes, continuing to bite down against the shirt. Realistically there will be a point in which she should get him to take a break, but she's worried if they stop she won't want to continue, the pain getting to her. Instead she's keeping herself calm despite the overwhelming pain, or trying to

guilt has already built up as harry chances a look up towards uma, absolutely hating the pained expression. she may try to hide it well, but he knew her far better than anyone else. "shh, it's alright, love. yer doing so good. we'll be done soon, okay? lemme know if ye need a break." harry wants to get this done as quickly as possible, but he also knows this can't be rushed. second letter done, he's wiping at the blood with the long sleeved shirt before moving onto the third, doing all he can to make this over sooner.

His words sound like there's a hand over his mouth, muffled and distant and it occurs to her, somewhere through the blinding pain that her body is in fight or flight mode. Rational thought flittering through irrational thought over and over again, one part telling her to shove Harry off of her and beg him to stop, the other wanting to continue so she can bear his mark PROUDLY. It's hard to listen to ether, but she tries. Soft whimper is all he gets, next to the slightest of head nods and her eyes open once more, blinking up at him through the tears. Legs feel heavy against the bed the longer she forces herself not to move, and god damn it Uma knows if she can't keep herself still she'll have to use her magic.

heart aches knowing how much pain his captain is in right now. if he had the magic to take it all away, he would do so in a heart beat. all harry can do right now is make soothing noises and make this end as soon as possible for uma. he's moving onto the next 'r', hand steady in order to ensure it's as neat and lined up as possible. "almost done, love. yer doing so good. 'm so proud." words are murmered softly, keeping his focus on finishing up. then he's finally on the last letter, hook carving the 'y' carefully before he's pulling the hook back and leaning down to press kisses to the tears. "shh, it's okay. yer okay. ye did so good. we're done."

Unimaginable. That's the only way that she can explain the pain. Yet knowing that it's deep enough to scar, to mark her skin in his honor forever? It's got a swell of contentment blooming within her chest, proud to wear his mark; his own words repeating in her tired mind.  Vaguely she's aware of his movement onto the last letter, but it's all began to blend together and the only relief is when metal is removed from her flesh and his weight is pressed lightly against her; reassurance in words and kiss. Jaw is slack in audibly loud sigh, whine falling as her shirt's removed from her mouth; ignoring the dampness as it falls against her neck. "You're lucky I love you." She sounds so weak despite attempt at joking. A hand lifts to cup his cheek, her own version of reassuring him that she's alright. The pain she feels now, is NOTHING compared to what it was moments prior.(edited)

though he knows that this was exactly what uma had asked for, he stills wants to sooth and take all the pain from her. they're finished now, no more pain to come now. at least that was a reassurance. harry manages a faint smile, gaze warm as he leans into the hand, nuzzling it. "luckiest man alive tae 'ave tha' honor. I love ye so much. 'm sorry tha' ye were in so much pain. i never enjoy seeing that fer ye. but yer all done. no more pain." at least not as bad as that had been. there would still be pain with the wound until it healed fully and scarred over.

Words have her heart soaring with a feeling she now knows is love, tired smile playing at her lips. "I'm alright, honest." She was, now. "Up -- I need booze." It's short and to the point, patting at his cheek and moving the second he's complied. Pushing herself up with hand, careful not to let her side press into the bed as she does. Uma's almost stumbling when she stands fully, light headed but she powers through it, determined to push past the feeling. "Ah." Relief as she makes it to her desk, pulling out a bottle she'd kept in the bottom drawer, instantly making her way back to the bed -- SLOW this time. Lid is off and bottle pressed to her lips the second she's securely back atop the bed, taking two long swigs with a hiss. "You're going to need this too."

concern is still evident in his gaze once he's move, eyes carefully tracking uma and every single movement she's making. he knows that if she needs him at any moment, he'll be right up and there by her side. tha was how it always had been since the day they met. nothing had changed in the many years that the two of them had spent side by side. "yer gonna need some rest after this, ye know. blood loss an' all." harry shifts closer once uma is back onto the bed, lips pressing against her shoulder as he peers at the bottle of alcohol. "maybe should 'ave started with this. ye drink now, though. more worried about ye than me."

Blood loss. Yeah, she's aware of it. Hell, she's surprised frankly that her body hasn't pushed her into shock, but she's grateful it hasn't happened. "We both will, Harry." Is countered with soft smile, amused. He always did have a habit of worrying about others before himself, a trait that Uma's admired since day one. "I promise you I'm alright." Bottle is offered to him, insistent. "Trust me. You're going to want a buzz going during it all." Eyes fall to the formerly forgotten dagger, what started it all. "Once this is all done, I think I've still got some rubbing alcohol from when we scavenged the first week in Auradon."

right, yeah. he was going to need it too since he was up next. harry had been so focused on his concern over uma and making sure she was okay that he had nearly forgotten what was coming next. reaching out, the first mate grabbed the bottle, bringing it to his lips and taking a nice, long sip. it takes a bit more than a few sips to get him buzzed, or anything remotely of the sort, but he'll take what's available. lowering the bottle, he gave a small nod. "good idea. don't want anything getting infected. least we got the luxury of 'aving better medical supplies 'ere. saves us the trouble."

She's grateful that he's willing to listen to her, willing to take her advice. Eyes fall shut as he does so, listening to him only to laugh. "Fucking Auradon." Of course they had better medical supplies, people actually gave a shit about others over here. Uma knows that in those half assed images the Isle strung together about healthcare there was always something about cleaning wounds with whatever you had, keeping it covered so nothing rubbed. Shit -- they'd survived this far, hadn't they? Both of them had scars from battles long since passed, they'd manage this. "Alright." Uma hums out, pushing herself into sitting position, back straight. "Have you decided where you want it?"

he snickers softly before taking another sip of the alcohol. "assholes," he grunts. they had all of this stuff here, food that went and got wasted by all these spoiled brats. and what had they gotten for two decades? nothing but the trash and leftovers from this damned place. apparently that was all they deserved. gaze still follows her carefully as he takes yet another sip before he's holding the bottle back out towards uma. setting the hook down, harry tugs off his shirt. "think so. want it on me side tae, i think. just a little below me hip." hands are reaching to unbutton his pants, shifting them down enough to make it easier.

She's moving the bottle to rest it on the floor out of their way, but only after taking another swig herself. As he removes his shirt Uma can feel her nerves starting to crawl out of the shadows, gaze roaming over his skin. To know that she's going to add to the scars already against his skin, like another tattoo; it's a strange feeling. "Yeah?" Uma's silent once more as she moves to grab the forgotten dagger, straddling his legs if only to help ensure once they start he won't move too much. "Here?" Fingers dust across bare skin, few inches below his right hip. "Whatever you need to do while I do this...scream, curse -- bite into something. Do it, it'll help take your mind off of the pain for a little while."

and there it goes again, his heart is racing once more when he realizes just what's about to happen. he's been thinking about this for so long, it really does still feel like a dream that it's finally happening right now. gazing up at her, harry lets out a soft breath, shiver running through him as uma's fingers brush against the spot. "i -- right there, aye." nerves have gathered already, though there's absolutely nothing that could ever change the first mate's mind on this matter. "alright. i'll try what ye did." reaching for his shirt, harry crumples it up and bites down into the material before he's laying down on the bed.

Under any other circumstance she would have noted how beautiful he looked within the moment, but all she can think about is the pain she just went through, knowing that she's about to put Harry through that exact same thing. "It's going to hurt more than anything you've ever felt before --- but it'll be over quick, aye?" Uma's grip on the dagger is loose for a moment before breath is taken inward and she's tightening once more, offering a nod to him and leaning forward. One hand is splayed against his abdomen acting as an indication of where they'd agreed on while the other hovers above the spot; gaze flicking to meet his once more before blade meets skin to begin the U.

this isn't anything that harry hasn't gone through before. this is hardly the first time that he's had a knife to his skin in such a way, but it's the first time that it's gone consensually and so intimately. hardly changes the immense pain that comes with it, though. he manages a small nod to show he understands, and then the sharp pain begins. harry lets out a muffled shout through the shirt, using all of his willpower not to squirm away from the blade against his skin.

Is this how he felt when it was him digging into her skin? Worried. Terrified. Concerned. There’s so many conflicting emotions but she knows just as he does that they’ve agreed to this, knows how much it’ll mean once it’s over with. So she’s trying her best to keep her hand steady as it carves out the letter, grimacing with free hand pushing against Harry’s skin. “I know baby, I know.” Hushed tone.

he'd nearly forgotten just how agonizing this entire thing could be. trying to focus on the other hand pressed against his skin, harry keeps his eyes on uma, doing all he can to ignore the immense pain. it'll be worth it in the end, that much he knows. getting through it is merely the difficult part.

If she could dull his senses with magic she would without question but truthfully she doesn’t think she can manage focusing on that while doing the task at hand; not unless she didn’t care about if it was sloppy or not. “So good.” Praise offered as she moves onto the ‘m’, dagger pressing into skin once more. The blood gathering with each press forward, mumbled curse by the time she’s finished the letter. Uma has already grabbed part of the bedding to wipe at the blood, it’s ruined anyways at least this way she can see clearly for the last letter.

that urge to squirm away from the knife or try and struggle against it all was rising, try as he might to fight it all down. harry whimpers softly through the shirt, eyes falling shut as he squeezes them tightly. he barely feels the blood being wiped away, only feels that sharp, fiery pain washing over him from the knife. harry knows it'll be done soon, focuses on that instead of the pain.

Last letter begins with careful and steady movements, trying to ignore how she wants to stop if only to keep his pain at bay. Uma doesn’t stop.  She can’t, not when they’re this close to finishing. The a is almost finished, blade piercing skin as it rounds out the letter, dragging down to flare out the tail and then — “Done. “ dagger slips from bloodied fingers to be replace with bedding once more wiping at the open wounds, as if that’ll stop the bleeding completely. “It’s all over Harry. You’re done. “ gentle tone of whisper, carefully moving off of him to seated position beside him, stained fingers brushing away hair from his forehead. “Look at me—- are you okay?”

all that registers for the time being is the pain. he wants to dart away, wants to scream and yell but all that comes out is muffled noises with the shirt stuffed in his mouth. harry isn't certain how much time passes. ot feels far too long rather than the short amount that he knows it has to be. he barley registers uma's words, not until the first mate can feel the fingers bruising his hair away. slowly, eyes flutter open as he obeys her words, dark hues peering up at his captain. reaching up he tugs the shirt from his mouth, managing a faint smile in her direction. "aye -- 'm fine. hurt like 'ell but... worth it." beyond worth it, knowing that her name would forever be a part of him. all by uma's hand.

Uma knows they must look an absolute mess to anyone that happened to cross their path. But all she can think about is the fact that it’s over with, that she’s officially marked by him forever. “I love you.” Shes tired. So fucking tired but she means each god damn word, whole heartedly. Lips catch his softly before she’s pulling away and stepping off of the bed, “Stay.” Despite her low energy there’s still no questioning that it’s an order rather than simple statement. It takes a few minutes to get everything she needs set up in her bathroom but eventually it’s ready and only then has she made her way back to Harry, sitting on the beds edge beside him. “We need to get them clean —- get us less bloody. “

smile widens immediately just by those three words. ones that had been forbidden not so long ago for the both of them, and yet harry supposed he'd known for some time that he had been utterly in love with her. soft whine escapes at the quick kiss, tempted to go after her but the order has harry remaining exactly where he is. once uma has returned, the first mate is pushing himself up, scooting towards the edge of the bed beside her. "an' 'ere I was beginning tae enjoy all the blood. kinda hot." but there's no protest from harry. he knows they need to clean the wounds before an infection can begin spreading.

Soft laughter falls from the sea witch, a shake of her head to follow as lips press once more to his own; fingers ghosting across his own. “You can make me bleed again, another time.” It’s a promise that she knows both with keep. Umas up once more to guide him to the bathroom, water already running for the shower, not terribly hot but enough to keep them warm and clean. “I found some relatively clean padding we can use to keep them covered too.”

she seems to enjoy teasing him with the quick, over nearly as soon as it begins kisses today. harry was more than tempted to just wrap his arms around her waist and pull her into a long, over due kiss. he refrains for the time being, grin lighting up his features just from those words. "deal." walking, harry hadn't realized just how light headed he was until then. shaking it off as best as he can, he pulls off the rest of his clothing. the padding was a good find given that way nearly an impossible item to find back on the isle. "a good find." reaching for her hand again, harry moves towards the shower and steps inside, knowing full well the water won't feel the most pleasant on the new wounds.

Ultimately there would be a few nights of pain to follow with their new scars. But was it worth it? One hundred fucking percent it was with it. Uma remains silent as she moves with his guidance, stepping into the shower with breath inward knowing the water isn’t going to be great. Temperature was an issue which is why she hadn’t made it terribly hot but just the constant pressure against newly dug out skin — “Fuck.” Yeah, it hurts. Eyes scrunch shut for a moment before she’s pushing through it because it’s the only way they’re going to get themselves clean.

he'd been right -- the water was far from pleasant as it tended to be. shifting in front of uma, back to the spray, he kept himself there for the time being. sure, harry knew that they needed to get cleaned up with all of the blood but he would have preferred remaining all bloody than deal with this right now. "aye, me exact thought," he grunted. this is what happened whenever you had a new, fresh open wound with a not so gentle spray hitting it. "ure we can't jus' stay all bloody?"

The water is the problem. Yet it’s also what is going to keep them from infection, or at least partly. “We cant.” uma encourages before tilting her head forward to press against his chest, eyes falling shut as she does. She can feel his name being cleaned by water, but it still hurts. “Only a little longer.” Pushing back a hand moves over her face only to glance at her own mark against his flesh, it looks raw but it’s cleaner than it had been.

arms slip around her, careful not to touch the wound or anywhere near it. last thing harry wants to do is cause anymore pain than necessary. really, he could stay like this forever. uma in his arms, holding her close. gaze peers at her curiously, letting it slowly roam over his name carved into her flesh. it shouldn't please him as much as it does, but harry had never said he was sane. "think we're good tae go now?"

Umas hesitant to leave the warmth offered but she gives a nod, untangling herself from him albeit reluctantly. “Turn off the water.” It’s soft as she steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel for herself and passing him another. She’s careful to avoid rubbing the name carved into raw flesh, only to drop the towel there after and reach for Harry once more, guiding him back to bed. “Think you can manage starting a fire or will bending hurt too much?” Pointed gesture to the worn out fireplace opposing them. “I uh, don’t think sleeping in these sheets is going to help our marks. I think I have a set ... it’s not matching or anything special— bit torn but it’s better than blood stoked.”

though he wants to keep her in his arms for longer, harry is quick to follow orders as he always is. water is quickly shut off before he's stepping out and taking the towel offered, drying himself off and carefully avoiding the flesh wound. tossing the towel to where ehe discarded one landed, harry follows after her, gaze flickering over towards the fireplace. "I'll manage it." pain was hardly anything new to the first mate. making his way towards the fireplace, he set to work, listening as uma spoke. "anything is better than the blood soaked sheets right now. we'll manage with it jus' like we always do."

At his compliance Uma's moving into action herself, tugging at the blood spoiled fabric until it's off and she's kicked it onto the floor. Quite frankly she's far too tired and weak to worry about cleaning it right now, so on the floor the bedding will remain until sunrise when deemed fit. Pleasantly surprised that the blood hasn't soaked right through to the mattress Uma's humming to herself as she goes to fetch the other set. "Yeah --- definitely not up to BOREDONS standards, but it works." Still nicer than anything they could find back home,even with it not really fitting the bed itself. She's only managed to get it laying atop the mattress, rather than tucked although the second blanket she's found definitely does the job; warmer than the last --- given the winter air, it certainly helps. Once she's finished she's silently ducking back to the bathroom, fetching the padding she'd found along with half sticky medical tape --- again, does the job. For a little while at least. "We'll need to find something stronger tomorrow." Murmured tone as she attempts to cover her own mark, grunting in frustration as she does.

it's not long before harry has the fire going, ignoring the pain hunched over as he is. her words make him chuckle, always amused by their little nickname for this place. it was one of the reasons harry couldn't stand being in the dorm assigned to him. everything was just far too pristine and perfect in it. much too auradon for his own taste. harry wasn't used to any form of luxury and it made him uncomfortable being offered such things. straightening up, he catches the grunting, amused little smile on his lips as he makes his way back towards the bathroom. "we'll figure it out. jus' as we always do. 'ere, lemme help." reaching out, harry gently holds the pad down to help make the taping easier. "gonna take a while fer it tae heal up."

Loud exasperated sigh leaves and her arms flail to the sides, giving up for a moment as he helps; though she is thankful -- silent nod in his direction. "Wouldn't expect it not to." There's a hiss as she presses tap to skin, firm as it needs to be. "Sucks but it'll pass, and once it does the scarring can begin." They'll be forever marked in the others name, a true union of belonging. The thought has a smile curving upwards despite the discomfort of toying with skin so raw. "Thanks." Uma's leaning to the side, grabbing another piece before hand shoes him upright so she can return the favor; "If you hear me groaning in my sleep -- i've probably rolled onto my side."

knowing that these wounds will eventually scar over and be permanent on their bodies has the first mate utterly pleased. straightening up, he lets uma do what she needs to cover up the wound on him. "gusss I'll jus' 'ave tae tug you back an' make sure yer not on yer side any longer." not like harry got much sleep most night anyhow. sleeping beside uma always helped, but it was an often occurence for the first mate to wake up in a panic or screaming. "an' tae think I was gonna suggest matching tattoos. this is even better than I could 'ave imagined."

Laughter leaves, "It's not like I'm rolling off the bed, Harry." Once she's finished with his mark she's putting the tape back into the bin she'd had it in, pushing up and lacing their fingers together to guide him back out to the bed. "Matching tattoos, huh?" Glance ventures over the first mate, lingering briefly. "Might still want to do that." Crawling across the top of the bed, feet kick at the blanket until she's able to actually peel it away and wiggle beneath it; ensuring she's left room for Harry to come join her. "Did you have any ideas, because I feel like ---- we should do something for Carlos and Gil too."

"still gotta keep ye safe." he's beginning to realize just how exhausted he is now, adrenaline from earlier having run out. it takes the last of his energy to follow after uma towards the bed. seconds after his captain has settled into the bed, harry is sliding on beside her, climbing under the covers and ensuring he's not brushing at the covered wound. "yeah?" pausing at the question, he thinks it over. "not particularly at the moment. probably something similar like we did with the crew an' our anchor tattoos. something meaningful tae us so we can all 'ave it."

It takes all but a moment before she's moving to cuddle into him, mindful of where the new mark lies, though she's still as close to him as she can be; hand splayed out across his chest. "Mmm, we'll think of it eventually." Uma didn't want Carlos or Gil to think they weren't as important, or that they weren't as loved. For they were. But Uma's also quite positive they wouldn't be as excited to part take in what her and Harry had just done, in fact she' knows they wouldn't be. "Harry ---- I'm glad we did this."

though this was hardly the first time they'd slept in the same bed or cuddled together like this, it always felt new to the first mate. just like it always felt new whenever he was kissing her, or doing just about anything. harry could still hardly believe they had this. he refrains from wrapping an arm around her, knowing that he'd be putting pressure on the wound. "always do. we could talk to 'em, brainstorm different ideas." wasn't like harry would ask to do this with them -- not when he figured it wasn't something they'd be as into as he and uma were. head turning, his gaze locks on uma's, eyes soft. "really?" that was what harry had been hoping for, worried she might end up regretting it. "I am as well. wouldn't change it fer the world. now the world can know who I belong tae."

He almost sounds shocked which has her wondering if he thought she'd back out, or if she'd been testing him. Brows furrow in slight at the thought. "Of course. I've known for a long time that I loved you -- I just...didn't know it was love." Not like their upbringing helped settle that for them, that's for damn sure. "Makes sense that I'd belong to you and you to me, doesn't it?" Question posed isn't a real question, not when they both know the answer. "Ha." Chuckle at his choice of words, "As if they ever doubted it before. I've been told that we're obvious about it, even back on the Isle apparently." Ironic, wasn't it? That to each other it wasn't apparent, but to others? It was, ten fold.

that was something harry could relate to easily. for so long he'd felt something for uma but had been unaware of just exactly what it was. he'd chosen to shove it down, trying to forget it all. never seemed to work. "couldn't 'ave admitted it back on the isle even if we'd know anyhow. it's always been ye, though. never doubted tha' fer a second." harry knows he doesn't even have to answer the question -- knows the answer they both hold to it already. "really? I always questioned if ye felt anything I did, back on the isle. alwaya wondered 'bout it. we slept together once but tha' sorta thing never meant much there. not until ye, at least.

Eyes remain shut as she listens to him, content to lay there for hours; perhaps even past dawn. Hand against his chest moves to itch at her nose before falling back down, a shrug matching the movement. “I’ve always been guarded. “ more than most people thanks to her mother, although there were a selective few that could relate. “Acting like I cared even remotely would have gotten me in hot water, couldn’t risk it as a Captain.” Uma hopes he knows it’s not an insult, it’s nothing to take away from her feelings for him. “After we slept together ... after that happened,” she’s not verbalizing the loss prior, it’ll make things uncomfortable. “It made me realize officially how I felt about you, I think since then it was just a matter of time, you know?” That’s one positive they can count on Auradon for, giving them the opportunity to hash out their feelings. “Look at us now,” she’s looking up at him now, lips pursing up into soft smile. “Engaged and with two boyfriends.” They were finally happy

that was something that harry could fully understand. she had the entire crew to look out for as captain. any sign of weakness would have only hurt them all in the end. "I get tha'. ye 'ad to protect everyone else. jus' the way we were raised back on the isle. normal fer us." as terrible as it had been, that had all just been the norm for them all. they had never really thought about it. "knew I could get ye in my grasp," he teased lightly. "pretty sure a part o' me knew since we met. which is ridiculous since we were so young but... I wouldn't 'ave let jus' anyone start ordering me 'round." it had always been uma. only her. everyone else who tried ended up beaten some way or another. gaze meets hers before he's leaning to press a soft kiss to her lips. "it's what we deserve. love, happiness. who cares if we're villains. I wouldn't change any o' this fer the world."

It still astounds her that they can experience such soft and normal moments like this. Granted it’s directly after an action most in Auradon would deem INSANE. “If anyone deserves happiness it’s those that were forced into darkness.” uma counters with a sharp nod, wiggling against him to chase for another kiss. It’s true that they all had done some terrible things but they were usually done in order to survive. How could you blame them for such acts of cruelty when it meant staying alive? “Besides - they probably don’t understand our version of love anyways. “

darkness had been all they known. their entire lives had been filled with it. even coming to auradon now, how were the supposed to escape it? smile merely widens as she chases for another kiss, happy to oblige as lips press against hers once more. perhaps others would find all of this odd considering what had just occurred moments prior. harry already assumed they'd get horrified reactions once their scars were shown in the light of day. "no, I don't think they ever could. their version of true love is apparently love spells and lies." was he bad mouthing ben and mal? absolutely.

Loud and genuine laughter escapes the sea witch, face nuzzling into Harry's chest as if she's trying to stifle the laughter. Doesn't work, of course. "Don't forget marrying someone you've only known for a few weeks!" Oh yes, she's heard the stories. Didn't have to look that far, Princess Anna was ready to lay everything down for a stranger and look how that turned out. idiot. "They shouldn't have half the shit they do, can't handle it clearly -- and they think some of us are stupid from lack of PROPER education." Hand waves into the air, clear that she's being sarcastic. "Yet they're some of the dumbest people I've ever met."

wow -- she's absolutely breathtaking every single time harry sees her laughing. and not the cruel, harsh laughter that he knows can come out of her. no, this is that genuine, happy laughter that comes out so rarely. expression softens as hand moves to brush through her hair. "or marrying someone ye met fer a day. 'ow in the 'ell is tha' called true love? these heroes have weird ass ideas o' love." he'd never fully understand any of it. though the two of them were considered villains in their eyes, was it so far fetched to think they actually had something like that? "all i know is i love ye more than i could ever say. ye got every part o' me."

It’s interesting to her how after going through something so physically painful and draining that she can feel so happy this quickly after the fact. Perhaps that was how love truly worked. “Yeah?” She knows how deep his love for her goes, it’s rather apparent given all that they’ve been through together. “Body. Mind. And soul, hey?” Carefully she pushes up onto the side not raw, hand still resting against his skin, an anchor. “I love you too, harry. Nothing will ever change that —— no one will ever change that. “

body, mind, and soul. every single part of him belonged to her. nothing would ever change that. nothing ever had in all the years they'd known one another. "aye. every single bit o' me." harry blinks up at her, curious, though his expression is still soft, open -- loving. "never. I want everything with ye, uma." right hand reaches up, stroking against her cheek. "I want tae give ye everything."

Uma swears that her soul has always known his. The way that they've managed to melt together as one, how could they not find each other in this life and the next? They would walk to the ends of the earth for one another, without question. "Harry --- " Gaze lingers on his features, "You've given me enough already. You've given me friendship, loyalty, happiness -- love."

his gaze remains on hers, unwavering. refusing to look away. thumb strokes along her cheek, just enjoying this moment. harry could spend his whole life just laying here beside uma. hell, he'd be content with doing this just for a whole day. they certainly deserved it after the prior ordeal. "I know tha'. but it won't ever stop me from wanting tae give even more."

Give even more. Uma doesn't think that's even possible, though the notion still has lips spreading into a smile. He's everything she's ever wanted and more. Who would have thought the two of them would end up here, together. "There's nothing more you can give me. I'm happier than I've ever been before, Harry and that's all because of YOU." Because of the love they've finally been able to embrace, and encourage. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, be it on the sea or on land or shit -- in fucking Neverland one day."

nothing was ever going to stop him from wanting to always give even more. that was just his personality, though. whenever it came to uma, there was nothing that he wasn't willing to do for her. lips are finding hers once more, unable to hold himself back from it. there's so much raw emotion, so many words of love. "I like bong able tae give tha' tae ye. I ain't going away anytime soon. me life is yers, I will forever be by yer side. we'll be married soon, 'ave our life together."

Forever was a terribly long time but for Uma, it wasn't long enough. It would never be enough. She wanted two life times over to spend with Harry, to keep this feeling rooted so deep, to keep it alive. "Married." It's out breathy against his lips, eyes fluttering briefly. "You're mine and I am yours." God she wants nothing more than to kiss the air right out of his lungs, but between the both of their marks, it's liable to end up far more painful than need be. Instead she's settling back down against him, favoring kiss and then another to his chest.

he's not quite sure what exactly shifted. perhaps it was the constant questioning that his mind put him through, the doubt that would run rampant try as he might to ignore it. this entire ordeal had solidified everything for them. something that could never be changed, or taken away. soft groan escapes at uma's words, silently cursing the whole healing factor leaving him unable to do much of anything in this moment. "always yers. gonna 'ave a whole life after we burn auradon tae the ground. can do anything we want. 'ave one another, gil, carlos. happiness, love --." right hand moves down, fingers lightly brushing along her stomach, careful of the wound. hoping uma will understand the meaning without him saying it.

Burning the whole fucking place to the ground was ultimately the goal here. They wanted to see Auradon burn, see it RUINED in ashes and rubble. It's what Auradon deserved, after all. But all those thoughts are halted abruptly as touch ghosts against her skin, blinking once and then twice before she's staring up at Harry. Confusion and then -- "Harry." There's no possible way he means what she thinks he means, is there. Forced chuckle and feigned half smile. "The blood loss is getting to your head. --- You need sleep."

reaction is expected, one that harry had grown used to over the years. uma had done the same thing weeks prior when he had mumbled something about wanting to marry her. he understood why it was done. deflection was easier for them than actually facing certain things they didn't want to. "uma --." head gives a small shake. sure, harry is tired. down right exhausted from everything. but this was important, wasn't it? "look, I -- there's a lot more tae it than not wanting tae be like me da' as a father. we both know tha' me insanity ain't jus' an act like most think. I know me mind is fucked up. mentally ill, they call it. I did some research, found out tha' kinda shit can be passed down through families. it scares me, knowing I could give tha' tae a child. no one deserve tae feel what I do."

Serious conversations like these often end with the two of them opening up more than they already had, which Uma wasn't sure even possible. Yet time and time again she's proven wrong.  The last time they'd spoken about children it hadn't settled right with her, but she'd promised him she'd come to terms with it and now --- "Shit." Uma breathes out slowly, listening to his words. Not that she was wanting for him to get into the details if he wasn't ready. But here they were, talking about it. "You're right. No on deserves to feel the way you've felt. No one deserves to go through what you have but it doesn't mean it's a for sure thing." Was it likely, sure. But didn't mean it always happened. "Why --- we don't need to be talking about this."

he had quickly shit down the last conversation they'd had about this particular topic. harry had been scared, fearing the truth that he had found out upon coming to auradon. back on the isle, this sort of information hadn't been readily available. harry had always known something was off with his head -- knew not everyone heard voices. it wasn't until arriving here the first mate had learned about mental illness officially. "I know tha'. there's a percentage fer different kinds of diagnoses." not that he had any clue what it was he had. "why not? we're getting married now. I know I shut it down last time, an' I'm sorry, uma. I was scared. felt guilty."

When did he have time to learn about this shit? Better yet WHY had he bothered to learn? There's too many questions and far too much emotion mingling together as Harry talks, her eyes falling shut as if its going to help will away from of the thoughts. It doesn't.  Yes they were getting married but did that change anything? Was he really going to be okay with having children? "We all have fears." Uma's silent another moment before eyes open, studying him carefully. "Are you telling me that you want children? --- That you're changing your mind?"

biting down on his lower lip, harry's mind was all but racing. far faster than usual, and it tended to be rather fast most days. he'd never imagined being able to have this sort of life where marriage and a family was possible. yet here they were now, where it was more than a possibility in their lives. he'd always been great with children, though harry had tried to keep his guard up most of the time. it slipped, though, with the kids they protected. training them, teaching them, ensuring no one would harm any hair on their heads. that was the sort of thing fathers did, wasn't it? real fathers. biting down harder on his lip, the first mate could feel tears welling up. it was frightening, knowing what could happen. "I'm terrified what could 'appen. but -- we already almost did. an' I jus' keep thinking what if? we were so close tae being parents already."

No one could say that they didn’t love each other. The two of them had sacrificed multiple things to be together long before love was even truly recognized and in the big picture. Harry is right of course, they almost were parents. That what if had haunted Uma ever since, but she’d been ignorant to think it never lingered on Harry’s mind as well. “I ——“ hand reaches for his own to lace their fingers together gently. “You know where I stand. If this is you saying you’re open to it, as scary as it is —- then alright.” Oh it’s down right terrifying but if she’s got Harry and the other two by her side, it’ll work out like it always does. “Harry, you’d be a wonderful father. “

try as he had to ignore it all on the beginning, that what if haunted him just as much. they could have had a child now -- three years old at this point in their lives. harry tried not to think of it too often, knowing that it was only a what if and nothing more. hand squeezes her own, gripping a bit too tight. this is an emotional conversation, one that had harry utterly terrified and nearly shaking. but it needed to be out in the open finally. "I -- I am." tears are falling now, partly because of the overwhelming and emotions and partly due to uma's words. "I don't wanna be like me da' as a father. I wanna give 'em love, acceptance, compassion. no pain an' sorrow. but what if I do, uma? what if they get what I got?"

Children. It was possible for their future after all this time, all the fear that still lingered. He was willing to try and that’s all that really mattered. The emotions aren’t lost on her however, her own eating away at her both in joy and her own irrational fears. “Don’t do that to yourself, baby.” Soft coo despite the hardened grip. “You will never be like him. He’s not a father, he’s a shell of a man. Are you kidding? Look how you are with the kids back home! You took care of them, taught them how to protect themselves!” Two things that Hook had never done for his own children. “If our children... then we deal with it, we love them as they are. Nothing would change that.”

the cycle of abuse could be a cruel, hard thing. harry knew that he had a violent streak, knew he was capable of quite a bit whenever it came to that violence. but as much as harry wanted to be like his father, he never wanted to be abusive like that towards those who didn't deserve it. "it jus' felt right, doing tha' fer them." and it spoke volumes to the kind of person harry was beneath all of the hardened exterior. sighing softly, he forced his grip to loosen on uma's hand. "no, o' course nothing would ever change tha'. I jus' know what it's like. no one deserves to feel like this. ever."

It’s proof to Uma of the kind of father that Harry would be. The love that he would hold for their own children, hell for ANY children she had in the future; be it his or Gil’s or even Carlos’s. “Harry.” She’s tilting chin up to look him in the eyes properly, still keeping their fingers laced. “You are not your father. Just as I am not my mother. We are better than they ever were harry. We will be better parents too. “ she firmly believes that. “You’ve done so well, I’m proud of you.”

difficult to accept most days. they had been taught so many harsh lessons, had so many people believe the very worst of them just because of who their parents were. none of it was fair, but this was their lives. "no. we can be better than they ever were." harry believed that. "ye got no idea 'ow much it means tae 'ear that from ye. I'm proud o' us."

Sea witch leans forward to press chaste kiss to his lips, a silent affirmation as to how much she loves him. “Together forever.” They will be different than all those before them, they will pave the way for their children. No limits and no pain. “I guess —-“ grin stretches across her face, clearly amused. “This means that the sex Ed class was pointless huh?

he's going to be beyond thrilled once their wounds heal and he can start chasing more from those kisses. for now it's enough, though. knows what's behind it -- the feelings under the surface. "always an' ferever." harry blinks before laughter is spilling out of him. fuck, that was right. this made the whole thing pointless. "guess it does. can't believe I suffered through tha' class fer it tae mean nothing now." a pause. "are ye gonna start the birth control still, or?"

Joined laughter as she once more settles down against him, chest laying against his chest as fingers intertwine with his own. “I’d say sorry but honestly watching you scare half the people in the class just by looking at them? hilarious.” The mention of birth control is a very good point. Harry has just agreed he’s on board with having children but did that mean they intended to start trying right away? “I don’t know. If I’m honest, I’d rather finish what we’ve started here in auradon before having a kid —- I know it doesn’t always work that way but...” she shrugs. “I guess it’s more of a if it happens, it happens, kind of thing. “

okay, so maybe terrifying half the people in the class had been well worth it. harry could distinctly recall all the glares he'd sent their way, how he bared his teeth when people tried passing anything to him. "it's always fun 'aving people scared o' ye." came in handy quite a bit of the time. "never much o' a planned thing even when trying." sometimes it happened, other times it may not. biology was so odd to the first mate. "guess I'm kinda surprised it 'asn't already 'appended again considering, well." considering they didn't exactly use any type of protection. not that it had been a luxury before. still, even here it didn't happen.

Considering they never used condoms and Uma never once took birth control. Yeah, she's very much aware. "I know." She shrugs again though, there is a thought. "Uh...maybe I should." Not just for their sake but -- "Should probably talk about this with Carlos and Gil too." Not that she had slept with Carlos yet, mind you but shit -- with all of them in a relationship, intimacy is bound to happen whether they're ready or not like Harry said. "You know when I do get pregnant, Gil's probably going to treat me like I'm porcelain."

it was probably the best idea, given that getting pregnant right now wasn't the best option. not with their plans all set in motion. "whatever ye wanna do, love. is tha' stuff super effective? might 'ave toned out a bit o' what was said." not that he was sorry about that. he'd gone, at least. "good idea. an' the whole, ah, marks thing probably." though harry wasn't certain how that reaction would go. "wouldn't be surprised. bet the whole crew will do it tae. wanna take care o' ye."

Uma's lifting their hands together briefly before dropping them down against his stomach, lips twisting up in purse. "It can be, but nothing is one hundred percent accurate. I could still get pregnant even while taking the pill." But it's better than them doing absolutely nothing to prevent pregnancy. "They should know." About everything, because they were in a relationship. Because they loved their  boyfriends, therefore they deserved to know what waas going on, didn't they? "Ugh ---- you're probably right. Maybe I'll be super grumpy when pregnant, and everyone will just avoid me. It'll be great."

gaze drops down to where their hands are resting against his stomach, giving a small squeeze. "good tae know. guess I should 'ave paid some attention in that class. but it was all so boring." harry agreed, even if a small part of him was nervous about what the reaction would be to the names carved into their skin. but there shouldn't be any secrets in the relationship. they were all still learning how to manage it all, but harry knew that secrets would only hurt them all in the end. "no secrets. we'll tell 'em soon." they had to be transparent and open for this to work. "love, 'ate tae break it tae ye but pretty sure the grumpiness is something the crew is used tae. doubt it'll work out fer ye tha' way.”

She can't blame him for not paying attention, a lot of it was pointless even to Uma. Truthfully she had only paid attention to the point of birth control, rather than any other issues of the class. "Excuse you." Uma's laughing softly, "I am never grumpy." Load of shit and they both knew it. While she could be rough and strict, she was fair with her crew all the same. "Pregnant women can be awful with mood swings, apparently." Smile tugs at her lips before eyes fall shut, listening to his breathing. "You better not treat me any different when I'm pregnant."

try as he might, harry can't hold back his own laughter. they both knew that was a damn lie. he'd seen every part of her, the good and the bad, and loved her all the same. "whatever ye say, cap'n. I ain't gonna admit a thing." apparently he had absolutely no idea on this subject matter. not exactly their fault considering it wasn't common knowledge back on the isle. "never. doesn't matter if ye were carrying a child, yer still the same uma. fierce, protective, strong. wouldn't treat ye any differently."

She's beyond grateful that despite how this night originally started, despite the pain they would feel and discomfort for the next few days --- they were able to be light and joke aorund together.  "Good answer, Harry." Contented sigh leaves full lips as she wiggles closer to him, careful not to press herself too close, wary of both of their marks. "Pregnant or not -- could still kick your ass if I wanted, bet on that."

no other answer would have sufficed. it was hardly going to be a weakness even if it were to happen before their plans were complete. the idea that someone was frail and weak just because of pregnancy seemed ridiculous to the first mate. he snorts, hand moving to resume brushing through her hair. "trust me, I know. wouldn't want it any other way. though ye gotta stop trying tae turn me on when we can't 'ave sex. ye kicking me ass is hot."

Soft laugh leaves her lips though she remains still against him, smiling even with her eyes shut. "I ain't trying to do anything. Definitely not trying to turn you on but uh -- good to know it's still easy to do." The sea witch is only partly joking, of course. Content to just lay there until dawn with her first mate, content to ignore everyone above deck if need be. "Sex is possible, it just won't be as comfortable as it usually is." Another chuckle, leaning into him.  "I'm sure you'll make up for it later on."

heavy sigh escapes from the first mate. okay, sure, he knows how simple it could be to turn him on but she doesn't have to tease him about it. not that he minds in the slightest. it brings a grin. "yeah, yeah it's easy tae do. not my fault ye know all o' me buttons." this is nice, just laying here. talking. they hadn't done something like this in a while. harry was content, happy. he couldn't ask for anything more. made him wonder if he could convince uma to take the day off and just lay here. "eh, I'll pass until we get healed up. ye know I will. always gotta make ye feel good. most important thing."

Of course she knew all of his buttons, just as Harry knew all of hers. It didnt' take very long for ether of them to learn, nor learn the kinks that the other held. "Mmmm, sure." Uma's still got a smile wide across her lips, only moving to pull the blanket further up atop them, settled back down just as quickly. "Yeah? You never manage to disappoint, Harry." A long pause before she's biting down laughter ---- "Always such a good boy."

harry can't recall the last time that he's felt this relaxed in his life. even with the cold weather, he feels more comfortable than he has. warm, loved, happy. that was all one could ever ask for. before harry goes to reply, that phrase is out and he's shooting her a look, unable to hold back his groan. "uma," he whines out. "tha' is not fair and ye know it!  yer jus' being mean now."

There it is. Oh yeah, she's more than a little pleased with the response that she gets, the response that she knows she would have gotten. Harry is terribly predictable, which makes it that much more fun really. "What?" Feigned innocence as she peaks a glance up at him, shit eating grin still present. "Not my fault you have a verbal kink --- maybe I find it fun." Of course she did.

damn it, he should have expected something like this to happen. it's not like harry can help it whenever those words are used against him. and she knows fully well the reaction brought on from them. huffing, he keeps his gaze on her, trying to look as stern as possible. "fer ye, maybe. I'm jus' getting worked up tae yer amusement. an' it ain't like anything can be done 'bout it. tha' is jus' cruel, love. very cruel."

And then there' laughter again, giggles even. Perhaps it was a little cruel, but could he blame her? It really had been the perfect opportunity to use it against him, he'd set himself up honestly. "I'm sorry but it's so easy." Uma coos, caving a moment later to press a kiss to his chest as an attempt of an apology. "Promise I won't say it again --- not until we're able to do something without pain." Possibly.

another huff, clearly pouting at this point. he's amused by it all underneath the protesting and everything else, try as he might to hide it. "hmph. jus' mean, uma." a smile slowly begins to form after the kiss, deciding to relent and ease the pouting. "knowing ye I wouldn't put it past ye tae do it again. but I'll take yer word fer it now. otherwise I'll get my payback once we're all healed up."

It's easy for them to go back and forth like this, but the fact that they can do it so OPENLY is what Uma focus's on. That they're finally able to express how they feel, and fuck whoever sees. Fuck whoever has an issue with it. "Payback?" She scoffs at the thought. "Please, I could get you whining under my touch before you even thought of payback." She could, but he has ways of unwinding her too. Proven by the last two times they'd slept together, how dominant Harry was capable of being.

this was hardly how harry had expected this all to go, but here the two of them were. this back and forth was beyond entertaining, and harry was enjoying himself. uma was right, though. she knew every single way to break him down and have him come undone. still, he's not afraid to push back just a little. "says the one who was writhing an' moaning underneath me the last two times we fucked. so eager fer it. don't think I can get ye whining underneath me again?"

Ah yes, two could play at that game, couldn't they? Uma's biting at the inside of her cheek, lips pursing together before sighing. "Maybe you can --- maybe you can't." There's no doubt in her mind that he could, with ease. Whether he took control again or not, it was easy for her to come undone when with Harry. "Guess we'll just have to wait and find out, huh? See whose right and whose wrong."

eyes narrow slightly, amused little smirk curving up the corners of his lips. well, if that's how she wanted to play it, harry was more than delighted to have his own fun. "I'm gonna be right on this one, jus' so ye know. an' when I am, I'm gonna 'ave you panting an' shaking fer a while. bringing ye tae the edge but never letting ye over it. dunno if I'll let ye get tha' satisfaction or not by the end o' it. maybe I'll jus' leave ye like tha'."

God damn it all. "You'd do that, would you?" Body is turning now onto her stomach, careful of how much weight she puts onto the bed, onto her wound. "If you rob me of my orgasm, I could do the same to you, Harry." Better yet. "You do that to me, maybe I'll find some rope --- give you the same fate we gave Gil back on Neverland."

offering up a teasing smirk, harry pushes himself up onto his elbows, keeping his gaze on her. amused more than anything else. "oh, is tha' 'ow it's gonna be? ye would 'ave tae get control first an' I'm not so sure I'd make it easy this time 'round. not that I wouldn't enjoy being tied up an' all. but I think it would be fun tae see 'ow ye would act, always so close tae tha' orgasm but never allowed tae 'ave it."

Oh,  yeah the conversation was definitely getting to her. Was she about to admit to that, hell no. Not right now at least. "Huh. What makes you think you're in control currently?"  Gaze roams over his features slow, before appearing bored and laying back down comfortably, ignoring the small discomfort of her wound. "Nah -- I think I'll be spending more time with the boys." She's resisting the urge to smile to herself, keeping a stoic face, for as long as she can at least.

that was a good question. in reality, harry was just trying to put on an act, try and see what he could achieve with it. uma was always the one in control, there was no doubt about that one. before anything can be said on his part, the next words are out and eyes are widening. harry shoots up, much to the displeasure of his side, concern in his gaze. "uma, c'mon. don't ye think 'bout ignoring me tha' way." the reaction certainly spoke on the codependency between the two of them.

There it is. The only proof she needed of how easy it was to get under his skin, of how she could remain there for days to come. “No?” Brow arches at his swift movements, half expecting him to be wincing in pain but nothing. “Why not? If we’re apart for a few days the sex might be that much greater.” She knows there’s more to it than that of course. Another moment of pause and then she’s smiling up at him, “Lay down Harry. I won’t leave you like that. “

his head is shaking, a moment of panic setting in at the idea. the last time they'd been apart for a long distance was after he'd tried to kill himself, and that had been agony. though it may seem utterly unhealthy in the eyes of everyone else, harry needed to be by her side lest he fall completely apart without uma. a small whimper escapes, and then there's that smile. her words calm him for the moment, thought he first mate is finally grimacing in pain, hand resting at his side as he shifts back down onto the bed. "ye promise? I don't like being apart from ye. last time was horrible an' I don't want tha' again."

Eyes stay glued to his mark for a moment, waiting to see if it would start bleeding through the padding. Thankfully there’s nothing and thusly she’s able to lay back against him, offering a soft coo as comfort. “Never again. The only time I’ll be without you is in death, and I have no intention of dying any time soon honey.” Kiss is pressed to his chest once and then twice, “and I promise I’ll try not to get you so worked up until your mark is healed.” Key word isn’t it.

once more harry is able to relax, the worry and panic subsided by her words. he supposes it speaks volumes to their relationship just how worked up he could get over something that had most likely just been uma teasing. "I got no intention o' allowing tha' tae 'appen anytime soon either. I'll be by yer side in this life an' the next." smile finally finds its way back to his lips , letting his eyes slide shut. "guess I can try an' promise tha' aa well. only fair."

In this life and the next. His words have a warm sensation spreading over her entire body, a feeling of comfort —- of home. Uma would always protect him and nurture him to her best ability, plain and simple.  “Yeah? Promise is a promise right?” But it really would be so easy to keep their little teasing game up, she wouldn’t even have to do much. “Does it hurt much? You moved rather quickly. “

no matter what came there way, harry would always be there by her side. nothing in the world was ever going to change that. "s'pose it is. guess it all depends if we wanna live up tae it or not. ye do always enjoy teasing." his side does hurt, more so than it had moments ago due to the quickness of the movement. at least he's not bleeding through the bandage. "lil' bit. stupid o' me tae do. me own fault."

Yes, she did enjoy the teasing. “Don’t think we have any pain killers but we do have more booze.” It’s offered simply enough. “Can’t make it heal completely, but I can take some of the pain away so you can try and sleep.” Fingers ghost across his skin slowly, “might make it easier for you?”

"never against any booze." helped a bit with the pain before they had begun, and harry knew fully well how it could easily dull the senses. the offer brings forth yet another smile. no, he's not exactly used to uma using her magic on him, but he trusts her completely. "I wouldn't mind tha' at all. jus' wish I could do the same fer ye."

Soft smile touches at her lips once more before she’s pushing up onto her knees completely, “Im more than alright. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little discomfort.” She could use her own magic on herself but while it would last over a good eight hours for harry it would only last two at most for her. Unless she wanted to delve into the darker magic, which didn’t seem needed. “Hold still yeah?” With that she’s got her hands gently resting against his mark, as lightly as she can before eyes fall shut and she’s focusing her magic on taking away the pain.

that much the first mate was fully aware of. uma was the strongest person that he knew. she could handle absolutely anything that came into her path. "doesn't make me wish I could any less." but unfortunately harry didn't posses that sort of magic himself. he's silent, watching her concentrate on the task. he can feel warmth coming from where her hands are, and slowly the pain beginning to subside. "sure as 'ell put that traitor tae shame with yer magic," he mumbles out.

Harry had other ways of helping her deal with pain, helping her in any matter really. There’s a faint smile on her lips though she doesn’t speak, favouring to continue for another minute and then just as abruptly she’s done, leaning back. “Thank you.” A nod in his direction, “Don’t push it but how do you feel?”

pausing, harry focuses on where the pain had been. it had dulled away, barley there any longer. sure, he could feel a few remnants but it wasn't like it had been before. letting out a soft sigh, he reached out, hand carefully caressing her cheek. "much better than before. thank ye, uma. definitely won't be moving tha' fast again until it's all healed up."

Eyes briefly shut at the touch, leaning into it. home. That is what Harry is to her. “Mhmm.” The healing process would take some time for the two of them but once everything was said and done? It’d would be a beautiful and constant reminder of who they belong to, who held their souls. “What about moving slow?” Brow arches matching a coy grin spreading only for Uma to lean forward and catch his lips in soft kiss.

her question raises curiosity, ready to question what she was getting at until lips are pressing against his. ah, so that was what she was getting at. while harry might not always be a fan of slow, he supposed this would do just fine. keeping his hand against her cheek, he returned the kiss, keeping it gentle, loving.

While she would be more than happy to engage in anything carnal Uma also knows that there’s only so much one can do without further hurting their marks. The natural instinct is to crawl into his lap completely but instead she settles on being where she is, only breaking the kiss to trail new ones along his jaw, murmuring praise and —- “I love you. “

his heart is racing, eyes falling shut as harry focuses on the kiss. normally this would end with them tangled together, softness turning into something a bit rougher. but sadly they're unable to push too much lest both of them want to be in more pain. harry hardly wants to diminish the magic that had been used on him. fighting back a groan, eyes remain closed as he breathes out softly. "uma," whispered like a prayer. "I love ye so much." hand finds it's way to her hair once more stroking through the strands.

She has always loved the way her name sounds on his tongue, no matter the situation or context. “I know.” Bliss, that’s what being with Harry brings her. Pure and raw bliss. Nothing could ever change that, nor any living soul. Oh how she wants to touch him, wants to be that much closer. “Should have fucked before we marked each other.” There’s laughter lingering in her tone as words are mouth against his skin, moving down across his neck. “Oh well —- we can always make up for lost time later. “

any thought of sleep had completely subsided the moment that her lips had found his once more. his adrenaline had run out long ago, and though harry may be tired, like hell was he going to let any of these moments go. this was everything that he could have asked for. so much love, so much happiness. groaning at the words, the first mate wants to kick himself for not thinking about that. "an' now we can't fer a while now." heavy, dramatic sigh escapes from the pirate. still, her actions are hardly helping him right now. neck tilts out of instinct. "or maybe I'll jus' die without getting laid fer who knows 'ow long."

Uma wants to point out that while he says one thing, his body’s instincts are another entirely. It falls to the waist side as lips turn upward into a smile, laughing against his neck. “You’re not going to die from blue balls, Harry. “ not to mention the dramatics of it all. “Give it a few days and you’ll be fine.” Another kiss. “technically we can still do other stuff.”

another groan. leave it to harry, always pulling out the dramatics. it was one of the many things he did best. "who knows, it could 'appen. 'specially since I'm used tae getting laid more often than not." he tries not to squirm, tries to remain still lest he cause any sort of pain. "mm? care tae tell me what." harry knows, of course, but he would much prefer uma say it out loud just for the fun of it all.

It could happen. That has uma laughing once more,  nuzzling into the column of his neck as if to shield the laughter. “If that’s the case I’m pretty sure a lot of us would have died back on the Isle.” Really? Uma’s nipping at pulse point, “You want the technical term?” How they can go from one conversation of dependence to this is astounding. “Well —- we can always make out but you know, with the whole dying from blue balls it’s probably better if I just suck you off instead. “

she has a fair point there. the isle may have been a cruel, unjust place but not everyone tended to be like harry had been. his reputation was well known, which was a fact the first mate prided himself on. even so, uma knows how to break him down and make everything feel new all over. "fuck." it's said so bluntly, so matter so matter of fact that it has his head reeling. "I mean -- tha' does sound like a damn good time."

Had he really expected anything else from her? While Uma always enjoyed teasing she just as thoroughly enjoyed getting to the point. “Told you, theres plenty of other stuff we could do.” Another kiss against skin before she’s moving to prop herself up beside him, gaze roaming over him slowly. Oh, she’s more than content to just sleep the night away in his arms but where would the fun in that be?

she did have a point, as much as harry still enjoyed complaining just for the fun of it. he could manage the smaller things while they healed up if only to ensure less pain for them both. it was their own fault anyhow that they were in this situation. not that harry had any regrets. far from it. he watches her silently, amusement gleaming in blue hues. "ye always know 'ow tae get straight tae the point. I love it.”

“It’s a talent.” Smug grin matching the hint of mischief in her eyes. Fresh wound or not, it wouldn’t stop her from pleasing Harry. So what if they couldn’t have sex? Uma just proved there’s other ways they can enjoy themselves. “Think you’re up for that, hook? Or are we putting a pause on our libidos for the time being?”

a very good question. putting a pause on his libido seemed to be an impossible thing to do even with the fresh wound. while it may not be full on sex, it was certainly still something. and besides, they had all the time in the world right now. no one would bother them. "ye know I'm always up fer it, love. doubt I could ever put a pause on tha' libido o' mine."

Singular brow comes to arch before chuckle leaves the captain. “As do I.” It’s no secret that Harry has had several partners over the years, but none of them does uma hold against him. “Prop yourself up with the pillows.” Shes gesturing to the other pillow beside him, pulling her hair over to one side. “If at any time you need to stop, let me know, yeah?” Uma wasn’t sure if any pressure around his hips would hurt, or even if certain movements would

it shouldn't have come as much as a surprise that the two of them had eventually wound up in this sort of situation. somehow things always seemed to lead down it one way or another. grabbing the pillow, harry is carefully situating that one and the other in order to make it far more comfortable. "O' course, I'll tell ye tha' right away. same goes for ye, love."

Sex was something that Uma enjoyed as a whole but with Harry there was always some added sense of CHAOTIC energy. It was exciting. Orbs are slow moving over his form, pushing the blanket away only to let gaze wander further, lingering on his wound. Pleasure or not, harry would know better than to not tell her if he was in pain and so with her  mind made up she’s moving between his legs, hand patting at his thigh as a silent notion to get him to move it just slightly, giving her more room. Gaze flickers up to his before smirk finds its way upon her features, fingers curling around his cock setting a slow pace.

he's looking forward to this, eagerness coursing through the first mate. really, he had expected the two of them to either keep talking through the rest of the night and into the early morning. or to fall asleep eventually. shouldn't have been too surprised, knowing the both of them. biting down on his lower lip, harry manages to keep himself still rather than bucking his hips up into the hand, knowing full well that would cause some pain. it wasn't easy, though, not with the slow pace uma has set. "fuck. yer such a damn tease," he groaned out.

God, he looks so beautiful in this moment. "Your point?" Uma counters as smirk grows, wrist twisting as she pumps him. Free hand rests on his thigh before she's leaning down against him, tongue trailing along the size of him. They may not be able to hae sex, but she's fully content being able to please him in other forms. Eyes snap up to his once more as she takes him in her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she goes.

hardly a point to be made. both of them were fully aware they could teases in these sorts of situations. harry certainly enjoyed trying to get a rise out of uma with his teasing. groaning low, he manages to keep his gaze locked on uma, hand reaching out to grasp at the bed sheet. fuck, this was so much more difficult when he couldn't actually move his hips without any pain.

Does it make it a little difficult to continue knowing that certain movements will limit them? To an extent yes, but it also has something spiking in Uma; knowing that if Harry even tries to lift himself to her touch, it'll hurt.  SMUG that's how she feels, really.  It's easy for Uma to press her luck when in this situation, a glint of mischief catching in her gaze before she's taking him as deep as she can, nearly choking before coming back up and repeating the action.

oh, he's fully aware that uma is completely messing with him in this moment. she's fully aware that he is unable to do much of anything given their current situation, making this all the more difficult. growl escapes as his hand clutches the bed sheets tightly, tugging them. it's getting harder and harder for harry to keep himself still -- harder to keep reminding himself that it's necessary with the pleasure overwhelming him. "fucking 'ell. yer evil."

Uma gets off on seeing him like this, knowing that it's her causing him to completely lose himself within the bliss of pleasured euphoria.  It would be so easy to just crawl atop of him, take them both to another level entirely but with wounds so fresh that pleasure surely wouldn't be enough to take away the pain; the dull ache she feels another frustrating reminder of just that. Lips release him in favor of low chuckle catching in her throat, hand replacing her lost actions to keep the edge up and then -- "If I was evil, I'd STOP."

eyes slide shut, loud moan slipping from nearly bloodied lips. desperation was beginning to sink in, desire only growing. oh, how badly the first mate wanted to further this, move on to that next step and have the both of them completely falling apart with pleasure. but, damn it, harry knew that it wasn't a possibility right in this moment as much as a part of him was tempted to just ignore it all. thoughts are interrupted when uma is releasing him, frustrated groan slipping out until her hand is returning him. eyes slide open, shooting a glare towards her. "we both know yer not below doing tha'." and he was close, too. that would just be torture.

Of course she was capable of it, but that didn't mean she would, even if it was tempting. Hooded gaze shifts from him momentarily, watching her hands ministrations and then; "If we didn't have our marks, I would."  Uma thoroughly enjoyed edging Harry until the point of desperation, but in the situation they found themselves in, it simply wouldn't be fair.  It would be cruel, and that's the last thing she intends, proven as she's taking him back into her mouth, deep.

their marks. even though they had done it just moments ago, that reminder had harry reeling completely. they truly belonged to one another -- body, heart, and soul. before anything can be said, he can feel her mouth around him once more and he's gasping, tugging roughly at the bed sheets as curses spill past his lips. still as frustrating as before not being able to do anything else but lay there. "fuck, I -- uma."

It's beautiful to watch him come undone, to listen to each and everyone single one of his noises; her own hum falling as she comes up for air. "yes?" It's out as though she genuinely expects him to answer, amused and encouraging. It barely lasts before she's going back down, nose brushing against skin and eyes flicker up to his, hollowing her cheeks as she stays in place as long as she can only to come up, repeating it all over again.

he's been completely undone in this moment, desperation taken hold as he forces himself to remain still. moans spill from him, growing louder the more overwhelmed harry becomes with the pleasure. he can't take much more, especially as he watches uma, falling apart all over again. leave it to her to always know what would bring him over that edge. "I'm close," he moaned out, any attempt to give a warning.

[abraxas-m]

timestamp:  002 IN VINO VERITAS, grappenhall heys walled garden, august 1st, 18:08 pm

privacy: not warded

tagging: taliesin lestrange/ @taliesinlestrange​

abraxas arrived at the festival with a sour taste on his tongue. his mother used to bring him here when he was a kid, still a prince who wasn’t denied a single whim. later he grew up and didn’t want to be seen with his mother, thinking himself as a mature and independent young man. in hindsight, he couldn’t have been more wrong and that thought brought a small smile to his face. he’d come a long way to still cling on memories of mommy dearest instead of just enjoying himself. 

he walked around, wandering through the many vendors and savouring the feeling of the hot summer sun on his skin. after a while everything was starting to look the same and abraxas decided to grab a beer and take a break from all the hustle and bustle going on around him. without giving it much thought, or any at all, he just sat down on a bench and sprawled on the warm wood, before realising that someone was already there. turning to apologise, he came across a familiar face. 

“didn’t last long at the memorial?” he asked as he gathered himself and contained his presence to the space that seemed proper, creating some distance between them. 

[xaphrin]

Obiyuki Bookstore AU? :3

[Look,it’s THATWEEK,and I didn’t do anything because… I suck? But here. Have 4k+ ofnonsensical backstory for an AU I nearly forgot about (and youprobably did too)]

“Letyourself in, why don’t you.” Obi looked up from the ledger infront of him and let out a small, annoyed breath. He set his jaw andwatched as his employers tried to wedge themselves into the tightshop that served as his home and base. Master and Mitsuhide wereenough to fill the space between his shelves and his desk, but Kikiseemed to add almost toomuchinthe ways of bodies, and they all half-spilled into the street.

Hisone-eyed tabby yowled at them and made a swipe at Kiki’s heel.

“It’surgent.”

“Ofcourse it is.” Obi closed his ledger and wedged a hand under hischin with another aggravated noise. Zen had always been his best allyand hisclosestfriend, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t get on Obi’s nervesfrom time-to-time. Especially when Zen seemed so willing to letShirayuki slip through his fingers. “Like every other mission yousend me on, Master?”Hisstare turned flat and he cocked his head to the side, expressionthin, watching them try to make room for everyone. “Please, makeyourselves at home. Would you like me to prepare tea for you? Makeyou something to-”

“It’sserious.”Zen moved closer to the small fire in the back of the store, making asmall amount of space for Mitsuhide and Kiki to fill. He stepped overa pile of books and settled onto the wobbly stool by the logs.“There’s been a… something happened and it’s… I need…”His tongue seemed to tighten, and Zen looked away, rubbing the backof his neck.

Obilifted an eyebrow. “Use your words, Master.”

Zen’shead fell into his hands, a broken sound escaping his throat. “It’sall my fault.”

Obicould feel his stomach drop and his heart sputter in his chest. Whatin the world was all of this about? His hand clenched and the scarslashed across his chest itched, as if his whole body was preparingto leap into action without his permission.

“Shirayukihas been kidnapped.” Kiki’s voice was clear and concise, gettingright to the point. She leveled her stare at Obi, somehow managing tosay every detail in that look alone, and gave Mitsuhide an indelicateshove to get him out of the way. “By guards from Tanbarun.”

Obifelt his stomach drop and his ears start to ring, drowning out thesound of the city outside his door and the last few tones of Kiki’svoice. All he could seem to focus on ws his own breathing as memoriesof Shirayuki filled the back of his mind. He blinked, turning thewords over in his mind with enough weight that his own body seemed togrow so heavy that he wasn’t sure if he remembered how to move.Kidnapped?Shehad just been in here last week, poring over the book he bought herin the south, and stuffing him full of her orange and spice biscuits.a few weeks before that, she had been pressed against his side by thefire as she spun haphazard retellings of Tanbarun folktales. It feltlike the world had been ripped from underneath him and he was lefthanging in the middle of nothing, simply waiting to fall.

“Itwas my fault.” Zen repeated, his words still muffled by his hands.“I shouldn’t have left her alone while Prince Raj was visiting,and I knew he was still upset, and…”

Obicould feel himself start to move without telling his body to do so.He wanted desperatelytobe angry with Zen. How could he be so careless when Zen knew the fullbreadth of Shirayuki’s history with Raj? And when Raj was stillslighted by Shirayuki leaving him her hair as she escaped? Zen knewallof this, and yet he was so… so stupid.But, in spite of all of that, Obi was still struggling to be angrywith his employer, especially when their top priority was savingShirayuki right now. He would find the time to be angry later, now heneeded a plan.  

Obiopened the draw in his desk and removed his knives, hiding them inthe folds of his clothes. Mentally he began ticking off a list ofthings that needed to be completed, while categorizing all the routesthe Tanbarun guards could have taken her. There would have beenbetween ten and twenty of the best guards who were most loyal to theprince, and that would have left them to stick to only the mostheavily traveled routes and the widest roads - especially for thecomfort of the prince. “Where is she?”

“Wetracked them as far as the moors that border the kingdoms.” Kikiwas the only one in this situation who hadn’t seemed to lose hercool just yet, and Obi was grateful for that small miracle. The moorshad two major roads, and one of them snaked through a swamp - thesmell would have been too offensive for Raj’s delicate nose, sothat left only one road they would be on. That was somewhere tostart.

“Shewas taken a few days ago.”

“Afew days?”Obi turned and glared at Zen, the first time he had let his emotionsget the better of him. His anger was finally starting to boil hot,bubbling under his skin until it threatened to break free in the formof sharp words and heavy fists. How could Zen be so careless?“Were you waiting for a formal invite to rescue Mistress, YourHighness?”

Zenat least had the decency to look offended. “We were trying to avoida diplomatic upheaval, and I don’t need your critique on how Ihandled the situation. It was the only choice I had to avoid anall-out war between the kingdoms over a- a girl-”

Obibit his tongue to keep from pointing out that barely a year ago Zenwould have gladly started a war if it meant saving Shirayuki. Butclearly things had changed between him and the kingdom.

“-Iam doing the best I can, Obi…” Zen’s back hunched at he staredat the floor. “But, I need you to finish this-”

“Youmean clean up after your mistakes?” Obi’s words had bitetothem, and he reached into a cabinet behind his desk to fish out hisemergency pack. “If you had thought through this with a little moreclarity, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You’reright!” Zen stood up and threw his hands in the air. His voiceseemed to cut through the dust of the shop with the slash of a knife.“Is that what you want to hear? That I’m wrong and you’re right- about everything.You’re right, I should have handled this differently, and I didn’t.And now Shirayuki is practically in another kingdom, and I’m leftstruggling to fix the errors from my mistakes.” He gnashed histeeth and lifted those too-blue eyes to Obi’s and glared. “I’mnot here as a prince, I’m here as a friendaskingmy friendforhelp.”

Godsbe damned, Zen knew exactly how to say things that made him feelguilty. Obi glared back at him, muttering something rude under hisbreath.   

“Discretion.”Kiki let go of a soft breath and placed herself between them, tryingto steer them both clear of a fight.  She held out her arms andmet both of their stares with one of solidarity. “We need this tobe met with your usualdiscretion,Obi. No one knows who you are or why you’re there -  a bookpeddler traveling between cities.”

Obiscoffed.

“Itwould be best if no one saw you at all.”

Obigritted his teeth and looked around Kiki to meet Zen’s downtroddenexpression, the fight seemingly bled out of him until just thehollowness of his worry and failure filled him. Obi felt a twinge inhis heart, a small thread of guilt pulling at him. Zen had been inhis life long enough that Obi considered him like family - almost asif they were brothers. And just like any other siblings, Obi foundhim questioning his brother’s decisions more often than not. Zenwould make a fine ruler someday, but right now he needed to get hishead out of his ass.

Obiran a hand down his face and looked away. “I swear, you’rehazardous to her health sometimes.” He shook his head and movedthrough the rest of his small shop, picking up things he had storedand secreted away - in case of an emergency, like this. “When Ireturn with her, you’re going to have to prove to me that you won’tlet her get into any more damage with you hanging around.”

“I…”Zen tried to think of something pointed to say, but it seemed to dieon his lips. “Just get her back safe.”

“Mm.”Obi hefted a small bag over his shoulders and took his cloak downfrom a hook by the door. “I’ll need a place to rest on our wayback. The fall retreat by the river?”

“Takeit. Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

Obipaused at the door and he turned around, meeting Zen’s face with aleveled expression. “I will get her back… but do not forget theconversation we had several months ago, Master.Don’tforget what I said.”

Zensighed and his shoulders dropped, the fight stripped from him. “Iknow.”

-

Shirayukifound herself teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Her mind was anumb fog of thoughts that held little substance, but seemed to bedrenched in sensation. Every bone in her body ached from a night ofhard riding, but she kept herself quiet, leaning back into the warmthof Obi behind her. He tensed just a little before easing into hertouch, but instead of trying to soften the ride, he instead drove thesteed harder, pushing it to its very limits as if he absolutelyneededtoput an entire country between him and the camp they escaped from.  

Shirayukibit back an annoyed sound, each muscle in her body aching with everyjostle from the steed under them. She had lost count of the hours ofnight they had sped through, the stars and moon overhead shifting sosubtly before disappearing into heavy clouds above them. It had beennothing but pitch-black for hours now, stretching around them in aninky darkness she couldn’t measure. Somewhere far-off a songbirdbegan it’s morning trill, the notes disappearing into the mist. Shecould see a thin line of gray inching over the eastern horizon, as ifdawn was clawing its way closer and closer to them. But, even with ashard as they had ridden and how careful they had been, Shirayukiwasn’t entirely sure if they had put enough space between them andthe camp of soldiers.

Thesteed started to slow down, pushed far beyond its limits for toolong, and if the situation wasn’t so dire Shirayuki would have feltmore than just marginally guilty for the beast. The three of themwould rest soon, she knew it. Obi turned off the road and onto awooded path, the branches and underbrush practically swallowing themwhole. A thin drizzle of rain had started to fall, splatteringagainst the leaves to hide their sound and spilling onto the earth,obscuring their tracks. A drop of water splashed onto her cheek andslid down her face. Shirayuki shivered, but Obi just pulled the oiledhood tighter around her head, shifting in the saddle to give her morespace to move.

“Itisn’t much farther, Miss. I promise that we’ll rest up ahead.”He pressed his mouth close to her ear, his voice a ragged whisperthat she had heard only a few times before. She stiffened in thesaddle, her back curling against his chest as he moved closer. “We’llneed a day or two to lay low, rest, and let the rain wash away ourescape. Then we’ll head back to Wistal and back into the protectionof your pharmacy. You have my word.”

Thatwas a lot coming from him. Shirayuki eased only a little, and feltthe bunch of his thighs press tightly under her own as he moved thehorse back into a swift trot. A shiver worked its way down her spine,settling in the pit of her stomach where it blossomed into a myriadof emotions she couldn’t quitename.“Will they find us? Out here, I mean?”

“Unlikely.We’re too far from a town, too far from the main road, and in adirection they wouldn’t think to look. It was safer to take us aways west before heading back to the palace - it throws them off ourtrail.” He turned down another path, this one narrower and moreovergrown, and let the steed slow down just enough to catch hisbreath. By now the skies had turned a dark gray, and a low rumblesounded in the distance, warning them both of an oncoming storm thatwas undoubtedly worse than anything they faced up until now. “We’llstill have to be careful though. No fires tonight. No candles.Nothing that could alert even civilians to our presence.”

Alone.In the middle of nowhere. With… with Obi.A week ago that had been a silly, girlish fantasy, but under thecircumstances it seemed… Shirayuki shook her head. Nowwasnot the time to be thinking about this at all.

“Where…where are we going?”

“Yourdashing prince lent us his fall retreat for the time being.” Obiseemed to grin behind her, adjusting himself in the saddle again.“And I fully intend on taking advantage of the time to pick my waythrough the royal stores of whisky.”

Shirayukilooked over her shoulder, watching his eyes sparkle with mischief andsomething that seemed playful. Her heart skipped in her chest,missing beats and fluttering too tightly against her ribs, and shewhipped back around to stare at the path in front of them. It waseasier to examine the shadows that seemed to fill all the spacesbetween the trees, than to look at that teasing joy in his eyes.Shirayuki could handle thoughtful silence, she stillhadn’tlearned how to combat her own emotions when he looked like… that.Silencestretched before them again, and Shirayuki listened to the call ofthe birds and the rain that spilled over the leaves. Obi finallybroke through the path to a modest, but stately two-story housewedged in between two massive trees close to the river.

“Yourcastle for the day, Mistress.”

Thehouse seemed so cold and empty, no bustle of servants running around.Only a few scraggly chickens poked at the ground before retreatinginto their coop as another rumble of thunder passed overhead. Butthere was no life, no other people, not even a dog or a cat. It wasjust them, and a reminder to her that they were - yet again -completelyalone. 

Obislowed the steed down as they approached the stables, and he swunghimself down off the saddle before helping Shirayuki down back onsolid earth. Her muscles cried in pain and her bones creaked andpopped with every movement, but she was happy to finally be on groundagain. She sent up a small prayer for little joys, and moved her bodyslowly, taking in the overgrown state of the lawn. Obi quietly pennedthe steed, thanking it and petting it as it to apologize for suchharsh treatment for so long. The horse just snorted and trotted away,drinking water and chewing on grass. Obi watched it for a momentlonger before taking Shirayuki’s hand and leading her up a smallpath to the house.

“Doyou have any injuries that need tending to?” Obi opened theservants entrance and led her inside to a quiet kitchen. “Anythingthat occurred while you were at the Tanbarun camp?”

“No…”Her wrists had been a little chafed by the rope rope, but therewasn’t much else. Well, perhaps her body needed to regain it’snormal range of movement, but that was nothing that a good walkthrough the house wouldn’t cure. A good walk and an hour ofquestions that suddenly needed answered. She lifted her stare toObi’s and watched as he shed a small pack and his own cloak ontothe table. It was then that the heavens opened up, pounding heavy,earth drenching rain against the thick glass of the kitchen.

“Ihave questions.” Her voice sounded small, drowned out my the noiseof the storm. “Manyquestions.”

Hisstare flicked to her own, mouth tilting to the side in a smile sherecognized far too much. It was a movement that said he would onlytell as much as he wanted, and when he was done talking, she was doneasking questions. “I’m sure you do, Mistress.” He paused,digging through the pack to pull out some provisions that had managedto stay dry. “If you want, you may ask them.”

“Butyou don’t promise to answer them?” Shirayuki curled her toes inher boots, waiting.

“Youknow me so well, Miss. What makes you think this changes anythingabout me? About us.”

Us.Theway he said it was a reminder of their friendship. A reminder thatthey had known each other for a long while, and had grown close. Thiswas part of him that she hadn’t learned yet, but it was still partof him.It didn’t change the man he was, or the man she had grown to know.It was another story she had yet to find the ending too, and itdidn’t mean that she didn’t want to know the ending. She shiftedagain, watching as he looked around the kitchen.

“So,you… you don’t sell books?” That seemed an astute assumption,no matter how silly.

“Ohno, I do.”He moved around her, taking in the state of the kitchen. A smallshelf scattered with preserves had caught his attention, and hepicked through the jars looking for something to eat. His eyes methers for a brief moment, a curious darkness gathering in them. “Iassure you that is myshop.Owned and managed by my own two hands.”

“Then…”

“It’sjust not my primarysourceof income.” He pulled down a jar of apple butter, and another oneof preserved vegetables. He finally turned around and looked at herfully, making sure the entire length of the kitchen was between them.It was as if the space gave him a bit of armor he would not have insuch an intimate setting. “If that’s what you’re questioning.So, yes.The shop is mine. I own it. I manage it. I sell books. Sometimes fromfar away places, sometimes from places a little bit closer to home.”

Sheswallowed, uncertain of how she should ask the next question.Shirayuki’s heart pounded in her ears and she watched him movecloser, each step quiet on the floor. Her throat was dry, but shetried to force the words out anyway. “Are you… a…”

Awhatexactly?An agent for the crown? How in the world could she think to ask himthat?

Thankfully,Obi answered for her, his eyes leveled. “My skills do not includejustbooks,Mistress.”

“Oh.”Shirayuki wished she could think of something more articulate thanthat, but words seemed to escape her. She had a hundred morequestions like whyandhowandforwhom.Shefound herself suddenly wondering about stories and tales that heundoubtedly had and what those were like. She found herself wantingto know more about this side of him - the side that she didn’t havea chance to learn about yet.

Andinstead of saying anything at all, she stared blankly into his face,waiting.

Obi’sexpression softened and he moved even closer to her, invading herspace as easily as he had a hundred times before. “You’re tiredfrom tonight’s ride.”

Shewas.

“It’sbeen a long day and I’m sure you have things you’d like to thinkabout… probably without me around.” He looked away, a hint ofshame hiding in his eyes. “Let’s find a bed for you to rest, andwe can talk more later.”

Heheld out his hand and Shirayuki felt her body react of its ownaccord. She slipped her fingers between his, watching his palmpractically wrap around her entire hand. She felt so small next tohim, like his entire being would swallow her whole. Slowly, shelifted her eyes and met his stare. His eyes were still that strikingshade of gold, watching each of her movements with completefascination behind long lashes. Her heart skipped beats again, andher memories seemed to be flooded with all the little, privatedaydreams she kept locked within her thoughts.

Inspite of everything that she was learning today. This was still herObi.The charming shopkeep that drank brandy and told low-brow jokes andbrought her books from far-away places. The same person who pressedclosed to her in the tight shop and taught her how to read a languageshe had never heard of before. The same person who inquired after herhealth, and told her all the ways she needed to take good care ofherself, because how could he lose a friend like her. Thiswasstillherfriend, a friend she had feelings for that had grown roots deep intoher chest and made her feel things she didn’t always understand.

“I…”

Helifted an eyebrow and watched her, his lips curling up at one side.“Yes?”

“Willyou… stay with me?”

Heblinked, as if shocked by that question, and his hand loosened itsgrip a fraction. “With you?”

“Ah…I… while I sleep, I mean.” Heat curled up her neck, staining hercheeks and bleeding into her hair. Just once in her life, she’dlike to say something to him and not have to awkwardly clarify itseconds later. “I… I don’t want to be alone. It’s dark andstorming and… ”

Tanbarun.

Theword hung unspoken between them. Somewhere in the back of her mind,Shirayuki knew she should have been quivering for her ownself-preservation, that there was a lot from her own experience sheneeded to unravel and process in its own way. That was the reason Obiwas here in the first place - because she had been kidnapped. ButObi… Obi seemed infinitely more important, and this new revelationwas just part of it. With Obi standing in front of her looking everybit the bookseller she cared for and the rogue she wanted to knowmore about, thiswaswhat seemed to be the thing she wanted to focus on. This was whatdemanded her attention.

Sheheld onto the folds of her skirt as another rumble of thunder inchedits way closer to the house. “Please? Just… just for a while.”

Obi’sexpression softened. “Of course, Mistress. Whatever you need.”His smile tilted to the side again, almost teasing as he took anotherstep into her space. The scent of parchment and brandy mingled withfinely oiled metal and fresh rain, creating something new entirely.Shirayuki could feel parts of her awaken again - the parts she hadnearly forgotten about in the long ride from the camp.

Hecurled his fingers under her chin, tilting her face towards his. “Andif you’d like, I will read to you to keep you company.”

[horizon99krp-blog]

– KILLJOYS, MAKE SOME NOISE –

PLUTONIUM, a PROTO has been spotted on the edges of Horizon99 !  Identified as ARES FURYAN TENEBRIS DARKEN, they have been living as a SCAVENGER for some time now, recognized for holding no loyalties in this wasteland.  They were created 7 years ago, designed to look 24 years old, with a tendency to act abrasive, arrogant, flirtatious, and lethal.  Unfortunately they are unregistered, with an operating license number of 2445900.

Real question now is… how will they react when the whole sky falls ?

PULL THE PIN AND LET THIS WORLD EXPLODE, GIVE US MORE DETONATION

abrasive on purpose, the war machine is every sort of sun-scorched patch of hell made available to him, his programming only able to account partial responsibility for his indefinite attitude, the sparks of independent intelligence having infested his circuitry since well before he is able to remember. he draws himself a portrait and then detonates inside of it, chaotic and arrogant and furious, the rage of his temper rivalling that of the tumultuous sandstorms that devastate the valley of slaughter occasionally. he enjoys battles, enjoys the stakes, the adrenaline, the flames, even when he can’t afford the risk involved, takes the blade point to the chest anyway; damn the consequences.

his ego is only slightly offset by an unexpected amount of charm, a flirtatious inclination heralded by fragments of a past life he only vaguely knows snippets about, the flashes of memories haunting him, snapping at his heels like dogs. he knows he worked in the sex trade, knows he was created to be aesthetically pleasing, anatomically correct, uses that to his advantage as often as possible, adheres himself to people’s weakest sides. despite how often he fights, despite how volatile his temper colors him, he finds flirting to be just as amusing.

THE FUTURE IS BULLETPROOF, THE AFTERMATH IS SECONDARY

PROLOGUE

the compound is a matte grey blotch against the wasteland skyline, a discoloration inverted against the pale, beige settings, standing unnatural in the blazing light, a large makeshift tent with no means of camoflauge, no cover of concealment, each corner jutting out offensively. either in daytime or under stars, the monstrosity sits, an obscene eyesore shifting a few miles here and there depending on the weather, the stakes ripped up from the gravel, the motors carrying it to whichever location suits it best for nefarious dealings, the insides seething with slime, with dust, with sin. screaming and wailing and pleading, women moaning and begging, men crying and yelling, gunshots and subsequent thuds of heavy objects ( bodies colliding into the sands and melting away into oblivion ) can be heard echoing from its creases at all hours of the night, and for a long time only the desert winds pull at the sound, only the hills absorb this travesty, the structure too far away from the city cybernetics, too distanced from helpful hands.

human and proto trafficking is a trade as old as the devil himself, dirty dealings done in clubside lounges translating into a hundred plus sentient lifeforms crammed into a space only meant for half that, feed an amount only meant a quarter of that. there is not enough for survival on horizon as it is, they say, the words always preceding an idea of some sort of purge ( which of course would never involve anyone with enough coin to pay ).

but a shadow falls over the door of the establishment, tall and lean and vengeful, with wings made from heavy machine guns, the barrels all adjusted and wired for pinprick accuracy, because the sky isn’t the only one with eyes out here in the valley of slaughter, the sun is not the only thing that burns. he carries the scent of a wolvern threaded into his clothing, a massive hide spread across his shoulders; he carries knives and bullets and a merciless vigor, an unquenchable aggression, a haunting grin that splits his face in two like a horror story, eyes red like a hungry sunset, the vulture in his chest starving for death. he bares the name of an ancient god of war, half mythos, half bloodlust, every inch of him a history divined from fades pages, a hoax perhaps at first, but now interwoven into the metallic core of him; he is a machine and a god, sent from heaven, sent from hell, sent from every holy nightmare you don’t want to remember.

the grin morphs into a grimace as his teeth clench, his fists tighten, the inhuman rage rippling through him as he shatters the door off its shitty hinges, crippling the entrance, breaking inside the edifice to lay siege to its protectors, to wreak havoc on their operations. he rains hails of bullets and sharp edges over the slavers, the destruction and mayhem nothing short of a bomb exploding inside these corners, human degradations meeting the war machine within their last couple of breaths before he rips their lungs out, their tongues and limbs and shredded pistols strewn useless across the floor by the end of it.

later, when the dislodged people spill from their confines, humans and protos clawing for the scraps of life alike, a woman grasps his wrist in gratitude, falls on her shaking knees, kisses him praises, crowns him glorious, but he just looks down at her, crimson eyes glowing in the yawning dusk atmosphere, watching this soft, breakable, fleshy thing of a creature, and chuckles, “i didn’t do it for you.”

FILES STORED  // WHAT HE DOES REMEMBER

001. the first time he kills a wovern is the first time he realizes why the gang is named after them and why he wears a leather jacket with the predators engraved on it; they are not easy to slay. even for something like him. the city of fyrestone is not foolish for having decided that running is honestly the best course of action in the face of these beasts. by the second kill, he begins to share attributes to their combat style; all teeth and jagged edges, claws and snarls and the absolute certainty of a massacre.

002. the underdome is both a lot easier and a lot more difficult than fighting in the flesh fair, depending on the day, the mooncycle, the rate of popularity, and the chaos in the crowd. also whether or not they’ve heard his name before, whether or not he’s a fan favorite or just death’s favorite, whether or not he makes the kill interesting enough to distract his audience away from everything else he’s trying to accomplish.

003. mad lacie likes when he wears high heels and fishnets, likes when he comes to her begging for a treatment, begging for a booster, whether he can afford it or not, likes when he dooms himself with every gulp of adrenaline, to save a heart not worth saving. so he does.

004. they tell him his heart is not worth saving and it sits and beats on the right side of his chest and he thinks about cutting it out sometimes while the moons hang high and the winds howl longingly in his ears, the wastelands spanning out forever. it beats and beats and beats, and he knows it’s breaking.

005. when he wakes up in the shop, tora, the gang’s leader, is standing over him, the scars on his face making him even uglier than the personality he’d implanted into his pet war machine, and when ares asks what happened, he explains it all in that rough, sanded voice of his, gruff, curt, biting. “when that keg exploded, a lot of our people were caught in the crossfire. we lost sirien, vaager, seulgi, minnie… and isbin.” all the words in the universe dry up and die inside ares’ throat, the sun shades into greys, all sounds sink down into the ground, as a cold numbness floods through his bones; a feeling he’s not experienced before. “that’s his heart right there,” tora points down to ares’ open chest, the mechanical ribs outstretched to present the half human heart pumping as though it belongs there.

“he was alive…” ares blinks down at it, dumbfounded. “he was alive when i shut down. i saw him.”

“he was,” a hardened look filters through tora’s gaze, something ares has come to understand as either a lie or a half truth about to spit out from his snake-like lips. “but then he died. and you needed a heart replacement.”

“he died before i needed the replacement?”

“what?”

“did he die first and then you took his heart to put in me?” suddenly the room stills, the air around them and the mechanic standing off to the side becomes dense with intensity. achingly, suffocatingly, ares’ pitch black eyes pin themselves to the flesh and bone man in front of him, his master by most accounts, the question pointed at him like a knife. “or did you see that i needed a heart… and then you…. took it…?”

006. isbin’s eyes remind ares of the sky, remind him of the greenhouses in the city, remind him of a flower blooming somewhere off the edge of the world, a droplet of flora surviving amidst the smog and smoke choking the tall buildings and all their inhabitants. isbin is much smaller than him and gets cold once the sun disappears, so he crawls over to where ares keeps watch over the camp and just curls up against his side, staring up at the stars until he drifts off. he talks to ares sometimes, despite tora’s scoldings, and tells him they are like brothers. ares doesn’t understand the word. not yet.

007. wolverns are fast and sharp and arduous to slay, larger than life and darker than the space between stars, caught between a warning and a legend, their bodies hardwired to withstand against claws and pressures and rippage. but humans are not; humans are soft, humans are delicate, destructible, fragile– loud as they die, screaming and bleeding, they’re voices howling into the empty winds as ares slices through to the cores of them, cutting open muscle and sinew and tendon.

like every other wolvern in this valley, he slaughters his gang, leaves no one alive, leaves no bones uncrushed, no blood unspoilt, no fragment of his gang’s campsite undefiled; he makes himself a hurricane and this is his new legacy, this is his new catastrophic wake, the demon he molds himself into.

he’s still dripping with their blood when he finds what’s left of isbin’s body and buries him under a mound of barren stones, calls it a funeral.

008. they don’t tell him why they are putting him in the dumpster, don’t answer any of his questions, don’t even look at him as they do it, just tell him to stay, to wait, to wait, to wait– and he does. waits as the sun drops, the moons spiraling, waits as scents collect around him, more trash, other scraps of protos, and it’s wrong somehow because he knows he is not scrap. he is fine, he is whole, and he is waiting.

009. taking too much of the booster will kill his heart. taking too little of the booster will let the heart die. all life is good for is fucking and fighting at this stage.

010. protos can’t cry, or at least most of them can’t; they aren’t built with tear ducts in their eyes since that wouldn’t serve a purpose for a functioning robot, wouldn’t play well into the narrative of protos unable to experience the same level of emotions as humans. humans can cry. but protos can only speak, can only shout, can only scream.

so he does.

FILES CORRUPTED  // WHAT HE CAN’T RECALL

001. his life before faceless men put him in a dumpster, the disordered tragedy of sights and sounds, touches and burning, some sort of ache deep in the center of him that he can’t quite name.

002. how many battles has he fought now? how many has he lost?

003. how long does he lose himself in the wasteland these days, each pilgrimage to and from the city becoming more and more rare, his interest in the menagerie hinging on a small few between its walls? at what point will he grow tired of flirting with strangers, death-defying, bullet-biting? how much will be too much? where is the alleyway he will be sauntering through when his heart inevitably cracks and shatters inside his ribcage?

004. the body belonging to a voice he hears echoing through his dreams sometimes when he shuts down.

005. do protos dream?

[greatshell-rider]

100. a feeling of acceleration in your chest (sensory prompts)

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Jerry scolded, shaking his finger at the hatchling perched on his arm.

The hatchling, orange scales fading into copperish red at the wings and belly scales, hissed and bit at Jerry’s finger, but their fangs caught only the thick leather of his glove.

“See? That’s naughty. Naughty,” he repeated for emphasis, gently tugging his finger free before lifting his arm up to an alcove, one of dozens carved into the red sandstone wall like the comb of a beehive. They hopped off his arm and circled around the scanty pile of twigs of their nest before settling down. Tucking their snout under their forearm, they watched Jerry with bright, glittering violet eyes that forecast of mischief to come.

Jerry shook his head, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. “One day you’ll start a fire bigger than you can put out, you know.” He turned and walked down the narrow corridor, feeling the hatchling’s gaze burn into the back of his neck, and sighed, examining the long scratch bleeding red down his left ribs. It was shallow, at least.

“Got you a good one,” Radio observed as Jerry entered their shared room, sounding amused.

“Ruined my last shirt as well,” Jerry grumbled, reaching back and pulling it off. He tossed the shirt in Radio’s direction and the dragon blew a short stream of fire at it. The bloodstained cloth was briefly engulfed in yellow-green flames, then it crumbled to ash to the floor. Barely even gave off a puff of smoke, though a little rose from Radio’s nostrils.

Radio reached out with a talon to poke at the ashes and Jerry turned to the small medicine center he’d set up against the wall beside the doorway. Really just a bench, it held his healer’s kit and a few other of his human essentials: a small dew collector, a battered nutrient printer, and his swiftly-depleting pile of clothes. He dug through the kit and pulled out a length of old boiled bandages and a jar of poultice. One side of the bench—propped up with a rock, as one leg had been burnt to a crisp and the other had been gnawed to a stub—he kept clear of junk, so he was able to sit as he cleaned the scratch and applied the bandage. Dragon wounds tended to scar, as the web of pale silvery lines criss-crossing his chest and arms attested.

“The customer was rude,” Radio noted, swirling the ashes around in spirals.

“Yeah, but at this rate no one will be willing to even consider these guys for adoption,” Jerry said. “I don’t know how many more hatchlings I can nest, Radio.”

The dragon rumbled low and deep in his chest, but said no more.

The scratch wasn’t worth a chewing a painkiller, so Jerry packed the kit back up and leafed dolefully through his scant wardrobe. His desert robe remained undamaged, thankfully, as did his flying harness, of course, but he really was getting close to walking around in nothing but his underwear. And it had only been two months.

He sighed. “Guess we’ll have to give it a try,” he told Radio, reaching under the bench to grab a drawstring sack.

The dragon got to his feet and stretched, barely able to do so in the room’s confines, and yawned, “Thought Cindy said it wouldn’t work.” Still, he scooped the ash he’d been playing with off the ground and held it out. Jerry nodded his thanks and added it to the sack, which was maybe three-fourths full of the same black cinders. Then he opened up the nutrient printer and dumped the whole sack in the printer’s input slot. He slapped the drawer shut.

“Ze said probably,” he muttered, and hit the printer’s ON button.

As the printer vibrated to life, Radio rumbled a laugh. He sat and watched though as Jerry tapped in the material and pattern he wanted the ashes transmuted into and shaped as. In this case, he hoped to get one wearable shirt, which the printer was not built to accomplish. It had been programmed to make what could possibly be labeled as “food”, but technically should’ve been able to make whatever Jerry wanted, as long as he put in the correct commands.

Even sitting, Radio loomed over Jerry’s shoulder, his head bent to avoid scraping the ceiling and his hot smoky breath rolling down Jerry’s back as he worked. Once, the dragon’s disregard for personal space had been distracting, but Jerry didn’t mind any more. He entered in the last line of code, then pressed START.

Beep. A warning flickered onto the screen, informing Jerry this command wasn’t a standard print and was he sure he wanted to continue? Press START again to confirm, or CANCEL to return to the coding screen.

Jerry did not hesitate. He pressed START.

The printer buzzed, rattled a little in a worrying way, then went still. Jerry smacked it with a fist and it shook back to life, vibrating stressfully for a few more seconds, then click . . . and slowly, painfully, uncertainly, the printer began its chik chik chik chik. It was too soon to tell if the shirt was printing correctly, but at least something was happening. Jerry breathed out in relief, relaxing a little. Radio rested his head on top of Jerry’s, the rough heavy weight and heat of his scaly jaw oddly comforting as the two waited, watching the printer cough and sputter out the first woven threads of a red cotton t-shirt. The dye was a nice touch.

“Do you think this’ll really work?” Jerry asked quietly, keeping his eyes on the printer.

“I believe I told you what I thought when Starweaver first came up with this plan.”

“Yeah, and now we’re two months in. What do you think now?”

Radio huffed, a stream of gray smoke rolling from his nostrils. Then, “The locals aren’t interested, that much is obvious. No one cares about your project. They don’t trust you.”

Jerry said nothing.

And the dragon sighed, a human gesture he’d picked up from his rider. “But I suppose it’s a good thing for the hatchlings to have a caretaker, and a roost to return to. Even if they don’t like to show it, they’re grateful of our efforts.”

“So even if the mission fails, we’ll have made at least one good change,” Jerry murmured. He reached out with a finger and touched the print’s finished neckline. It felt like fabric. He smiled.

“Unless the den falls apart as soon as we leave,” Radio added, and Jerry’s smile fell away.

“True. Almost makes me wish . . .” He trailed off, unwilling to complete the thought. Because no, it wasn’t possible. There was no use in longing, then.

Unfortunately, Radio didn’t share the sentiment. “You could stay,” he said, his words resonating through his throat and making Jerry’s head vibrate. “You could leave Starweaver.”

“I’m not abandoning my sister, Radio.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve had this argument how many times now?”

“Forty-six. Seven, if you want to count the time you were drowning and I had to dive after you and while underwater we couldn’t talk but I gave you a look—”

“That hardly counts, it was my own fault that I tripped—”

“But who was it that untied your bootlace?”

“You have no proof that was Lani—”

“She smirked!”

“She’s always smirking! I’ve seen her do it in her sleep!”

“No doubt murdering some far-off colony of innocent chickens with mind-knives or whatever it is she does when dreaming.”

“Again, no proof—”

“How about the ’scape with the pudding clouds, where she—”

“She didn’t know they were flammable!”

“Or the diamond planet with the lava crows—”

“Perfectly reasonable to assume they were hostile, if you ask me.”

“The turtle games!”

“They were cheating too!”

“Candy shackles?”

“That was a joke.”

“Making a sandwich!”

Jerry hesitated. “You mean the first one, or when she—”

“Yes that one, why wouldn’t you think—”

“To be fair, the first sandwich was equally gruesome!”

“And that helps her case? Jerry—”

“Listen, she’s made a lot of mistakes, and sure, endangered my life very often, and—”

“The wagon.”

Jerry stopped. Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Then, “No law. No god. Could justify nor forgive what she did to me on that day.”

Radio rumbled in smug victory. “So you agree. You’d be better off without her.”

Jerry said nothing. He didn’t look at his sword, stashed under the bench. He would not look.

“Come on. You have to admit it. We could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone . . .”

“We have had this argument before, Radio.”

He rumbled. “We could keep helping these hatchlings. Don’t forget the state Puddle was in when we found him.” His tone softened. “And look at how he is now.”

“I know,” Jerry said quietly.

The printer let out its final chik chik chiks and shuddered to a relieved rest. Jerry shook himself out of his reverie and Radio lifted his jaw off Jerry’s head, twisting his neck around Jerry to sniff at the final product.

“Shall we see who wins?” Jerry said, turning off the printer before reaching for the shirt. Radio retracted his head and Jerry peeled the fabric off the printing tray, holding the shirt up for the two of them to look at.

“Feels real enough,” Jerry said, rubbing his fingers.

Radio rumbled skeptically. “Try it on.”

Jerry put it on, and it fit. “Got the correct dimensions,” he said, pleased with himself for that part. He twisted around, testing if it was tight around his chest and shoulders any, then did some stretches, lifting his arms above his head, then touching his toes, and moving through a few sword stances.

Radio watched with a critical eye. When Jerry finished, he turned to the dragon, spreading his arms out wide. “Well?”

Radio looked him up and down, then grumbled reluctantly, “It fits.”

Jerry smirked. “You owe me a silver eagle’s pelt.”

The dragon rolled his eyes, still grumbling. “Cindy was right. It shouldn’t have worked.” He perked up. “I bet this was a fluke. You were lucky. Next time you try to make a non-food item the printer will just die.”

Jerry lifted an eyebrow. “And what are you betting?”

He considered a moment. “A silver eagle’s egg.”

Jerry let out a low whistle. “You are on.”

Radio showed his fangs in his terrifying imitation of a human smile. “I’ll enjoy watching you get your eyes clawed out by the parents when climbing to their nest.”

“Oh, what’s the score now? 12-3, is it?” Jerry mimed writing the numbers in the air. “Huh! Appears I’m still in the lead! Seems I’ll be enjoying watching you lose your sixth bet in a row.”

Radio swept his legs out from under him with his tail. Jerry fell flat on his back, landing hard, and groaned, grabbing his side. Radio looked down at him, unimpressed. “The stretches didn’t hurt the scratch, but this did?”

“No, they did,” Jerry groaned. “I was trying to keep a brave face.”

The dragon snorted, leaning down to puff smoke in Jerry’s face. “Glad that worked out for you.”

“If it reopens and bleeds on this shirt, I’ll feed you through the printer,” Jerry grumbled.

Radio rumbled happily. “Then I’ll win the bet for sure.”

“And I guess I’ll be wearing your hide when stealing that egg.”

Radio poked Jerry with his snout, suddenly energetic. “Let’s go for a flight.”

Jerry groaned again, flapping a hand at the dragon to wave him away. “No, not tonight. It’ll hurt too much, and the hatchlings—”

“They’ll be fine,” Radio said dismissively. “They’re settled for the night. and I claw-swear to fly nicely.”

“Ha.”

“Nicer.”

“Mhmm.”

“Fine. There’s a lightning storm that’s going to happen a few miles off.”

Jerry looked up. “Yeah? You think they’ll be there?”

The dragon stepped back, flexing his wings like a human might roll their shoulders. “Only one way to know for sure.”

“They haven’t shown up yet.” But Jerry got to his feet and pulled out his flying harness, stepping into it, clipping the clips, buckling the buckles, tightening the straps, all that. Radio did the same with his saddle, the small shabby one they’d bought a few ’scapes back that was practically falling apart but had yet to be replaced, placing it in the space between his neck and wings, just in front of his shoulders, fitting it in between the spikes running down his neck and back. He tightened the straps with his fangs, then flexed his neck to make sure it fit comfortably.

Jerry stuffed a lightning-catcher, his goggles, and some bandages—just in case—in his pockets, and as Radio walked out the room, moved to follow, but hesitated. He couldn’t help it. He looked towards his sword, though he couldn’t see it in the shadows under the bench. He couldn’t stop the thought that he might want it with him.

Radio rumbled in question, looking over his shoulder at Jerry from the corridor. Jerry swallowed and waved him on. “Coming.”

He hesitated a moment longer. If they did meet the Gray-Jay tonight . . .

But what would a sword do against them?

It wouldn’t make a difference.

Except make Jerry feel a little better.

He swallowed again—would the lump ever go away?—and forced himself to leave the sword behind. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he hurried after his dragon, who was waiting outside, standing right by the cliff’s edge. He was looking up and westward as he stretched out his wings. Westward, towards the storm.

Jerry spared a final glance toward the hatchlings, but the alcoves were dim and quiet. Not even a pair of violet eyes shone. So maybe Radio was right. Maybe he was right about more than one thing.

Maybe he would win their longest-standing bet.

maybe maybe maybe.

There were too many maybes tonight.

But he could settle at least one.

So as Radio finished warming up, Jerry pulled himself up into the saddle and buckled himself in. He leaned forward, a flicker of excitement thrilling through his chest. “Ready?”

Radio rumbled, stretching his wings out wide. “Remember. Nicer. I won’t promise more.”

Jerry smiled. “I wouldn’t expect it.”

The dragon breathed in deep, Jerry rising slightly with his expanding chest, then roared, making the sandstone tremble beneath his talons. A crack of thunder answered, distant still, but a challenge nonetheless. Radio roared back and—Jerry clinging to the saddle loops—dove off the cliff. Wind screamed in Jerry’s ears as he leaned low, close to Radio’s neck, and he grinned, feeling the saliva on his teeth go cold, then dry. The wind whistled down his throat to fill his lungs with the sharp acidic taste of falling through sky, the ground growing closer, closer, closer—

Radio snapped his wings open, pulling them up and away, soaring up and up and up, the change in direction making Jerry’s stomach lurch and him laugh uncontrollably as soon as the air caught up in his lungs and his body remembered to breathe. The dragon rumbled in pleasure at Jerry’s joy, spiraling through a few small loops to test the winds, and, dissatisfied, flapped hard, climbing altitude to gain a better current.

Jerry tuned to their frequency and told Radio, Not too high. I forgot my coat.

Radio rumbled a laugh. We are going through a storm.

Well. I’d like to stay as warm as possible for as long as I can.

Still rumbling, Radio activated his inner fire, so warmth radiated off his scales like a space heater, and Jerry huddled down gratefully, his newly-printed t-shirt doing nothing to keep the cold wind slicing through his body like knives. He let out a long breath, pressing his cheek to the scales, and closed his eyes, sending through the waves, I love you I love you I love you I love you.

Radio rumbled, Jerry feeling the reverberations through his entire body, warming him as much as the scales’ heat. You say that very often, you know. I thought humans weren’t supposed to do that.

Jerry smiled, eyes still closed, turning his head to press a gentle kiss against Radio’s neck. Never enough. It’s a poor way to express love, really. Just words.

No, I like it. It is nice. For all the words you say, they’re good ones. I love you too, Jerry.

And they flew toward the storm.