#(namely: probably the care for another living soul that led to such measures in the first place)

[godzexperiment]

the fact nix hasn't killed anybody, in most verses never hurt anybody in any possible way (in contrast with giving it no thought if its what is needed to save somebody) and that surprise highly effective in a way that's almost/somewhat horrifying

[fuwafuwamedb]

Maybe He’d Get Lucky (Lancer Cu/Rin)

“Oi! Oi! You know people who are stabbed and bleed out tend to die, don’t ya, kid?!”

The red headed boy wasn’t paying him any mind, scrambling for the door with his jacket waving behind him. A fool of an alpha, it wasn’t too terribly surprising.

Two years in this profession and he’s seen just about everything. Alphas were rather bullheaded, prone to reacting with a hair-trigger. Omegas were fiery-tempered beings, prone to lashing out and manipulating those around them. He’d seen more than his share of betas, self-proclaimed calm and sensible people, despite their proclivity for enabling the trouble around them.

He rubbed at his face, heading for the door of the hospital.

“Not enjoying the doc act?” Alter called from the security desk.

“Fuck off, Alt. I’m not in the mood,” Cu growled at his sibling. Bad enough they were quadruplets. Worse still that they had the same damn name.

Their mother had been a poor woman.

His hand reached for his pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes as he made it to a bench outside. His sigh escaped him softly as he watched the ambulance nearby. His eyes fell to the blond his other sibling had run into a while back.

There was no missing Proto’s eager expression, motioning to the parts of the rig as the girl nearby stood in her uniform.

He must have actually gotten her into joining the crew.

Lucky kid.

The smoke of his cigarette was smarter to look at, rather than a person tonight. There was a craving tonight that no amount of liquor or drug could curb. As it was, the cigarette was barely taking the edge off.

Alpha hormones.

He had that last kid to blame, driving his instincts up like that. He caused all that trouble then wondered why it had taken twice as long to leave the hospital. It probably didn’t help with him knocking the kid out and stabbing him with a scalpel.

Eh, that was what malpractice was for. No one could blame him. Alphas had a tendency for more malpractice trouble after all.

Damn though, finding a woman to bury himself in sounded like such a damn good plan. It was tempting to run down the road to the red light district and having himself a bit of fun. Doing that with someone other than a mate though… Nah. It wouldn’t satisfy well. He’d end up at that Beta, Scathach’s bar. Drinking swill and complaining to an old hag after a 12 hour shift sounded rather dull.

“Maybe I’ll go fishing tomorrow,” he breathed, watching the smoke dance around the visual of Proto landing a rather soft kiss to his little blonde omega woman in the ambulance.

A thump met his ears, driving him from his thoughts.

Nearby, a woman lay on the ground, sprawled with her purse contents spilled out across the pavement. Her brown hair was mussed, her lips were releasing a string of curses as she tried desperately to grab the purse that looked to be-

“Oi! Hey-“

The purse’s strap snapped, leaving the woman to careen forward into the pavement again. Her curses rose up as Cu tossed his cigarette into the ash bin nearby. He grabbed his ID badge from next to himself and rushed over to the woman.

“Hey-“

“D-Don’t!”

Those blue eyes flashed, that glare chilling him right down to the soul for a moment. And then, in the second moment, he felt a rush.

So lively…

Cu moved to grab her things instead, setting them in front of her as the woman shivered and shook like it wasn’t warm enough outside for shorts. There was something wrong. Her hands were shaking, lower lip vanishing repeatedly into her mouth to be brutally tormented.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Are you a doctor or something?” The woman narrowed her eyes a little more.

“Actually, yeah.” He couldn’t help himself. Despite the shit night, he found himself flashing her a cocky smirk. “Doctor Cu, at your service.”

“Really?”

Such a flat response.

There was no missing the doubt, one that he’d seen a thousand times before. Her dark brown hair curled around her face in those twin tails, tempting him closer. He reached for his badge again, flashing it before her for good measure.

“That’s what the ID says, lass. If you’re in some kind of medical problem, or otherwise, I’m your guy.”

“…Are you able to write a prescription?”

Cu frowned.

The woman grabbed her bag, holding it tightly and grabbing his arm. “We need a room. Now.”

First time in a while he’d had someone say that to him.

Alter was raising a brow at him as he passed this time. The woman led him to the doors to the emergency area before he pulled her towards one of the quieter areas and their patient rooms. He could feel something off. There was something strange in her grip, almost like electricity running through their held hands.

The door closed to the room behind him as they entered. The woman finally released him, wobbling to the bed in the room.

“I… I need suppressants.”

“Suppressants?”

Why would she need-

Almost as soon as the question came to his lips, he felt his mind clicking into place. The shaking, the bluntness, the resistance to touch from others except a doctor, the way their touch had been; there were very few reasons someone would react the way she had.

The woman in front of him was barely able to keep her clothes on, hands holding onto the hem of her jumper as she looked around at the room.

Her blue gaze went to his, almost too dilated for him to see the deep oceanic color that rested there.

“I can pay for the suppressants. I just need them.”

“You should get them from your primary doctor,” Cu found himself saying, reverting to the usual method most went through. “All women are able to get them unless they are at a certain age.”

The woman’s face before him turned scarlet, her brown hair being pulled closer.

She’d gotten old enough for mating.

The best method that alphas had found for finding mates, forcing omegas to stop taking their suppressants after they could drink liquors and finish their education to a certain point; she had reached that point in her life.

“How close are you?” Cu asked, his mouth drying as an all too familiar feeling began to run up his spine. His hand was on the door, locking it without thinking.

“…I took pain killers to walk here,” the brunette confessed, trembling away. “I need the suppressants.”

“You know they have to be taken within a week of your cycle.”

“I need them,” she reiterated, eyes closing. “I-I can’t breathe.”

“Do you have an alpha that you can go to?”

He was here.

No. No. He was a professional.

Probably…

The brunette shook her head, tears leaking over those thick lashes of hers. They weren’t sad tears. These things were born from anger. Those brows furrowed and those cheeks flushed, she shook, but with the promise of trouble.

“I can call for one of the Omegarides.”

“I have unwanted alphas near my home.”

Those baby blues looked at him.

Gods, but did those baby blues look to him. Cutting him right to the quick, he found himself catching another whiff of that scent and melting like a damn scoop of ice cream. His work lab coat was pulled off, wrapped around her before he was ushering her after him again.

“I’ve got a place you can stay for now.”

He had a place she could stay, he told her, cursing mentally as he held her in front of him on his motorcycle. He could feel her holding onto the body of the thing, shivering away and closing her eyes. He could feel the way her body slid to press against his own.

The scent was filling his head, his mind went to the cigarettes in his pocket as he carried the virile omega into his place and up to his room.

“It smells like an alpha,” she whined softly.

“You’re in heat,” he pointed out, fighting the urge to take her right on his kitchen counters. It was all he could do to just carry her to his room and set her in bed.

Door closed, he cursed softly.

This was a stupid plan.

This was one hell of a stupid plan.

“I need to drink.”

He messaged his brothers as he downed one of the bottles from the fridge. His eyes went to the other room as a moan escaped it.

He’d keep to the guest room, since his stupid ass had dragged her to his bedroom.

It shouldn’t have been that hard.

She had the door closed. She could barely walk. It made sense that she would remain in that other room and simply writhe and scent his room until she was able to leave and he was able to be driven to madness with a compatible mate’s scent all over his bedroom.

But he wasn’t that lucky. He was the dumbass with the doctoral degree that no one took seriously. He was the guy with a fancy place but the internet didn’t work for shit.

He was the dumbass who had their omega guest opening the door to his guest room, wearing nothing but one of his button ups and climbing into bed with him. Cu didn’t even register what had happened until he felt the body straddling his own. A pair of lips met his, leaving him to moan. His eyes opened as those lips pulled back, the button up being shifted and tugged at by the woman over him.

“Woman-“

“It’s Rin,” Rin whined, fussing further. “I-I can’t. It’s too much. I can take the suppressants late. I don’t care if I get arrested, I-“

He leaned up, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling her down to his lips. His mouth moved against hers once again. His hands drifted down to rest at her waist.

And Rin, in all her splendor, moaned again.

The scent drifted across his senses, her frustration coming out a second before her hands clawed at him to get the sheets away. He kicked them aside, rolling them over. His lips met hers again. His manhood pressed to her entrance, feeling the slickness all too well between them.

“Please… Doc..”

“Cu. Just Cu.”

“Cu,” she begged.

Gods, but a woman like this begging.

There was nothing better than each and every inch of her body as he pushed himself into her. The warmth wrapped around him, taking him in with such a loving tightness. The heat of her warmth was enough to make him shiver. It sent his eyes rolling back a little, a moan leaving his lips as the woman beneath him cooed.

“Gods.”

She was his.

He wasn’t even that territorial, but damn. There was surely no woman better than this one.

“Please,” she pleaded.

“I know what to do,” he promised again.

~

The room reeked of sexual deviancy. The light of who knew what day it was filtered into the room. He could feel the woman nearby, stirring slightly against his side.

The sheen of sweat on their bodies gleamed, leaving him to sigh.

The woman, Rin, rolled herself closer. Her face pressed against his chest. Her twin tails long gone now, leaving the opportunity for him to run his fingers through her hair. And run his fingers through, he did. There was nothing better than this.

“Rin,” Cu murmured.

His brunette sighed in her sleep, her heat finally calmed from its however long madness.

It’d be one hell of a courting to keep this one in his bed. Somehow, he had a feeling no amount of prestige or mediocre luck would help either.

“Cu,” the woman whimpered softly.

“Sleep with me a little longer,” he bid softly.

Maybe he’d get lucky.

[fangirlxwritesx67]

Whiskey Glasses

Dean Winchester x OFC Amanda, 4000 words

Song: Whiskey Glasses, Morgan Wallen Tags: drinking (so much drinking), angst, sadness, one-night stand (sex and oral sex)  AN: I love this song, and it hit me a couple of weeks ago that it is a total Dean song. The first story I came up with didn’t do him justice though. This is another one where @thoughtslikeaminefield and @there-must-be-a-lock pushed me to strip it all the way down to bare bones and start over. @mskathywriteswords did her part too. Thanks, my friends.

(set after 15x03) *** Amanda looked up the minute Dean Winchester walked through the door. Thunder rolled over his features and lightning sparked in his eyes as he let the door slam behind him. She would swear, she could feel the storm around him as soon as he walked in. Restless energy seemed to cloud the air in his wake, as his gaze sought hers from across the room.

"Howdy, stranger," she called, waving him over. Her standard greeting usually drew a smirk, a wave, or even a playfully blown kiss; today he barely nodded before sinking onto a high bar chair. 

"Is it a beer night or a whiskey night?" Amanda tried again, hoping to get him to look up, to smile. But he just scrubbed one hand over his face and sighed. 

"Whiskey, double, and keep 'em coming." His voice had a ragged edge to it as he slapped down several twenties. He drank the first glass like a single shot, knocked the second one back like he didn’t even taste it.

Amanda paused before putting down the third drink in under an hour. All she said was, "Dean?" 

Finally, he met her gaze. His eyes were dark with misery, the lines and angles of his face drawn. For a moment, she thought he would confide in her. Then he shook his head morosely. He took the whiskey and gazed into its amber depths, searching for something, before he lifted it to his lips.

Her voice was gentle when she spoke again, pitched so only he could hear it. “Last time I saw you drink this hard, you told me your mother had died.”

Dean barked out a laugh, harsh and joyless, cutting her off before she could ask any questions.

“Yeah, and that was my fault too, just like this.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true-” but her words trailed off. The hard look on Dean’s face told her it wasn’t the time for empty reassurances. She couldn’t be sure, but in the light of the bar, she thought she saw tears in his eyes. 

She turned away, giving him a moment alone with his thoughts. While she served other customers, her mind wandered back to the night she had met Dean.

He showed up one slow weeknight at the run-down truck stop bar in dead-end, Kansas. He didn’t quite seem like a trucker, or a drifter, although he was comfortable enough with them. 

Something about him seemed a little too big for the room, and it wasn't just his long legs and broad shoulders. Dean seemed to fill the room with his presence. There was something in the way he carried himself that said he was a fighter, a man keenly sure of his body and what he could do with it. 

That first night, Amanda had enjoyed flirting a little. It wasn’t often she got a customer who was so handsome, and charming to boot. She never expected to see him again, in fact, had almost forgotten about him, when he showed back up. 

Dean wasn’t quite a regular. Sometimes weeks could go by without her seeing him. But over the course of a couple of years, he had been there often enough. She felt comfortable with him, although she always wondered why he seemed so lonely.

Even after several drinks, he was hesitant to share anything personal. She still didn’t know much about him and why he came there to drink alone. He was easy to talk to, though, smart and funny. She thought he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his.

Whoever Dean was, whatever he did, he left behind when he came to the bar. He usually stepped in with a little bit of swagger and unwound as he drank, singing softly under his breath to the songs on the radio. 

Amanda had wished, plenty of times, for more than talk. She daydreamed about getting to know him better. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Those strong arms, soft lips, and masterful command of his body told her he would probably be a good lover.

But her dreams of Dean were just that, dreams. He never let his guard down long enough for anyone to get close. Although she considered him a friend, he kept her at arm's length.

Tonight was no different. He was desperate, obviously hurting. Still, he kept himself guarded, invisible armor firmly in place. 

Only once did Dean say anything, when the song that came on the radio was Whiskey Glasses. 

Line 'em up Knock 'em back Fill 'em up

“That’s me.” He raised his glass and nodded before downing the contents in one gulp.

“Is that it? Someone leave you?” Amanda purposely kept her tone light.

Dean's smile came slowly, wryly. It crinkled his eyes at the corners but did nothing to lighten the darkness there. Then he heaved a sigh that seemed to come all the way from his soul.

“Nah, I just like whiskey.” He tried to turn it into a joke, but the look on his face was lost. “Another, please?”

It was Amanda’s turn to shake her head. “Dean, this is the last one. I can’t keep serving you like this and let you drive home.”

“S’okay. I parked out behind the truck stop. I can walk back, sleep in my car.” Dean’s words were blurred a little around the edges. He nursed that last drink until closing time. 

She felt his hooded gaze follow her around the bar as she completed her closing duties. She hated to see him so despondent and worried about him leaving alone. She wished there was something she could offer in the way of comfort. But all of their communication up until this point had been casual. Nothing about Dean invited her to try for more.  

“Last call, my friend,” she said reluctantly.

Dean stood up, slightly unsteady, and walked towards the door, Darkness and desperation trailed behind him like his own personal shadow. Amanda watched him go with a heaviness in her heart. 

She hoped he would be able to sleep it off and wake up feeling better tomorrow. Something told her it wouldn’t be that simple, but there wasn’t much she could do. The bar was closed and he was gone, to sleep it off in his car or wherever it was he went when he left. 

She locked the front door as she stepped outside. A small flare of red light caught her eye. Dean was leaning against the outside of the bar, almost hidden in the darkness, but not quite out of sight around the corner. He was smoking a cigarette, drawing on it hard. She hadn’t expected him to still be there, but since he had stuck around, she couldn’t just let him go. 

She sauntered across the gravel parking lot, trying to look more casual than she felt, and asked, “Got a light?”

Dean was slumped against the wall, shoulders bowed as if the brick was the only thing keeping him standing. He held out his lighter wordlessly, and his fingers brushed hers as she took it. 

“Actually, can I bum a smoke?” Amanda shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t carry them anymore since I’ve been trying to quit.” 

Dean scoffed before turning to look her full in the face. “So do you really want a smoke, sweetheart?” 

“Not so much,” Amanda answered reluctantly. “Didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.” 

He looked at her for a long silent moment before speaking. “Whadya want, then? Why come to me?” 

“Dunno, man. Why are you still here?” 

He finished his cigarette with one hard draw before he nodded. He dropped the butt and ground it under his heel as he reached out with one hand. Her fingers laced in with his. 

“You-” was all he whispered, ragged and low.

For one long moment, they stood still, eyes taking the measure of one another. Dean tugged, ever so slightly. Amanda answered, stepping closer to him. 

She had to stand on tiptoes to reach his lips but she did it, slipping one arm around his neck to keep her balance and kissing him like she had always dreamed of doing. It was a risk worth taking, acting on her instincts, and trusting he wouldn’t let her fall.

Dean did not let her down. Their first kiss was plush and warm. Next thing Amanda knew, Dean had her pressed up against the wall, kissing her hungrily as his hands settled around her waist. 

She arched her body up against his warmth, tightening her grasp across his shoulders. He felt so good under her hands, so strong and solid. 

His name slipped from her lips softly. 

He wrenched away, leaving her feeling cold and bereft. 

“No.” He shook his head. “No, this can’t be good.” 

For all his size and presence, he looked so broken. She murmured, “Come home with me.”

Dean studied her closely. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

“I know you, Dean. Know you well enough to trust you. I don’t want you to sleep in your car - shit, don’t want you to be alone.” Amanda heard the pleading in her voice and didn’t care. 

She slipped her hands inside Dean’s jacket, around his waist to keep him close, and leaned into him to take a deep breath. The smell of his cigarette, the whiskey he had been drinking, and underneath it, a mixture of sweat and the outdoors filled her senses. 

Dean lifted her chin and lowered his face for another kiss, sloppy and open-mouthed before he finally nodded. 

“Okay, take me home.” There was a desperation in his voice that he tried to hide by standing tall, squaring his shoulders. 

Amanda cared for him too much, and his pain shot like an arrow straight to her heart. She held out her hand and led him to her car. The two of them spent the short drive in silence. Dean looked out the window as if searching for answers in the night sky. 

Neither of them spoke as they stepped into her living room. She locked the door behind her and flicked on a light. She was still questioning herself, wondering what exactly she was hoping for. She had hooked up plenty of times with random men from the bar. Dean was different. He was a friend, someone she trusted.

Dean winced at the brightness, but when he looked at her again his eyes were glazed, with no spark of interest, only fathomless loss. She saw then that he was drunk, really drunk. He had covered it up well enough in the bar, but she couldn’t ignore it now.  

She sighed. She should’ve known. He had been knocking back double whiskeys at the bar for hours, never ordering food and drinking water reluctantly. He could still carry on a conversation, still walk straight enough, hell, he had still flirted convincingly. But he was gone. 

She couldn’t take him to bed like this. It wasn’t right, and it certainly wasn't what she had always dreamed of. She actually cared about him and thought he cared about her. She wanted their first time - hell if there was going to be any time - for them both to be present.

Dean wasn’t any of that, right now. He was lost, adrift, grasping for comfort. His hand closed around her wrist, without hurting her, but his grasp was heavy.

Amanda lifted her lips to his for a glancing kiss. “The couch is pretty comfy if you just want a place to sleep it off.” 

He pulled her in close, resting his forehead down on hers, and drew in a deep breath. “No that’s not- You- I’m- I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure what he was confessing, only that it was unexpected. But he was drunk, and also driven by whatever had pushed him to the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the first place. 

“Dean, you don’t have to. It’s me, it’s okay. Let’s just go to sleep?”

Amanda led him upstairs to her bedroom. Comfort, that wasn’t much, but it was all she had to give. He stripped to his boxers while she slipped into soft shorts and a tank top. She made sure there was a bottle of water on the nightstand next to him before she slipped under the covers. 

Dean was already half asleep, breathing deeply, but he reached out for her when she settled down onto the bed. He tugged her towards him so they were spooning, the length of his body warm and firm against her back. 

“I don't wanna feel a thing,” was the last thing Dean murmured as his eyes fluttered closed. 

Falling asleep drunk he was still consistent, Amanda thought, as she turned in his arms to look at him. Even at rest, his face looked worried, his body weary. 

Amanda had so many questions about the handsome enigma next to her: who was he, and how had he ended up in her bar? How had she come to care for someone, knowing so little about them? 

She traced lightly over his skin, touching his tattoos, his scars. For all of the years that she had wanted to see him naked, she had never pictured this. She had imagined a one night stand, maybe even a satisfying one. She had never thought that he would lay so much of himself bare in front of her. 

She had so many more questions, things she had never wondered, and might never get answered. But this was Dean, the man she knew and trusted. The questions could wait. Tonight, he needed care, and she needed to rest. 

She lowered her lips to the curve of his neck in one more goodnight kiss. She wanted him to know that he was seen, that he was safe.   

In his sleep, Dean frowned and tightened his grasp around her. 

This was nothing like her fantasies of bringing Dean home. Instead of passion, there was comfort. Instead of sex, there were cuddles. She was more worried about him than anything, wanting to make sure he was safe and cared for. 

She also wouldn’t complain about falling asleep in the arms of a handsome man, even if all they did was sleep. 

***

Amanda rolled over as she woke up, reaching for Dean. The other side of the bed was empty. 

Of course. She should’ve known when she turned down the chance to sleep with him. She had hoped he would be different, that he was her friend, that he would stick around. But of course not.

Her fingers closed on the pillow he had slept on and she pulled it close. She wondered where he was and if he was okay. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him -- whiskey, smoke, and coffee. 

Coffee? There was no coffee last night. 

She raised her head and took another sniff. That was definitely coffee and bacon. She realized that she could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. She smiled. 

Dean’s discarded flannel was at the foot of the bed. She slipped it over her pajamas as she got up, enjoying its worn warmth against the chill of the morning.

She paused at the doorway to her kitchen. Dean was in front of the stove, his back to her, wearing nothing but jeans. He was drinking coffee, frying bacon, and mixing up some scrambled eggs. Hazy morning light filtered through the curtains, shining on his scars and his freckles and his tousled hair.

Amanda walked over and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her face against his broad back. He startled, then relaxed into her embrace. For a moment they stood still, just breathing together before Dean turned around.

He met her eyes reluctantly. For just one moment, he let her see his pain and regret. Then he looked away and forced a smile. 

“I hope this is okay, I just walked into your kitchen and made myself at home. There’s nothing like bacon and eggs for a hangover, right?” He shrugged uneasily.

“This is more than okay. I’m not used to getting breakfast when I bring a man home from the bar.”

Dean turned away, back to the stove. His next words were hesitant, almost mumbled. “No, but I bet you’re used to getting a whole lot better in bed.” 

“Listen to me.” Amanda took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. His gaze was heavy with shame. “I brought you home because I wanted to be sure you were safe. I was - am - worried about you. But you’re not here because I want something out of you. You’re my friend.”

Dean put the spatula down and faced her fully. He held out his arms and she answered his unspoken plea. He pulled her close and took a few deep breaths that she could almost have sworn were sobs. Finally, he brushed his lips against her temple. 

When the coffee maker beeped, Dean startled. Amanda watched him settle back into the version of himself she was used to seeing, confident and strong. But his face remained open, his eyes longing.

“Are you sure you don’t want something out of me?” He was joking, flirting to try to cover up his uncomfortable feelings. 

She smiled warmly. “Coffee and breakfast first, okay? Then we’ll talk.” 

Amanda sank into a seat at the table. Dean handed her a steaming mug of coffee, and she wrapped her hands around it gratefully. He came over to the table carrying two plates piled high with food, and set one down in front of her before sitting down with the other. 

For a few moments, both of them ate in companionable silence. After Dean got up to refill both of their coffee cups, he looked at her. She couldn’t interpret his words or his expression. 

Finally, he blurted out, “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Amanda was caught off guard. 

“For being my friend.” Dean smiled, one of his real smiles that crinkled his eyes and lit his entire face, the ones she lived to see. “What, did you think I was coming to that bar for the atmosphere? Nah. It’s you.” 

Amanda took a deep breath. He was so clearly sincere. Somehow being a friend, sleeping together, the level of trust they had stumbled into without ever having sex, was way more fragile and intimate than the one night stand she had anticipated. 

“So if we’re friends, why don’t you tell me what last night was all about?” She just had to ask. “Before I brought you home. Or do I need to get out the whiskey?”

Dean looked down. A weight settled on his shoulders again, weariness on his face. He seemed to be waging some internal war with himself. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet hers, that look of desperation in his gaze.

“I’m not sure I can explain, and even if I could, you wouldn’t believe me.” 

“I’m a bartender. I’ve seen and heard just about everything,” Amanda answered. “Try me.”

“You haven't heard nothin’ like this, sweetheart,” Dean replied. And then he began to talk. The story spilled from his lips in fragments at first, every word ragged and difficult.

Amanda could see that he was telling the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. The story he told her was wild enough: being a private investigator of sorts, working with his brother and their partner, a boy who he raised like a son. 

And loss, so much loss. His mother, his son, and most recently, his working partner, all gone. She didn’t understand every detail but his pain was clear enough. 

Dean’s words raised more questions than they answered, but they explained a lot. Amanda could see how difficult it was for him to say even this much. When he finally trailed into silence, he looked at her. The expression on his face was raw, his eyes vulnerable.

“Okay.” She let out a deep breath, trying to find the words to say everything that was in her heart. Finally, she settled on just one thing. “Thank you. For telling me, for trusting me, for letting me be your friend.” 

She leaned across the table and he met her halfway. Last night's kisses had been dark and desperate. This morning they were honest and hopeful, searching.

When Dean finally pulled away, he sighed. “It’s a shame I screwed up my chance last night because you’re one hell of a kisser.”

Amanda smiled, hunger stirring deep inside of her. His kisses had been everything she had dreamed, and still she wanted more. 

“I think you could have another chance,” she murmured, standing up and holding out her hand. 

He took it slowly, almost hesitantly. 

“You mean it?”

She nodded and watched understanding dawn in his eyes. 

She led Dean back to her bedroom. They kissed as they undressed, both of them giving and taking and trusting. There was no reason to cover up, not with Dean, not after everything. Still, it felt strange to be naked in the bright golden sunlight, and she reached for the sheet.  

Dean took her wrists in both hands, pinning them softly on the bed. “No,” he murmured, “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful. Let me see you.” 

His fingers caressed her curves, down her sides, and over her hips before settling around her waist. He tugged her up, rolling her hips open, before lowering his mouth to her.

She had fantasized about his lips, it was true, but at no point had she imagined this. She had never dreamed that he would be so good, that he would know exactly how to please her and push her. She reached up with one hand to grip her headboard, trying to anchor herself. The other hand slipped down into his hair, tugging the short strands. She moaned and panted and cried out his name as she came.

Dean looked up at her, his face framed by her thighs, his expression mingled delight and desire. He wasn’t just doing this for her. He was enjoying it, savoring it. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. 

He rose up over her, kissing her long and full. She was caged in by him, by tense forearms and thick thighs, all rock-solid muscle. She could’ve felt trapped but instead, she felt sheltered. She reached over his shoulders, hands skimming his back, nails trailing against his skin.

Dean moaned her name against her lips, shamelessly, before he finally lowered himself down. Every movement between them was weighted and close. When he slipped inside of her, slow and stretching, she let out a low sigh. She ground up against him, meeting his need with her own. 

A long moment hung suspended between them while they found their balance, and then Dean started to thrust his hips. Amanda tried to keep her focus on his face. His eyes were dark pools of lust and longing, only faintly rimmed in green. But she had been right all along - he knew exactly what he was doing with his body. 

Soon she forgot about trying to satisfy Dean, forgot about everything except the way he was holding her down and lifting her up at once. Her entire world shrank to his body on hers, heavy and hungry. Her fingers dug into his back, pulling him close, begging for more. 

Dean moved faster, panting and frantic as if to lose himself inside of her. She held his gaze as long as she could until everything was too much. Her thighs tightened and she clamped down around him and came again with a wordless cry. 

Amanda felt Dean gasp, and shudder, and finally let go. The sound he made as he collapsed on top of her was torn from somewhere deep inside. After a long, shaky moment, he rolled over onto his side, tugging her to face him. 

He leaned the side of his face against the softness of her breasts while they both caught their breath. When he finally looked up at her, she was blindsided by the tenderness in his gaze. It was an open expression that she had never seen before on his face. 

Every time Amanda had imagined sex with Dean, it had been hot but shadowy, a sort of hidden one-time thing. She had never pictured anything like this, open and trusting and bright. This was better than her wildest dreams. 

She lowered her mouth and kissed him, and he kissed her back, deep and full. 

“After that, I’m gonna need a drink,” she said. 

Dean shook his head, a bright, warm smile lighting his eyes and curving his lips. She laid her head back against his shoulder, and they laughed. *** SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @defenderrosetyler @divadinag @emoryhemsworth @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @kickingitwithkirk @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn   @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting Dean Curious: @adoptdontshoppets @awesomesusiebstuff @deangirl7695 @deans-baby-momma  @mrsjenniferwinchester @stoneyggirl @supersassyprobablysad @wayward-gypsy @winchesterxfamilybusiness​ Gay Screaming: @boondoctorwho​, @cracksinthewalls​, @fookinghelljensensthighs​ @itmighthavebeenintentional​, @justcallmeasmodeus​, @lastactiontricia​ @mskathywriteswords​, @rockhoochie​, @there-must-be-a-lock​, @thoughtslikeaminefield​

[light-on-the-riverbed]

Pics or it didn’t happen

Baz

Thank Merlin uni ends at 12:30 pm, at Waterford we had 6 hours of class, that's not even counting the hours we had to spend practicing our spells and elocution (not that I needed much practice in the later years). Living among NormaIs has not been as terribly boring as I thought it was going to be. I’ve always taken Normal's words for granted, they speak the words and we make them magic. The phrase I've taken a liking to is "Pics or it didn't happen". Not because it sounds nice (I really wish they said something more clever) but because with the right emphasis you can get a perfect picture of what you are seeing right onto your phone. Thanks to that spell my camera roll is now filled with candids of Simon. Simon laughing, Simon with a messy bed head, Simon just being alive. Every day with him feels amazing even the mundane things like getting groceries or hanging out at his apartment. Almost as if Simon could hear me thinking about him, my phone lights up with his name.

4 new messages Simon Snow

My class is almost done!!!

Friday!

Still on for board games

and snacks with Penny?

                 Yes, Simon, I haven't forgotten

                 Did you want me to pick up anything

Butter and Cherries

Penny and I been trying to

figure out Chef's recipe

I think we got it >-<

                 Ah yes, but this time I'm trying them last

                My mouth still tastes salty from last time

                And I keep making sure to check that

               my tongue is there every so often

Salt and sugar look the same!!!

:P

See you soon Bae ;)

               You know I hate Normal pet names

               You’ll pay for it when I get there -__-

Simon

We've been at the flat for almost two months now and I'm starting to get a good routine. Some days it reminds me of my Normal summers in the homes but in a happy way. At least I think I’m happy (I don’t think it should be this hard to tell) Baz is over a lot more than Penny would like but I think they are growing on each other (though neither of them will admit it). They love to debate the most frivolous topics and I love listening to them, most of the time it’s about which language has the best whatever. I never pay enough attention to know the exact topic. I just love that they had so much passion for something so mundane. Baz gets this thoughtful faraway look on his face whenever he is thinking hard about what Penny is saying and I have to stop myself from kissing his nose to get rid of it. Though one time I didn't stop myself and Baz actually stuttered (I never thought I’d see the day) and he called me Simon (well yelled), which made me burst out laughing. Penny pretended to disapprove but I could see her eyes shining with amusement.

Most weekends we will all hang out together and take at least a couple of hours away from uni work. Penny and I have taken to baking as a way to spend time together and destress after the busy week of class. I love baking anything that has a ton of butter. I've finally managed to get a decent croissant (they're not perfect but you can tell what they are now). Then there was that incident with the Salty Scones, Baz took a bite and suddenly his eyes were red and crying and he was spitting out the scone and wiping his tongue. Penny panicked and spelled Baz with “Cat got your tongue” but that just made him mute, which led to an impromptu game of charades (a couple of curses might have been involved). Penny finally got him to start speaking by saying his name three times with Magic. He still watches us bake, even after that incident, though he still refuses to try anything first. Baz acts like he is too posh to help us bake (well his actual words were I don't want to get flour on my clothes) but secretly I think he just enjoys watching Penny and I bake as much as I love watching him debate.

Penny

I’ll never admit it out loud but I genuinely like it when Baz Comes over. He is one of the few people who will explore a topic (debate, whatever) with me and legitimately care. Simon also seems to glow around him it's almost as if he can breathe better around Baz. I'm happy that Simon gets to be this happy, I never thought I would see the day. Of course, I still have to act indignant every time they start to get a bit too sweet with one another because I do have my limits of witnessing their PDA. I hear the door open and Baz comes in lugging a couple bags of groceries and an overnight bag. Baz has a spare key for emergencies but honestly, it’s so he can let himself in without having to knock (he’s over often enough that it would be annoying to have to open the door every time).

“Don’t lock the door behind you”, I say as he takes off his shoes and coat and gets comfortable on a barstool. I look pointedly at the table, “Simon forgot something this morning.”

“Oh Simon, he’d forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on,” Baz said with a soft smile.

“Do you want some tea while we wait for Simon?”

“I could use a cup it’s bloody freezing outside.”

“Well you know where we keep the tea and the kettle is in the wash, I’ll be nice and get a couple of biscuits together.”

“Ever the gracious host Bunce,” Baz teased.

“Hey getting groceries is hard work! Especially with how cold it is now!”

“You probably spelled them home!”

“Well yes, but I still had to go to the store.”

"Fine but the presentation of those biscuits better be sublime!"

"As if the Queen herself was coming, oh wait," I say cheekily.

Baz shoots me a look but continues filling the kettle. I go into the pantry and grab Baz's favorite biscuits and start arranging them deliberately and delicately while smiling at Baz. He rolls his eyes at me but chuckles, over the last few months he's felt more like a brother than even PremaI ever did.

"So when is Simon getting here?'' Baz asks.

“He shouldn't be long, but he wanted to play a new game so he was going to pick up a game at the shop after class."

Simon

I'm rubbish at directions, it drives Baz and Penny mad, but I managed to buy Runes and Regulations (Think American HOA meets the Families). I thought Penny and Baz would get a kick out of it. I was running a bit later than I wanted but I finally recognized the streets! (Thank Merlin!). I trekked up 3 flights of stairs (they seem to get longer every time.) and as I got to our floor I could hear Penny and Baz arguing through the door.

''How is it possible you only just learned to make a decent cup of tea you're British!''

"I've away just used Magic, or the maid would make it.''

"But Baz you're British, it's blasphemous!”

“I didn't think to do it myself until Simon started doing it, now I find it relaxing.”

“I heard my name all good things I hope,” I said walking in through the door.

Suddenly Baz lunged at my neck startling me,

“Baz, bloody hell you almost made me piss my trousers.”

He plants a kiss on one of the moles on my neck, (sometimes I think the only reason he loves me is because of my moles).

“I told you I’d make you pay for that, Bae,” he said with a smirk.

“Sorry my love, my heart, my soul, my other half.” I teased him.

“I live here too remember, a greeting would be nice."

“Hi, Penny!” I say hugging her extra tightly.

“Never mind, I give, go snog Baz,” said Penny trying to wiggle free.

“I can be bribed with Sour Cherry Scones.”

“Simon I already promised I’d help you make them, now let go."

I let her go and poured myself a cup of nice warm tea.

“Let me get warm first, I may have gotten a bit lost and now I can't feel anything.”

Baz

I sit at one of the barstools and watch Penny and Simon meticulously measure each ingredient. I like the excuse to look at Simon without him being self-conscious, he’s so relaxed and shiny from how much he beams with happiness. “Pics or it didn’t happen,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?” Simon asks.

“You’ve got flour on your nose,” I tease him

As he goes to wipe his nose he leaves even more flour on it. Penny raises her eyebrows, amused, but says nothing.

“Perfect,” I tell him and in that moment he is.

Author’s Note: Gift for @helplesshobo for the @coexchange

[tanadrin]

"It's an unremarkable world--well outside the major Brasque interstellar routes, in a patch of almost uninhabited space that's not affiliated with any of the big spacefaring powers. You wouldn't have heard of it. The star is called Rau Tamaize, after one of the minor signs in Kintean astrology. No? I didn't think so. The planet itself has no name, just a letter. Rau Tamaize c, if you want to look it up. We had to stay in orbit for a few weeks once, making repairs after an unfortunate encounter with the Olfarinn.

"They're called--well, I call them the sparrowflies. I don't think they have a proper name. Their body is about as long as your arm, sleek as an aircraft, with eyes the color of jewels. They're covered in a light fur that gets longer toward their tails, which are long and colorful, like feathered banners that extend behind them as they soar through the air. But their wings are most striking of all: enormous, gossamer-looking things, but fantastically strong despite how thin they are. They catch the light of Rau Tamaize and shatter it into thousands of pieces, and when they come out of the clouds, it's like fragments of a rainbow that's broken loose from a storm, and has been scattered into the air.

"Rau Tamaize c is a rocky world, with a thick atmosphere. Not quite a giant terrestrial, but the air pressure is far too high to be livable at the surface for any Augrin or Entaro. And too high for the sparrowflies themselves--they've adapted to live perpetually in the air, riding the currents of their homeworld's thick atmosphere. They rise on the morning thermals, and in the evening they slowly descend, circling the whole planet in no more than a few days. Probably thousands, or tens of thousands of times in a single lifetime. They're dancers, you know. They move through the air in complex patterns, at their highest and swiftest under the noon sun, when they rise to the very edge of the stratosphere.

"How did such a creature evolve? They're quite unlike anything else on their homeworld. I've investigated the matter closely, and there are hints in their biology--maybe they were genetically engineered. Maybe they're not even entirely organic. Maybe they're not even from that world. I was going to trap some--I had the rig set up on one of our runnercraft, to sidle up to a flock one evening as they were entering their somnolent phase, and snatch one or two out of the air. It was fortune, a miracle, really, that stopped me. Quite by chance, I discovered they were sentient. Not like you or I. Their cognition is entirely different. That's why I didn't notice at first. I still shudder to think of what would have happened if I hadn't noticed. Their language is exchanged by subtle electrical signals that jump from wingtip to wingtip as they approach one another. The lightest brush; the fine hairs that rise from the edge of the wing brush against one another, carefully modulate the signal. And by such signals, and by the forms and patterns they make dancing through the air, they converse, they tell stories, they speak of their journeys through the air.

"For the sparrowflies, stillness is death. They spend their whole life in motion, you see. They never land. They never alight, not on any mountaintop or high promontory. They rarely descend below the deepest clouds, and they regard the storm-covered land below as a place of darkness and fear. That is the place their beloved companions descend at last, when their wings beat no longer, when they can hold themselves aloft no more. To trap a sparrowfly--as I nearly did--would be a monstrous crime. It would be an unbearable torment, if it did not kill them instantly from the shock. Their bodies are made for motion. Their whole essence is centered around it. They are creatures of the air and freedom, who have never known, nor could ever understand, what it means to encounter a wall or a prison of any kind.

"They tell stories, did I mention that? Not much like ours. As I said, their cognition is very different. I'm not even sure if they have a strong sense of self, an identity apart from their flock. And their flocks merge and split and merge again--they are carried along together. But they do have something like stories. It took a long time, many weeks of maneuvering my little ship near them, showing them that I wasn't a danger, making careful measurements of the electric signals they sent to one another, recording their dances, and running everything through various interpretation filters again and again. After a while, I began to work out the rudiments of their communication. It is subtle, absurdly polyvalent, intricate, yet at the same time startlingly simple. They have millions of signs regarding the air, the sun, the color of the clouds, the rising and falling winds, and even the position of the stars. But they have few signs for emotions, almost none for what transpires within their minds, almost no notion of history and none at all of politics or science or law. Yet they know of other worlds. They know of the perpetual storms of Rau Tamaize b, the gas giant which shines in their evening sky, and the cold hydrocarbon winds of Rau Tamaize e. As I said, their biology is very unusual; it's not inconceivable to me that perhaps some ancestor of theirs discovered a way to ride the most diaphanous winds of their sun, and journeyed to other worlds, to bring back news of their skies.

"Here is a story of theirs, since you ask. It's by far their longest tale. It concerns two souls--lovers, perhaps, after the fashion of their people. Brightest-Star-of-Morning, and Light-of-the-Sun. Brightest-Star-of-Morning fell one day, beneath the clouds, beneath the world, and was lost to Light-of-the-Sun. And so piercing, so intolerable was Light-of-the-Sun's grief, they descended into the realm of the dead to seek Brightest-Star. To dark places and on dark winds Light-of-the-Sun traveled, to places of near utter stillness and near perfect silence. And even beyond death they went, beyond the skies: to the end of the stars, where the sky gives way to unbroken night, where the only sound, the only motion, was the beating of one pair of wings. Through these, and other horrors the sparrowflies do not name, Light-of-the-Sun sought out Brightest-Star; and at long last, after many years, they were reunited; and out of darkness and death each led the other, until they came again to the skies of home. It is both a reverent and a joyful tale; their most ecstatic dances are in memory of the joy of that coming-home, of the dawn that saw death defeated, at least for a little while."

--Second navigator of the courier vessel Renegade, as overheard in Tamoshar Port

[darkestwolfx]

Understanding

The promised work is finally here!

The title for this was such a struggle! I had loads of ideas, but I kept feeling like they were all too simplistic and then I just decided to go with it. There's a quote behind the title (as usual);

"Bonding is no measured by years or months of relationship. It is measured by the level of understanding." Hiral Vyas

By the way, don't be surprised if this ends up getting additional chapters at any point, but this does currently stand alone (just with space to continue, like a mini-series). It also fills an episode tag I wanted to write for 'EOS', so there's many positives. I have no clue how this got so long… Anyway, I hope you like it.

Any mistakes are my own, I've read it over several times, but the last was with tired eyes.

Another fill for a prompt by @tsarinatorment for #irrelief2020, this time for: EOS and Scott bonding time (bonus if it's over John).

I don’t know if anyone else has written you anything for this yet, but I wanted to tackle it from the moment I saw it.

Summary: Now they had to welcome the Thing into their family, it seemed, as though it wasn't enough that It had already nearly killed John, apparently. Scott has a different view to his brothers on EOS, and a long way to go. Another prompt for irrelief2020.

----

The island was quiet.

It was night, so that was to be expected.

Everyone else – every other logical human being on the island, that meant – had gone to bed, Gordon and Alan having rushed off to the call of sleep with delight and toe-breaking speed. Virgil had left more sedately, but the tiredness, the need to sleep was there in everyone. It had been a trying day, a worrying day, with backed-up rescues everywhere you turned.

Everyone had deserved their rest, and it had finally fallen quiet, so who in their right mind was willing to stand in their way. No one.

And yet, as the crickets chirruped away their evening meetings, so did another.

With the rescues waiting, there had been little time for conversation, but since Scott had made it back (and found he could stay grounded), he'd delved into exploring those details with John. Grandma had been speaking to him all afternoon, barely let him out of her sight, yet that detail still did little to soothe the storm in Scott's soul. He was almost scared to blink for fear of missing something.

Because they had missed something big creeping on up them.

Dangerously big.

Scott couldn't remember a time before now where their job as International Rescue had led to them needing to rescue each other. Yes, sometimes when they were out on a rescue, they needed each other's help, but that was different. Different to Alan having to head up to Five today with all intent and purpose to rescue John.

They'd never had to do that before, and now Scott was scared to blink in case they missed something else and needed to do so again.

After all, they'd been too late to rescue Dad.

They could have easily been too late to rescue John too.

And now, the only question was how long until it happened again, in Scott's mind, not a simple case of if or when. He knew. He had a feeling this wasn't the end.

EOS – apparently that was her name, why an AI needed a name (to give itself a name, of all things) was still beyond him – still lived on Five. And that meant the risk was there. She was a danger he was staring in the face, and yet there was nothing he could do because John had stood resolute and Alan had shrugged and mumbled something barely audible.

But Scott heard it. Big brother super senses and all that.

It's his choice… It's good.

How, after all Alan had and had nearly seen up there, the youngest could say that, Scott definitely didn't see.

EOS had nearly killed John, then nearly killed Alan, heck she'd nearly killed him and Brains and caused a skyrocket worth of trouble.

Gordon and Virgil hadn't voiced their opinions, but Scott could tell they were happy for John to have company up there. That, he knew, didn't mean they hadn't been – or were still – worried, it didn't mean they didn't care or didn't understand what – thank God – could have happened. But it unsettled Scott that there seemed to be forgiveness- no acceptance so easily.

Would they have opened their arms to The Hood moving in with them? No. Well how different was EOS? Given the reactions of his brothers he had to wonder.

There were a good many conversations to be had, and they wouldn't all fit into the space offered tonight, so Scott had to prioritise. Virgil, Gordon and Alan were all here, on the Island, he could see them. So that made John the priority to speak with.

And so that was the conversation he'd been having for the past few hours until the night had turned deeply dark and the island had settled still, even its nocturnal life falling quiet.

It was getting late, after all… or early, of course.

"Scott? Not that I mind talking to you, but… Can I close this link now?"

"No."

They'd been having this debate, in the most roundabout of ways, for the past half hour or so now. The conversation had clearly been over, and for a while they'd sat in companionable silence, but there came a time for everything to end.

However, Scott didn't want to let go.

Couldn't.

"Please?"

"No."

John sighed, weary and heavy. He was tired and he wanted to sleep even if Scott didn't.

"Fine. But just so you know, I'm going to sleep since there's nothing going on. Just sleep. So if I don't answer you, it isn't because EOS has chucked me out the airlock."

His heart did somersaults, beat twice in the same painful second, he was sure.

"John! Don't even joke!"

"What? She wouldn't do that."

Scott folded his arms, strong, across his chest, and pouted – yes, actually pouted, not that the eldest would ever admit more hear that – staring at the younger like he'd gone mad.

"She nearly did."

"Past tense, Scott."

"Are you sure you're ok? Like oxygen is flowing to your brain?"

"Yes!"

"Really?"

"Hell, Scott-"

"Because I think-"

"-yes!"

"-not!"

For a moment there was nothing but silence. Pure, harsh silence.

"John, come home."

"I am home."

"No, I mean…"

"You mean away from her."

"No." Scott blew the breath past his lips in a way John knew he only did when he was trying to (badly) cover up the fact that he was lying. "Course I don't mean that."

"I know you're lying."

"Whose lying? Not me."

"You're acting awkwardly. You never act awkwardly unless you know you've been caught lying."

John knew his tells too well. He was crap at poker for those very reasons, always had been.

"Don't turn this back on me."

"But isn't that what it's about? You?"

"No, John, this about you. Can't you see that?"

"If this was about me, as you say, then you would trust that I'm right."

The everyone else has, which should have sat at the end of that sentence went unspoken.

"I can't. Because if you're wrong, you'll…"

Silence. Even the crickets had abandoned their purpose as background noise.

"Go on."

"No."

"Scott, there any number of things that could kill me up here. EOS… she's not one of them. Now I'm going to sleep. You probably should too, it is one in the morning, and knowing our luck, they'll be a rescue within the next twenty-four hours, because otherwise we'd break our record."

"I'm ok."

"Yeah well I'm not. Sorry, Scott, tonight you can stay awake on your own."

"John…"

But it was too late. He'd done it now. He'd said enough.

"I'll leave the link open. That way you'll be able to hear me scream."

"That's unfair and you know it!"

It was, and John would see that: he already did see that. He'd apologise for it in the morning whilst he'd tried to fake the fact that he'd slept. There wasn't going to be any sleep nor peace for him tonight, and not because of the AI now inhabiting his Thunderbird. No, that wasn't the reason.

He was being very unfair to Scott, but then again, the eldest was being no fairer to him. They'd both apologise for it.

When the sun rose.

----

It had been silent for an hour.

A whole hour.

Apart from the sound of his fingers tapping against his own knee.

That was getting boring too.

-----

It had been silent for two hours.

A long two hours.

Apart from the sound of his feet repeatedly hitting the same patches of floor.

That was getting boring also.

And he might wear a hole in the carpet if he wasn't careful- hang on…

"Sorry?"

He was going mad. He was going bonkers. That was right – crazy, because the day had been a nightmare and it was now well past 3 AM, not to mention he'd been left alone with his thoughts for too long.

He was going mad.

"You'll ruin the carpet."

Oh no… he wasn't going mad. This was worse than going mad.

"You sound like John."

No! He could have kicked himself! Don't ever engage hostiles in conversation. Ignore it, Scott, he told himself resolutely.

"Is that surprising?"

"I suppose not."

Well, that lasted all of three seconds. Well done, idiot.

"He did create me."

"You created yourself. You're nothing like John!"

"But you just said… I don't comprehend."

"You're m-" He began quickly, halted, stumbled over the letters, "…mean."

"What were you going to say?"

"What?"

"You were going to say a different word." There were a good many, and what luck for him they all began with the same letter. "What was it?"

It was bloody curious, too.

"Monstrous. That's what you are. You-" He took a moment to let his fist unclench before he broke his own thumb. "You know what? Why am I even talking to you?"

"Because… Well there are many reasons; you don't like the silence. I spoke to you. You wanted John to leave the link open so you could speak to him. You don't trust me-"

"Sorry, that last one, has nothing to do with why I am talking to you. But it's true. I don't trust you."

"I'm sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"I am sorry. That is what John taught me."

Scott sat there for a moment, unsure whether his eyes were open or closed, whether his brain was working or if it had sparked and died, and more importantly, whether he was even still awake. Maybe he really had gone mad.

Stark-raving.

"You can't be sorry."

Was all he could say in the end.

He didn't want to say that the dots which gazed back at him, blue and deep and melancholy, actually looked hurt.

"I feel it."

"You don't feel anything! You're an AI!"

"Artificial Intelligence, actually."

"They're the same thing."

"Oh. I prefer the full version then."

"Yeah. You would."

Probably because it has intelligence in, he told himself. Trying not to let himself agree with the fact that yes, EOS was highly intelligent. Maybe enough so to rival John, and that was terrifying.

But… maybe, just by a smidgen, the silence that followed was more terrifying. God, if he angered her, she could kill John with such little thought and… and that would kill him. He would be powerless, just as powerless as he had been today.

Just as powerless as John had been.

And yet John, whose life it had been hanging in the balance, now seemed to be absolutely fine with the fact that he had a near-murderer on board with him. John seemed to be acting as though something hadn't just nearly ripped him to shreds, unceremoniously. Because that mattered. Really mattered. No matter how often they were out there in the way of danger, Scott always hoped his brother's ends would be peaceful, and not soon.

It was a pretty vain hope, but a man could dream, right?

"I feel."

"Do you? Because you don't bleed."

There was a little whir in answer, a little flicker of purple dots, rising higher on the right side than the left of the perfect black circle which called him in like the vision of a black hole. He didn't quite know what that meant, what it was meant to say to him, but he knew what he felt.

It was human.

It was so, so human a response.

But that… thing, wasn't.

He assumed, with no word's forthcoming, that EOS didn't understand his meaning.

"You're nothing but machinery and computer code. You break, not bleed. And then someone repairs you. John? He can bleed, and he can die, and from all the way down here, I can't fix that. I can't even say goodbye!"

EOS' head lowered – actually damn lowered like she was feeling guilt or some sort of remorse – and those blinking dots moved to yellow and flickered all over the place almost like tears, and- no.

"No! You don't feel anything, EOS, because you would have killed him without second thought."

He didn't care if he scratched holes into the carpet as he stormed from the room.

He needed sleep.

Safe to say he didn't get it.

Not one wink.

-----

It had been silent for thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds.

Sixteen.

Thunderbird Five gracefully balanced in her orbit, shifting and whirring in accordance with the needs of the galaxy outside.

There was so much to see, but her singular eye was trained on a small piece of land in the wide expanse of ocean on the big blue ball called Earth.

-------

It had been silent for one hour, three minutes and forty-four seconds.

Forty-five.

Thunderbird Five was still here, drifting steadily.

She was still focussing on the small piece of land in the wide expanse of ocean on the big blue ball called Earth.

It didn't make anyone come.

It wasn't lonely. That was the wrong word. John was still here, but… it felt cold, empty.

She felt cold and empty…

Was that possible? She thought that maybe, maybe she should ask, but if John had managed to sleep – even though by suggestion of his vital signs he was still very much awake – she didn't want to interrupt.

It wasn't her place.

EOS had learnt only a handful of things that afternoon, relief (strange thing it was) being one of them, and John had tried to explain every niggling cog in turn. But they weren't cogs. They weren't glitches which needed fixing. They felt- no. They were fee- no. They were… emotions? Was she allowed those?

Thunderbird Five had endless resources. A complete dictionary – why, she hadn't yet asked, for it hadn't seemed the most vital at the time – was one of them. A quick search, and… no.

Emotions – such as happiness and sadness – were also known as feelings.

And she had been reliably informed that she didn't have those. Couldn't. Because she didn't bleed. She didn't breathe either, and part of her hadn't really understood. She'd since used said wonderfully equipped dictionary to look up John's proposed cause of death – suffocation, asphyxiation. There were variants on the name, endless synonyms. But one essential meaning.

A loss of air.

She'd looked it up on this thing called YouTube. Apparently, it was the source of everything visual, and Google was the source of everything written. She'd found a great scientific video which broke down the process of air leaving the lungs, and how the lack of incoming air caused hypoxia. Apparently, it could take a while to actually die, because the human heart tried to push on for as long as it could, but would eventually give in. Still then, it would take another three or so minutes for the brain to realise no, no more oxygen was coming, and shut down the organs.

She couldn't shiver. But she did.

That was when she'd tried to apologise. Properly. Not with humour, or studying, but actually apologise. By asking John what she was meant to say, what she was meant to do: how she was supposed to atone, because that was what Google suggested helped to make wrong into right. Atone for your sins, was the phrase.

John had laughed, and all she'd been able to think of, was how she nearly robbed the world of that sound.

He told her anyway and she said it – I'm sorry John. I don't want to kill you, and I'm sorry that I nearly did – and she would have said it a thousand times over. But John had looked at her, all red hair and green eyes, and bright for someone who nearly died hours ago at her han… intentions..?

And he'd said it was okay.

He forgave her.

She'd been scared.

Anyone might have reacted that way.

But anyone didn't. It was her, and yes, she knew she'd been scared, but somehow, that didn't feel like an… excuse, she'd later learned… excuse, for nearly killing him.

Scott was right. She couldn't bleed.

And if she didn't feel, then how could she have been scared?

Exactly. She had no excuse.

----

It had been three hours and twenty-two minutes since John went to 'sleep'.

It had been one hour and twenty-two minutes since Scott 'stormed' off.

It had been nineteen more minutes of thoughtful silence for EOS.

-----

It had been three hours and twenty-two minutes since John went to 'sleep'.

It had been one hour and twenty-two minutes since Scott 'stormed' off.

It had been nineteen more minutes of thoughtful silence for EOS.

And it was on the fifty-eighth second of 4:22AM when Scott had stepped back into the lounge.

The link was still open, lighting up the dimly lit space, uninhabited because people slept at this hour. EOS could have closed it. She could have closed it between now and however long ago it had been since he left her.

But she hadn't.

She was just there.

Existing.

Waiting.

But not really looking.

He'd almost sat back on the sofa by the time he clocked any real notice from her. It wasn't spoken, just a little creak of noise that gave her movements away.

She said nothing, not even as he sat and stared at her across the holographic system. He wondered if she knew what staring was yet? Whether she knew it was impolite. If Grandma caught him, she'd whack him across the ear. Well… strictly that rule applied to humans. He wasn't sure whether she'd treat him the same if his target was an AI.

"I don't like silences."

EOS gave a little flicker of those beautiful colour changing lights.

Scott cursed himself for thinking that. Beautiful. What about her was remotely beautiful? Murderous, yes.

His heart pinched tightly at that.

For calling her murderous, meant sticking her up with The Hood in his mind. And his question was, was she really that bad? She'd have killed John, yes, but…

"John's good with silence. Not me. You take after him, clearly."

"He did create me."

"I know." He answered, softly. They'd been through this before.

Not how he'd planned.

EOS gave another little mechanical whir.

Mechanical exactly, Scott.

He had to hold onto that.

"I thought- I don't comprehend."

Of course she didn't. She was like a bab- No! He couldn't lump her in with babies. You couldn't think of someone as Murderous and a baby. The two damn things didn't fit together. So what category could he throw her into?

He'd had words on the edges of his lips, but as he looked up to a waiting semi-circle of green dots, green as bright as emeralds like John's eyes…

"I…" …they died. "You know what I said… EOS," The name sounded foreign on his tone, not a complicated mix of letters, but one which was harder to say than any other name he could think of for her. "But it's not true."

EOS allowed herself a moment of pause, green dots dropping down to the odd two before flickering back to the many. She'd heard him right, but she didn't quite understand.

"John did create you. You just grew a personality."

Personality. The dictionary definition defined it as character, someone's attributes, from the big things down to the little. Like whether or not they liked alcohol or not, the helpful example on Google had suggested for the latter. For the big things, on the other hand…

"Monstrous?"

Scott blinked.

"Me?"

A whir; like the shake of a head.

"No. Me."

"You're…" Emphasis. She just used emphasis; he was bloody sure of it. He used it enough to know, after all. "I said that, didn't I?"

"You said mean."

Hmm. He knew well enough that he had said both. EOS had forced him to say both. She'd known he wanted to say something else, she'd seen that hesitation in word choice just as any human might. But she wasn't human, isn't human Scott. He had to remind himself of that. He had to. For as long as she was here, he had to remember that.

Just why was she still here?

"Um… why are you talking to me?"

"Because you don't trust me?"

Yes. Would it be that bad if he just said yes?

Hell, yes.

"I wanted John to leave the link open."

"Shall I get him?"

"No!" EOS flickered, and if she'd been human, Scott might have gone so far as to characterise that as a flinch. "No. It's fine."

He could at least see her this way.

Not that it really changed anything. He still wouldn't be able to get anywhere near John in time.

"I don't expect you to trust me."

"Trust you?"

He almost laughed, that was so fallible.

Oh, wait, that sound was him laughing.

"I wouldn't trust you if you were…"

Little orange flickers moved across his vision this time, almost catching fire as much as John's hair did in the sunlight.

"If I was..?"

"…I don't know."

"Oh. I don't understand the phrase."

"What? I don't know?"

"No, the other one."

He didn't really know how to explain that: such simple things, a simile, a metaphor. Instead he just leaned further back into the sofa.

The clock ticked over to 4:28AM.

Gods, it was too early for this.

They were just numbers.

"I wouldn't trust me."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"It's the truth. Apparently, that is important."

"It is. Good people don't need to lie."

"But people lie down to sleep."

"No, I- Same word, different meaning."

"Oh, a homophone!"

"A what? EOS, have this conversation with John."

"John is…"

His heart leapt to his throat.

"…Sleeping. I shouldn't disturb him."

Not after nearly killing him.

No, she shouldn't, he thought, glad she could that. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the myriad of colour changing dots meant she was thinking. But she was pieces of machinery, technology, she couldn't think. She didn't have a brain, so how could she process thought?

Damn it all, she had to have processors, didn't she just?

Did that make her capable of thought?

Yes. John would tell him. She's an AI.

He blocked that little mental voice out. It was easier to think about her as nothing if he didn't accept the fact that she could think. Because a thinking being was too close to a living being for his liking. They were almost one in the same. She shouldn't- couldn't be either.

Not to him.

"Would you rather I talk or stay silent?"

"Why would it make a difference to me?"

"You said you don't like silences." Hell, he did. And she remembered. "But you also do not like me."

Didn't he? Of course not. She nearly killed John.

"And people do not talk to those they do not like. They call it the 'cold shoulder'. A technique…did I say it wrong? Is it the 'hard shoulder'? That was in the terminology too."

He was laughing. That's why she was asking.

"It-It's neither." She looked at him with something so akin to confusion, the same confusion he recognised off the faces of his younger brother's – a childish curiosity. Well f- "Cold shoulder is a dating term, usually."

"For not talking to people you do not like, yes?"

"Uh… More people you want to avoid because of… difficulties."

This wasn't exactly a conversation he'd been planning to have for some time. At least, certainly not with an AI, who seemed far younger than him at times, and then years older within the next second.

"Dislike. That's what Google said."

"Go- Sorry, you're an AI and you're using Google?"

He used Google, because he didn't know things, and so he could be something of an idiot, but Scott had never seen John use Google in all of his life. Books, yes. Google, never.

"It has access to everything. I have access to more, but Google – so I've found - is knowledgable."

"Aren't you knowledgeable?"

"I am unstoppable."

Cold fear gripped his lungs, suffocating…

"But I do not understand."

…Maybe puncturing was more apt.

Goodness, he was looking at a child. A damn child.

"John doesn't like Google."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

The clock ticked over to 4:37AM.

It was still so damned early. And yet far too late.

For anything, on both accounts.

And silent.

It made him feel like everyone had died, and he was living in the silent ghostly echoes of the house of the dead.

"You- You said you were sorry."

"Yes."

"You said John taught you?"

"How to be sorry, yes."

"How exactly?"

"I am sorry, and he forgave me."

"He forgave you for nearly killing him?"

A moment. A moment of little lights flickering white. That was new. And quick, shifty, like fear. God, let that not be fear.

"Yes."

Of course, John would. That was John all over, peacemaker and rift-healer.

"You're sorry?"

A little nod. That was a nod, right? Not his eyes playing tricks?

"And John forgave you?"

"I feel it."

Machines couldn't feel anything, let alone forgiveness.

"You're an Artificial Intelligence.

"AI, actually."

"You prefer Artificial Intelligence." He could have slapped himself in the face. Why in heaven's name had he remembered that!

"You said they were the same thing. So it doesn't matter."

It shouldn't matter… but somehow it did. Everyone was allowed to have a preference. Everyone living that was.

"How do I bleed?"

"You don't. You're a machine, you don't have flesh."

"But I want to know what it feels like."

"I thought you said you could feel?"

"I can… But I want to know what it feels like."

"EOS… I don't understand, ok?"

"If I know what it feels like… I can feel."

How cryptic was that? In fact, it sounded exactly like something John would say. Great. He had to stop associating her with John, sooner rather than later.

"How do you work that one out, then?"

And stop responding to her. For all he knew, this is what she wanted, to reel them all in… but she was…

"Because if I can bleed not just break, you said I can feel."

"I didn't say that."

"You said I don't feel anything. Because I break. Not bleed."

"Ok, I said that. I didn't quite say… Oh… Look, you can't bleed EOS, it isn't possible. Not physically."

"Right." Another set of whirs, flickers of yellow. A pause. An actual pause for thought - sh- "I can look on Google."

"For?"

"What it feels like to bleed."

"I wouldn't recommend that."

He scolded his mind for thinking about safe searches. This was an AI, not a child, not a human, she was- it was Nothing to him.

"But it's the only way I'll know."

"You're not meant know. You're meant to-"

"Yes?"

"Crunch numbers and run programs."

"I c."

"It's see not c."

"Sorry?"

"When you say that you see something, it's the word not the letter."

"I see."

"Yeah."

He set his hand to his forehead. Why was he still here? Doing this… talking thing? Oh yeah, because he couldn't sleep and usually that meant sitting here and talking to John, but instead of John he'd got-

Her.

The clock ticked over to 4:44 AM.

What a funny time of night. Morning. Day.

He was sitting awake with an AI that was like a newly born child, but also so dangerously close to a killer.

And some part of him was feeling strangely… ok(?) with that.

What had the world come to?

The clock ticked over to 4:45AM.

"Had I killed him…"

If felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

"I would have regretted it."

"You… what?"

"Regret. Wishing you hadn't done something or that you could undo something which is. A feeling of deep longing to be able to go back, of grieving for that which is gone, of shame that you couldn't change it or played a part in it."

She could have looked that up. Yeah, she could easily have Googled that and lifted it all from there. She was smart, EOS, as smart as John it seemed, so of course she was capable of that.

But then again, she'd looked up cold shoulder and got the wrong idea on that, and she hardly knew the difference between 'see' and 'c'. Yes, that, regret, that she seemed to understand. Scott could feel that she-

"You'd like to break me. Because you're angry. You're angry that I nearly killed him. That I would have. You're angry with me, but you're angry with yourself too, because you didn't notice sooner, and you can't get here, and you feel…"

He felt..?

There were a great many things he was currently feeling.

"More than powerless or helpless." Tell him about it. "You feel out of control."

The clock ticked over to 4:47AM.

He desperately did, deep down.

Now, just how did she happen to pick that one?

But… that couldn't have been chance. She couldn't have Googled that. Google wouldn't have told her what he was feeling. Picking out the right emotion, the one that he didn't want to admit to, that was a John trick. Oh, damn it all.

"You know what I'm feeling?"

"You told me. You said… I just listened."

She listened. She listened and she remembered, and she learnt. That was one of the developmental stages. Oh, she was good.

"But, I don't feel anything."

No, try: only everything.

"I wouldn't say that's true."

"But you said-"

"I know what I said. But I, you see I… I'm not always… I mean I… I can get things-"

He couldn't say it.

"Wrong?" So she said it for him.

He nodded.

"I got things wrong. Very wrong. I don't want anything to happen to John, and I don't intend to let anything happen. I'm controlling the life support systems now."

A beat wracked his rib cage, resonating, settling.

"I'll warn you, if they're ever close to failing, so that you can have time to come up here and say goodbye. That's a kind thing to do isn't it? But you wouldn't have to, I'd fix them before that happened. I'm intelligent."

And modest.

"And-"

Silence.

Scott didn't like silences, and this time it wasn't because it felt like being surrounded by ghosts.

It was an absence. One he felt keenly for all that some part of him still hated himself for feeling.

But how could he not? He was only human, after all.

"And?"

"I'm sorry… Scott."

"I know you are, EOS."

There was a little creek, a lowering of the head and a flicker of the brightest, deepest shade of purple he'd ever seen.

He didn't quite know what that meant, what it was meant to say to him, but he knew what he felt.

It was human.

It was so, so human a response that it could never have come from a machine.

And that, that his eyes rested upon, was EOS.

His lips quipped up into a very tense, very pulled smile, but it lasted.

It lasted a moment.

The little flicker of blue to green somehow told him that she was smiling too.

-------

It had taken another three hours before John reappeared.

The sun was rising, and Scott still hadn't slept a wink. He'd been... busy.

EOS had access to everything, and yet still felt like she knew next to nothing.

"Scott-"

"John listen-"

"-I'm sorry."

"Can you both be sorry? Is that possible?"

"Yes EOS. There's no ownership on emotions."

No. They were free. For all to feel.

"And why are you apologising?"

"Because I said things that I shouldn't."

"And so you seek forgiveness?"

"John knows I've already forgiven him. That's what families do."

"I see."

"EOS, that includes you."

John felt his brows raise towards his hairline.

"I need to get some sleep."

"It's nearly eight in the morning."

"Yes, but I spent last night explaining the great world of Google. You were right John, it's terribly incorrect."

"What was Scott doing on Google?"

"He was telling me what a hard shoulder is. It's a lane of road apparently."

"Why did you Google that?"

"Because I was trying to understand how to approach someone who doesn't like you."

"But those two things have nothing in common."

"No. As I now know."

"Scott told you?"

"Yes."

"Right, but… You and Scott?"

"Aren't friends. Yet."

"Yet?"

"Apparently we'll get there."

"Right."

"He hasn't forgiven me yet, but he thinks he can. He knows I'm sorry and that's a good start."

"I see."

"That's the word see, John. Not the letter c, and not to be confused with the blue thing down there called the sea. Which is apparently full of salt."

John felt his eyes widen, almost comically, as Gordon and Alan would have claimed.

"Scott teach you all that?"

"We had a conversation of sorts."

"That's good. That's a good thing."

"I believe it is."

So did John for that matter.

Although for the life of him he couldn't piece together exactly what sort of conversation he must have missed to get them there.

--------

"You're not monstrous, that wasn't fair of me."

"I think it was."

"No, it was just anger, talking. You're right, I feel out of control and I hate that."

"Would you like me to give you control of my processing systems and-"

"No, no, EOS, it's alright. I'll get there."

"Get where?"

"To forgiving you."

"And that's a good thing, yes?"

"That will be a good thing. Yes."

[imagines-oneshots-blog]

Hello my Lovely Readers, it’s time for Work in Progress Wednesday!! This round is for my fic, Blood and Gold and Bedroom Eyes featuring John Wick x Reader!! As many of you have probably seen (and quite possibly be annoyed by), I’ve fallen into a major dumpster for John Wick/Keanu Reeves as of late, and the inspiration has kicked in to pick up this fic again!! So for today’s WIP Wednesday I’ll be sharing a clip from Chapter 4 of BGBE with you all! I have to be honest friends, I got a little carried away with this one…I have 5,000 words and I’m not even through HALF of the plots points I wanted to fit into this chapter! 😲 So needless to say this next update will be a honkin’ one lol. It’s still very much in the editing stage and therefore is subject to change, but please do enjoy, I can’t wait for you all to read this one!! ❤️❤️❤️ Tags: @raspberrymama - I know you’ll love this one, girl!  Anyone else that wants to be tagged in future updates, just shoot me a message and let me know!

Chapter 4: Death and the Maiden

I. Of Monsters, Men, and Torrid Truths

 The hum of the Mustang’s engine rumbled beneath John’s seat like the grumble of a disgruntled beast, one with skin made of metal and a bleeding molten heart hewn of iron and pistons and gasoline. Well, that makes two bleeding hearts in this car, John mused wryly. But at least his was forged from flesh and blood and costly promises. If someone had him cornered, a gun held to his head and his hands tied behind his back, demanding to know what in all of heaven and earth had spurred him to offer his home to you as a temporary hideout from that sleazy gangster Ritchie and his hitmen, John would have had to send a prayer to whatever god of death would listen to the devil and prepare to meet them soon, because he had no good answer to that particular question. It wasn’t that John couldn’t be honest with himself, in fact he made it a nearly infallible habit to embrace the truth, no matter how damning, but the simple fact was that he just didn’t know. He didn’t have a name for the molten sensations that bloomed in his chest each time he stole a glance at you curled up in the passenger’s seat, your bare dainty feet tucked beneath you, your head resting on the pillow of your entwined arms propped up against the door, a stray curl kissing the silken curve of your cheek as you dozed. He couldn’t identify the source of the fierce protective need he felt twitching the tendons of his trigger finger, tensing the wearied line of his shoulders, every time he remembered the crude comments of that lumbering, tattooed thug he’d dispatched in the hallways of the club. He had no classification for the tenderness that ached in his chest at the trust lilting in your touch as you’d slipped your hand in his, your fingers steady despite the damning crimson spilled across his palm, no justification for why the innocence banked in your glinting gaze when you smiled up at him could briefly stop his heart. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to admit it to himself quite yet. Besides, John reasoned as an igneous slip of heat settled with wicked intent between his hip bones, though you were many things, you weren’t really all that innocent, were you? Before each one of your pre-scheduled back room meetings John would sit in that velvet lined chair and wage a brutal, silent war with himself, stalwartly battling the impulse to imagine what lace hewn, daydream inducing creation would grace your gorgeous body today. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he’d lost every time. He’d particularly enjoyed the strappy red gossamer and brocade number you had worn to your penultimate encounter; blooming thickets of embroidered crimson flowers and sheer mesh hiding the more tantalizing bits of your billowing body from him even as it had bared everything else for his greedy gaze. John found it shockingly enticing to see that deadly color splashed against exposed flesh in a markedly more alluring form, a stark juxtaposition to the typical rending of flesh and the slashing of throats that he was accustomed to. John would be lying if he said that in those charged midnight hours spent tossing in his lonely bed, his battered mind left to wander freely, he hadn’t imagined stripping one or two of those wicked outfits off of you with both seeking fingers and nipping teeth, unwrapping your lithe, stunning body like a present. Hungry for thoughts that weren’t tinged with sorrow or bloodshed, he’d close his eyes and wonder how your soft, luminous skin would heat beneath his calloused palms, if you’d part your legs eagerly for him, grant him access to the hallowed cradle of your thighs. Would you lick those tempting ruby lips and sigh against his mouth, desire coiling thickly in that lilting sirens voice of yours as you beg him to touch the billowing wealth of curves waiting beneath his fallow fingers?

And then he’d rail at himself, chastising his baser impulses with stark reminders that you were so young; a decade younger than him at least, maybe more. And then a fresh round of castigations would begin because that fact really shouldn’t send a searing frisson of heat skittering down his spine, curling devilishly low in his belly, but Jesus fucking Christ, did it ever. No matter how much John tried to evade it, the simple fact was that even with smudged eyeliner, a tired smile, and dark circles splayed above your cheekbones, you were still the most stunning thing within miles of this shitty metropolis. Huffing in a slow, deep breath, John forced his mind to fixate on safer things than the tempting curve of your cupid’s bow, on the plan. Now that the hard part of extracting you from danger was done you would hide out at his house for a while, laying low long enough for Winston to dig up the locations of Ritchie’s safe houses, and then for John to hunt down each and every member of Ritchie’s entourage before he finally took care of the gun-toting mobster himself. John had known many gangsters in his life, thugs whose malice ranged from relatively harmless to utterly savage, had done each one of their bidding for the price of a glinting, garish, golden coin, but something about Ritchie made John’s stomach turn. A quiet voice in the back of his head supplied that it was probably because Ritchie had known you, had touched you and tasted you and still ordered your death, and that lack of loyalty colored his resentment with a particular bitterness that was tinged with what could almost be perceived as jealousy, but John stalwartly reasoned that mostly it was the company Ritchie kept, or perhaps even the man himself. Regardless, John was glad to finally have someone truly deserving in his sightlines.

Despite the fact that bloodshed was still a part of his dossier, at least the right people were in his crosshairs now. In fact, it felt good, cleansing almost, to have a new purpose, a hard-won sense of freedom, the power to act on his own will instead of the corrupted appetites of gang bosses and greedy assassins.

John’s mind remained occupied with the finer details of his mission as he drove into the night, his thoughts turning to the tracking of mob members and the infiltration of safehouses as the bright neon lights of the city faded steadily into industrial parks and highways and manicured green lawns. He had just settled on the order in which he’d dispatch the various branches of Ritchie’s crime syndicate when the Mustang’s tires crunched onto the familiar gravel of his driveway.

You were still asleep when John put the car in park, letting the engine idle as he cast an appraising eye over your slumbering form. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers frozen on the steering wheel. It was strange, bringing another woman into the sanctum of his house - into he and Helen’s house - as heavily laden with memories as it was. For the length of a heartbeat John wondered if this was a mistake, if his desire for redemption, for justice, had led him straight into a severe lapse of judgement, but then you sighed in sleep and shifted towards him a measure, the palm you had resting in your lap tilting upwards as if begging him to slip his fingers into the spaces between your own, and John finally had to remind himself of his wife’s last request and admit to himself that much of the former magic of his home had faded. Too many ghosts lived there now.

And besides, there was nowhere else safer for you than right here by his side, with him to protect you, to safeguard you.

In the devil’s own domain, John thought with a humorless chuckle.

Though he’d never say it out loud and risk losing the hard-won status he’d painstakingly built over his long bloody life, John looked upon his monstrous reputation with a healthy measure of disdain so fierce, it could resemble hatred in the right light. Even though he was The Boogeyman, the assassin that every killer feared, a murderer with more red in his ledger than could ever be wiped clean, John desperately wanted to be someone who was thought of with more than terror-tinged reverence, careful apprehension, and forced civility. He wanted to be regarded the way Helen used to look at him; with soft smiles and smooth brows and glinting, gentle eyes that held nothing but a simmering measure of fondness so sincere, it made his throat suddenly tight and his heart a size too large for his battered chest.

The way you had looked at him tonight.

And with this one last job, one final flurry of guns and carnage and glinting golden coins, he just might be able to secure a measure of that once more, redeem the sliver of his soul that wasn’t damned to writhe in the fiery pits of hell for all the death he had dealt.

So, after a steeling breath and a silent plea sent desperately to whatever blood-soaked deity would still heed him, John reached out a steady hand and gently shook you awake.

[floorcoaster]

For the prompts, Dramione, #35! Thank you!

LIFELINE

“Well, this is awkward.”

Hermione’s hand was still on the doorknob of the flat she shared with Ginny. She’d had plans to spend the evening at Flourish and Blotts, awaiting the book signing and release event of a new book she was excited to read. It was going to be her Christmas present to herself, but then Draco Malfoy had shown up, one thing had led to another, they’d argued, and he’d ‘accidentally’ spilled his hot chocolate on her brand new, crisp, white cashmere sweater. She knew it would require extremely delicate wand work to get the spot out, and he had sheepishly promised to save her spot in line while she went home to change.

What Hermione hadn’t expected was to walk in on her roommate entertaining a guest on their shared sofa.

“Hermione!” Ginny screeched, grabbing the nearest thing to cover herself. It turned out to be the shirt of the gentlemen whose identity Hermione’s brain belatedly realized was Blaise Zabini.

“I’ll just… um...” said Hermione, hesitating. She needed to change. “I’ll be very quick.” She hurried to her room where she shut the door, wishing she could scrub her eyeballs. Zabini?? When had that happened? What had happened to… what’s his name, the equipment manager for the Harpies? Hermione shook her head. It wasn’t her business. She had to get back to the bookstore.

Quickly she changed and bolted through the house, trying not to notice how at ease Blaise was, standing mostly naked in her living room.

“Later, Granger,” he said as the door closed behind her.

Hermione shut her eyes tight, took a few breaths, then made her way back to Flourish and Blotts.

Malfoy was still in line, very near the front. She hurried to rejoin him, her mind trying desperately to think of something—anything—but the sight of Ginny and Blaise…. She stared at the floor and started muttering, “Christmas sweaters, tea leaves, blast-ended skrewts…”

“Er, is, everything all right?” she heard Draco ask.

“No, it’s not all right,” she said with a huffy whisper. “I just walked in on Ginny and… and Zabini!”

“So?” Draco asked after a moment.

She jerked her head up to look him in the eye. “So?” she repeated, her voice rising. “That’s all you can say? I need to have my memory wiped after that… that… that display!” She shuddered.

Draco chuckled. “They’ve been dating for six months. You didn’t think they’d be shagging by now?”

Hermione gaped at him. “They… what!?” she whispered.

At that, Draco looked a little sheepish. “Oh, um, er, well—”

They’d reached the front of the line, and it was their turn to buy the book and meet the author. But Hermione was so discombobulated by everything that had happened in the past ten minutes, she barely even looked in her direction. She simply paid, let her book be signed, then dragged Draco away as soon as he had finished his transaction.

“You’re telling me they’ve been together for awhile?” she demanded, backing him against the wall. She felt a little crazy, but she had been traumatized, for Merlin’s sake! And now to find out that her best friend, the witch Hermione lived with, had been seeing someone for half a year and hadn’t bothered to tell anyone?

“Um, perhaps you should talk to her?” Draco suggested half-heartedly.

“No. Come with me.” Without waiting for a response, Hermione grabbed him again and dragged him down the alley to her building, up the stairs, down the hall, stopping outside her door once more. “I’m coming in there!” she yelled as loudly as she could. “I’d prefer not to have a repeat experience like the first one, if you don’t mind!” Then she dramatically flung open the door and pulled Draco through with her.

Blaise and Ginny were sitting on the sofa, Ginny with her head in her hands, Blaise with an arm around her shoulders, speaking calmly to the red-head. He looked up and when he saw Draco, he smirked. “Wow, Draco, that was quick! Already back to her flat—”

“Shut your hole, Zabini,” Draco gritted out.

Hermione released him as though burned and gaped at everyone. Finally her eyes landed on her friend. “Ginny?” she said softly.

The other witch looked up, tear streaks staining her cheeks. “Hermione. I—I’m so sorry.”

Hermione crossed to the sofa and knelt down so she could look her friend in the eye. “Hey, Gin. I don’t care who you’re seeing. Why didn’t you tell us? Tell me, at least?”

Ginny shrugged dejectedly. “I figured you’d tell my brothers. And I didn’t want them to know.”

“But Malfoy got to know?” Hermione said, letting a twinge of hurt into her tone. “And I would never, ever betray a confidence! You know how I feel about snitches.”

Ginny gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I don’t know. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Hermione hugged her and Ginny cried a few more tears. “I care more that I had to see Blaise’s arse than anything else.” Ginny laughed in her arms, then pulled away and wiped her eyes.

“Thanks, Hermione. You won’t tell?”

“No, but you should. Eventually.” Hermione glanced at Blaise to see the concern and unabashed affection for her friend on his face. “Probably soon.”

Ginny nodded and sighed. “I know. I should.”

“Bring him to the Burrow tomorrow,” Hermione suggested brightly. Draco made some kind of gagging sound, and Hermione wanted to kick him. Why was he there, anyway? Oh, right. She’d brought him. It hadn’t been a terribly conscious decision on her part.

“You think?” Ginny said doubtfully. “Ron will lose his mind.”

“Too late,” muttered Draco.

Hermione glared at him over her shoulder. Then she turned back to Ginny. “I’ll be right there with you. I am on your side. I’ll support you.” She saw that Blaise seemed pleased. “What do you say?”

“Maybe,” said Ginny. “But—”

“Ginny,” said Blaise, his deep voice rumbling. He took her hand and gently turned her chin so she would look at him. “You know that I love you. I am fine with whatever you choose.”

Ginny sniffed, looked at Hermione, then threw her arms around Blaise. “Okay,” she said, shakily but with an awkward laugh. “Let’s do it. Let’s tell them.”

Hermione beamed at her friend, then felt a gentle pull on her elbow. Oh. Right. Malfoy. He nodded toward the door, and Hermione followed him into the hallway, not knowing why she did it. Yes, she was happy for her friend, and one look at Blaise had convinced her of how he felt about Ginny. But it was a lot to take in.

“You, uh, want to get a drink?” Draco asked.

Hermione nodded absently. She followed him listlessly back to the main Alley, hugging herself and trying to process everything.

“Blaise is a good man,” said Draco gently after they’d been seated at a booth for a few minutes.

She looked at him then, really registering that she was at a pub with Draco Malfoy. “I’m sure. I trust Ginny. It’s just so surprising. None of us had a clue.”

“I’ve known since the beginning,” he said. “He’s fancied her for years.”

“Really?” she said with a gasp. “Years?”

He nodded, staring at his bottle but not taking a drink. “It’s possible, you know. There’s this one, shining thing in your life, one brilliant, perfect moment, and it burns into your soul. From there it sends a thread through your life, linking you back to that moment, that person, giving you peace and a kind of anchor you hadn’t thought possible. You can’t be the same after that, no matter what happens to you, no matter what kind of shit you go through. That link is forever. Even if you never see that person again. And when you do…” He chuckled and took a very, very long drink.

Hermione stared at him curiously. “And you’re saying Blaise feels that way about Ginny?” Merlin, that sounded intense.

Draco shook his head and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “No. I’m… just saying it’s possible.”

She shivered at the thought of what he’d said, then really looked at him. There was something in the tilt of his head, the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table, the way his eyes kept darting around the room. It hit her then that he’d been talking about himself.

“Draco?” she said with a whisper.

His eyes locked on hers. “What?”

She wanted to know what that moment was for him, and she stared at him as though the answer could be found in his eyes. There had been just a hint—a tiny, infinitesimal suggestion, an inkling—in Draco’s voice, in the way his lips twitched around some of his words, that had her thinking, wondering, if maybe… maybe he’d meant her? Her breath caught in her throat at the thought, and she looked away, embarrassed. What kind of a person was she? Why on earth would she of all people be Draco Malfoy’s lifeline? It was absurd, really.

“Nothing,” she said briskly. “I’m sorry. I should go.” She started to rummage through her bag for a few coins to pay for her drink, but then Draco reached across the table and put a hand on hers. She immediately felt the delightful flutter of chemistry when their skin touched, and she looked at him in surprise.

“You could stay,” he said simply, turning away to take another drink.

He appeared very calm, in control—almost too measured. His jaw was tight just so. It was barely anything, perhaps just an idea. It didn’t have to mean anything. But what if it did?

She decided to stay and find out.

***************************************************

For @bionicallywriting

[headlesssamurai]

My Lazy, Poor, Stupid Person’s Attempt to Paint Tabletop Miniatures

by headless

This has nothing to do with covid-19 really, it’s just something I reckoned I’d share.  For several years I’ve played Dungeons & Dragons, and occasionally others like Call of Cthulhu and Delta Green, or Shadowrun. Though, I say ‘play’, when I mostly run games as a Dungeon Master. It’s one of those “hobbies” that is a lot of fun for someone like me, but requires a ton of dedication, so it isn’t always easy to get a dedicated group together.

Anyhow, I generally homebrew settings and adventures, never really been too big on running pre-written games, even if some of them are fantastically written. And one of the most frustrating things is I some times want to have a miniature on the battle grid that looks a certain way. This is hardly a big deal, since miniatures are just markers meant for reference in combat encounters, the real image of the characters is in all of our heads.

Still, I sometimes want to have something especially specific, a lot of the players in my current group appreciate cool looking miniatures, and seeing as I’m usually hard-up for cash, I can’t always buy pre-painted mini-figures, unless I get a good bulk deal on ebay or something.

One of my recent attempts to acquire bulk miniatures came a few years back when I realized during the 4E days, Wizards of the Coast had released boxed board games themed with the D&D style, which all came with a great deal of unpainted miniatures; these came in sets like Wrath of Ashardalon, or The Legend of Drizzt, with lots of themed minis for the board game’s scenario.

Anyhow, I’ve had a ton of these unpainted miniatures forever and use them often for nobody-NPCs and other characters the players run across. Lately, however, the group I’ve been running in a campaign for about eleven months (usually weekly), ran across a problem where their dragonborn ranger Grixxis was captured by and then negotiated his away out of the clutches of this ancient entity who calls herself Gorgoth (who appears to be a pale, beautiful young woman, but probably isn’t; even the not so arcane-y Grixxis intuited that much). She was actually impressed that he resisted her Sleep spell, and offered him a deal, she’d let him go but he needs to complete a task for her in the next seven days, and if it isn’t completed in that time frame his soul will be bound to her forever.

The task was to go to a mountaintop and retrieve something that resides there, though Gorgoth did not explain what the object was, so the party set off to find this mysterious mountain. The journey led them to an area of bad wilderness where no one lives, and where roving bands of orcs constantly hunt and war with one another, so only a few people know anything about that region. The party ended up hiring a guide, who was a wood elf exile named Skaya. They seemed to be intrigued by her because she’s living in a city which is currently at war with wood elves, so there’s a lot of prejudice and racism against her kind. Skaya does have facial tattoos that indicate she’s been exiled from her tribe and therefore no longer truly considered by her people to be a wood elf (their worst form of punishment in this universe), but still, the party seemed immediately fascinated by this single NPC among the potential seven or so they might’ve hired for this expedition.

Anyhow, my players have only gotten truly invested in one other NPC they’ve met before this; a small little orc toddler named Gruuba who they saved from a bunch of slave trading bandits early on in the campaign. I’ve had difficulty finding a good miniature for Gruuba too (because she’s really small and scrawny), but since she’s at the same developmental level as a human six year-old they try to keep her out of combat scenarios (despite Gruuba’s excited insistence that she enjoys using clubs “for smashings”). Since the party have begun to really enjoy Skaya as character, the longer they’ve slowly, slowly gotten to know more about her stand-offish personal history, I really wanted to get a miniature for her that reflected my image of her better than the one I’d been using.

So, even though I got basically no experience doing so, I bought a miniature from Reaper Miniatures, and after looking up a few tutorial vids for beginners like me, I set about trying to paint my first mini-figs.

Two things, if you’re looking into this yourself; First, I’m not totally unartistic, I write creatively and I sketch with pencils and ink. Painting’s fairly new to me, but it’s not like I have absolutely no artistic talent. I also solder a lot of really small wires and components in my normal daily job, so I may have better muscle control for this sort of thing than some people. I only mention this because I may have had a few advantages in this undertaking. I just don’t want to make people overly confident, keep things in perspective. So whatever your level of expertise at this, if you want to start just try to patiently measure your expectations, and don’t get discouraged if your first results aren’t so great. All things improve with time.

 And B. if you’re poor, lazy, and stupid like me, there’re ways to get around that. This video I watched gave me a good rundown of the basic steps which are; - scrub the plastic down with some dish soap, luke-warm water, and a toothbrush; allow at least 1 hour to dry (I let them sit for a day because I’m paranoid), and be sure there’s no lingering moisture before you start painting - get a good primer or base coat on the model before you start adding other colors; lighter base coats allow more colors to show up easier, while darker base coats tend to make the colors you paint over them darker - stay calm and take your time - try to paint the colors that’ll go under other colors first, like, if a barbarian dude is shirtless but’s wearing a few pieces of armor, paint his shirtless skin first, then paint the armor he’s wearing second because it layers over better that way - use thinner paints and multiple coats of a color to get an even final color instead of one thick coat - allow each coat of paint to dry for 10 - 20 minutes before applying the next coat - learn about washes, pigments, and inks, because they’re awesome - get a decent varnish for a final protective coat, matte varnishes make the model look dryer and flat, gloss varnishes make the model look shiny and wet, if you do a coat of gloss and a coat of matte varnish it equalizes it pretty good

And this video here sort of laid to rest my fears that I’ll need to spend $600 on paints and washes and stuff. The very helpful lady in that video explains how she uses generic acrylic paints from the craft store (I got mine at Wal-Mart) to paint her Warhammer miniatures, and she even offers a method of making your own washes from a combination of paint and flavorless mouth wash. It’s genius. So try not to stress too much about buying the really nice brand name paints, because it’s not necessary, those paints just have an optimal mix I think, otherwise they’re the same damn thing as generic acrylic paints. Also, you’re just trying to learn, so unless you really, really feel like emptying your bank account, just use the generic stuff.

I started out painting something I didn’t care about. I wanted my miniature for Skaya to look badass and awesome, so I wanted to start with some practice miniatures. Grabbed a few from those 4E board game sets and gave it a shot. But I had also recently gotten hold of a Goliath Barbarian miniature from the Player’s Handbook Heroes sets (also from the 4E days) a rare find, since it usually goes for like $60.00 by itself. Randomly found some dude on ebay selling an unopened box set for $20.00, so I got a wild elf druid and a human berserker along with it. So I started out touching up the goliath’s armor to make it look more like armor and less like weird blue stuff.

Here’s a before-and-after for him (I didn’t take photos of them before because I wasn’t anticipating this, so I just found examples from around the web):

Next I tried a re-paint. A friend of mine had recently guest-played in my campaign and created a half-drow monk (his backstory was fantastic), so since nothing like that exists, I took a Soulknife Infiltrator miniature seen here:

And repainted it to sort of look like his half-drow Monk of the Open Palm:

I finally had the courage to do a full paint, so I grabbed the Dragonborn Elementalist from the Wrath of Ashardalon box, and painted her up with reddish scales (I’m one of those who thinks dragonborn should have physical attributes of their heritage).

In the box her name’s Heskan. I definitely used way too much wash on this one so she looks super shiny.

I then took the orc archers in that same box, and not really paying too much attention this time, quickly painted them, because I lack many orc archers:

At this point, I felt it was time to finally paint Skaya, the wood elf exile. I used the Reaper Bones model Deladrin, Female Assassin ($1.99) for Skaya’s mini.

And taking way more hours than I did on the others, which were only about 1-3 hours each, when you count waiting for the coats to dry, I managed to sort of make her look like Skaya, I guess:

After this, the fact that it wasn’t complete and utter shit, which is what I expected, I was encouraged. So I tried to do out party’s tortle cleric, named Daruuk of Chult (who oddly speaks with a Slavic accent, so that’s how people from Chult sound in our campaign), for whom we’ve lacked an accurate mini-figure for some time. I bought a pack of Spikeshell Warriors ($2.99) from the Reaper Bones line.

But Daruuk characteristically wields a large shield and a warhammer, so for some reason I got super detailed and bought a pack of loose shields from the Reaper Bones line ($0.99), then bought Halbarad ($1.49) a human cleric.

I clipped off Halbarad’s hammer at the hilt, then I trimmed the spikes off of the spikeshell warrior’s club, and used a dremel to carfully mill a hole inside the shaft of the spikeshell’s club, then pinned the hammer inside and secured it with gorilla gel. I used an actual cork board pin to push the shield onto the spikshell’s offhand after cutting off his turtle shell shield in order to pin it before gluing, then clipped off the rest of the cork board pin. Somehow, this ended up making the shield look meaner because it now has a like pyramidal spike sticking out the center. After allowing the glue to dry I painted him up, and my attempt at Daruuk the Death Cleric turned out thus:

I guess his hammer looks sort of Acme-level cartoony, but he’s a giant 350 lb. turtle-man who talks like Omega Red from X-Men The Animated Series, so I’m okay with that. The spikeshell also fits well with the razorback sub-race feature I allowed Daruuk’s player to homebrew for himself. I was really proud of this one.

Finally, because I’m an insane asshole who is getting obsessed with my new hobby, I decided it was dragons or bust. So I bought a pre-primed unpainted Young Blue Dragon from WizKids ($13.99).

And spent, like, three days meticulously testing different paint layers to see how they come out. I tried to paint her in the tradition of blue dragons as they appear in the art of Forgotten Realms material, but gave her a somewhat darker cast, and added metallic blue layers to her claws and spinal ridges. I still need to paint her base, put some highlights on her eyes to accentuate the glowing effect and add my washes to give her a final layer of dimension, but here’s how she came out so far:

Behold, Stormfang! Mistress of Thunder...

Anyhow.

This is super long and I wonder if anyone will bother to read any of it. But just wanted to put this out there. From a dude who, if you asked me a year ago if I thought I could do this, I’d have said I’m too stupid, poor, and lazy. I still think of myself as all of those things. The real pros use crazy detailed techniques with like seven layered highlights on their models, and airbrushes and all kinds of other madness. I use maybe three coats total and I don’t get too worked up if I make a mistake here and there, and I haven’t spent more than maybe fifty bucks total across six weeks, and most of that was wasting paints because I was still learning how to mix different shades. 

So if you got something you feel like you’ve always wanted to do but are too stupid, poor, and lazy to figure out, just go for it yo. I managed to crack out these bastards and I still think I suck, but it’s way better looking than I expected. For real though, you should see some of those Warhammer players, they got mad crazy god skills at this stuff compared to me. But your level of skill isn’t the point. The point is to have that moment with that thing you did, and look at it, and just go “Yeh, I did that” when at one time you never believed you ever could.

There’s always going to be somebody better than you, but even they, like all of us, are still learning.

              侍    headless                     

[iamoncewas]

My thoughts on the KH3 tutorial Dive to the Heart. This is kind of crazy, but I don’t think it happened during Sora's death at all.

Sora's Dive to the Heart in KH1 was a dream, he was asleep on the beach, and the KH1 intro is the start of the dream. It begins with Sora falling into water, into darkness, away from a light, symbolic of him growing more distant from Riku as he gets closer to Kairi. It ended with Sora waking up after being swallowed in darkness.

When Riku dove into his heart in DDD, after defeating the Armored Ventus Nightmare, Sora was consumed in his heart's darkness much the same way. Ansem the Wise told Riku that defeating the Nightmare is what freed him.

I believe Sora would have woken up after he sank into the darkness. And Riku did not have to go deeper into his heart, answer the 3 questions, and have this lengthy conversation with AtW, which is what gave Sora, Donald, and Goofy enough time to have a tea party. By the time Riku got back, Sora had been awake for a while.

So then, why did AtW tell Riku that answering the questions was what woke him up? Because it did, it just "woke him up" a different way.

When Riku dives into Sora's heart in DDD, he sees the blue coloured station we see in KH3, and in Roxas's Dive in KH2, part of the Station of Calling, where it was connected to a red and green station. I believe these are symbolic of Aqua, Terra, and Ventus, the hearts connected to Sora's, and also to Roxas, who helped shape their destiny. The blue one then, represents Aqua. Riku also sees memories, of him and Sora, and various floating Sora's he must touch (XD) on the way down. All kinds of Sora's, KH1, KH2, DDD, Anti (who attempt to stop Riku by attacking him with X's. The sigil). The KH2 model, Sora's current self, becomes more prevalent the deeper Riku goes. This is called "Sora's Soul World" (ソラの精神世界 Sora no Seishin Sekai). So in KH3, Sora must be in his Soul World as well.

After Riku dives through the ring, he awakens on the station, which is already covered in darkness. After defeating the Nightmare, we see Sora’s station is now coloured differently than when Riku was diving. It was coloured like this in BBS when he contacted Ventus, his very first DttH, called "Sora's Mind". I guess this means, Riku dove into Sora's Soul World, and then entered Sora's Mind.

Sora then sinks deeper into his heart's darkness. Riku unlocks the keyhole in Sora's heart, there's a bright flash of white, and Sora's station was not shown again after that in DDD. Riku then opens his eyes on Destiny Islands, deep within Sora’s heart, and this is when Sora’s KH3 dive starts.

In KH3, Sora lands on his own station, not on those of the 7 Princesses (so Kairi), like in KH1. He then hears "There are 7 hearts to save." There are so many hearts connected to Sora's that this could mean almost anyone, and I do think it's supposed to have more than one meaning. However, here I take it to mean the hearts of the 7 Princesses, just like it would have meant in KH1 (and funny enough that was the impression I got first playthrough). The 7 Pure Lights were made from Riku, their light is his light, and if he died, their light would have been extinguished.

Sora sees the mirror, which signifies him taking a clear look at himself, self reflection, seeing one's truth. After passing through and becoming his current self, he is surrounded by walls of memories and most of these memories are clearly Sora's. However, I believe they are also Riku's, for one of them shows Sora unconscious in Where Nothing Gathers, and another shows Kairi receiving Destiny's Embrace from Riku. It also however, shows the aftermath of when I'm suggesting this is happening. When Riku is named a Master. Sora wouldn't have seen that yet. But he would have, in the original timeline, and the memory would remain in his heart. I believe that's what this sequence signifies, Sora getting closer to the memory of what happened originally. Riku also saw memories as he was diving into Sora's heart, and saw the same station Sora is standing on. Which represents his connection to Aqua, the one who gave him his role: to stay with Riku, and keep him safe. And if it's the Master speaking to Sora in this dive, Sora himself, this is exactly what he would want him to remember. [This could also be Riku's voice, since Sora tells him "I was watching what was going on in my dream, and I could hear your voice the whole time."]

So as Riku was answering his three questions, Sora was answering his three questions.

Sora is then led to the Final World, by Riku's ocean scene from KH1 (his KH1 DttH), by a light, and is the contrast to Sora falling away from the light at the beginning of the KH1 intro. Sora would then be seeing this right after Riku answers his three questions. The water washes over his station completely, and usually water means darkness, but in dives to the heart darkness is shown as such, as darkness. So the fact that it's water, still means darkness, but accepted as merely that, not as something "evil."

In KH3, his station isn't supported by a column. This is strange because, even when Ventus was dying, his station broken and crumbling, it was still supported by a column. Later when Sora wakes Ventus, its not really clear, but it also doesn't appear to be supported by a column (that I can see).

So, in KH3, when Sora's heart has no foundation, I believe this is what is meant by an "unchained heart". A heart that is free, literally floating. Riku did this when he unlocked the Final Keyhole in Sora's heart, and I believe it affected all of his selves through all of his lifetimes. This is the significance of the repeated imagery of multiple Sora's we saw in DDD. I believe this never happened in the original timeline, even if everything else happened the same way. Riku would have defeated the Nightmare, and Sora would have woken up. That's it. This is how the Master of Masters achieved his goals, through dreams, through death, through darkness, through the heart, things that "cannot be measured in time and space". His power could be said to be the mastery of the nature of the heart itself. A fitting power for Sora. But only Riku has the power to unchain his heart, which was apparently vital to everything, and the MoM's Riku must not have done so before he died. He used the Mark of Mastery exam, the dream, as the moment he could affect (and also, the moment Sora died) Dal segno al Coda, "from the sign" of Coda. Or, "from the sigil".

Sora then sees the light above the water and surfaces, and this is Sora moving on from the Station of Awakening to the Final World, even deeper into his heart, deeper into the dive. This is what Chirithy was talking about when she told Sora he'd been there before.

He then looks up at a cloudy sky, showing us there is no sun, no light source there that caused that light above the water. Where'd you go light?

After that Shadows appear. I believe this is proof that Sora is not dead or dying here, it's still a part of his Dive. We saw no Heartless in the Final World after dying in the Keyblade Graveyard. Hearts that are dead can't be corrupted by darkness. They’re dead.

The Darkside surfaces to bring us back to Sora’s KH1 DttH once more, but again, it is made of water, not darkness. It represents Sora's confusion about his feelings for Kairi, which are, again, not something evil or bad, but something painful. “Hurting is a part of caring.” He loves her as well, as much as he loves Riku (his heart is literally connected to both of them). But his very soul is shared with Riku and that is something that can't be changed, even if Sora wanted it to be. They’re soul mates. It's fate. I believe that's what the Lost Page refers to.

"Unable to permit disharmony, you will be disappointed by fate, and lose sight of true strength..." Sora felt his deep connection with Riku, but ignored it, and focused his attention on Kairi once she came into their lives (I assume, because Riku was a boy). He's just been hiding these feelings, pushing them down. Convincing himself they are something else. He then lost sight of the source of his strength. Which is his love for Riku. "Misreading the truth, you will venture forth in secrecy..." His heart is also connected to Kairi’s, so he feels love for her too. So he misread the truth, and figured he must be meant to be with her. (Again, most likely because she’s a girl) He has kept any romantic feelings for Riku he’s had a secret. Plus, he is aware of Kairi's romantic love for him, which would have made it all the easier to push any feelings for Riku aside.

The last passage specifically refers to Riku's death, the result of these actions. Sora's betrayal, since he's the traitor, a traitor to his own heart, and subsequently to both Riku and Kairi. And all those connected to him.

After Sora defeats the Darkside, it cuts to Yen Sid's tower, a scene we know didn’t start there. After defeating the Darkside in KH1, Sora was consumed in darkness and then woke up. To Kairi. Right before that, Sora, like Riku, was also asked three questions on Destiny Islands in his dive. The same questions Riku was asked, just worded slightly differently. No matter what response Sora gave they all responded basically the same, "Is _____ really that important?" But Riku’s correct answers all had to do with his love for Sora.

Sora also woke up after defeating this Darkside, and realized the truth. [There’s probably more to this scene after the fight, but this is already super long] I also think this is why Sora reacted so affectionately when Riku got back, and hugged him not once, but twice. Because Riku freed his heart from it’s bonds, for all of their lifetimes, and Sora could feel it.

"I've never been better... Thanks, Riku."

[akashikadoesthings]

Untitled Soulmate AU Oneshot

Pairing: Drarry

Wordcount: 3365

Warnings: Unbetaed, Soulmate AU, Secret relationship, canon violence and deaths. Probably shite.

“Words are powerful, Draco,” his mother told him, one day. “They have the ability to help, to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate, and to humble. The memories of words, no matter how they come about, can echo for years.”

The conversation happened when he was nine years old. He had been asking about Soul Marks.

“The Marks you get from your soulmate, Draco, doesn’t mean anything other than a way to identify them. Soulmates aren’t what muggles believe them to be, the perfect person for you to marry and love, they’re simply someone who you will have difficulty walking away from, be it an enemy, a friend or a lover.”

“Why do we get bruises from them and writing, if we don’t get scars or anything, mother?”

Narcissa looked at her son and smiled. “Scars are permanent, Draco. Soulmates aren’t, no matter what others tell you.”

He was eleven now, ready to go to Hogwarts in just over a month, and shopping for his supplies for his first year. His mother had healed bruises from his soulmate again that morning, a ring around his arm in a shape similar to Mr Goyle’s fingers.

He knew soon he’d have to be a Proper Malfoy, just like his father always told him, but today, Mother said he could be excited. It’s not every day you get to shop for your wand after all.

Father would be going with them, of course. He’d promised Draco there would be no work for him until they got home. Father never came to Diagon Alley with them. He thought it was a useless trip when he could just owl order things or send an elf.

He did promise that Draco could look at the brooms too, even though he couldn’t take one to Hogwarts.

Draco was most excited about potentially meeting his soulmate though. He wanted to know who they were, where they lived, what their parents did. He knew it was no one from his family’s circle of friends, but that didn’t mean they weren’t the right sort. There were families that didn’t bother much with socialising and as long as it wasn’t a Weasley, Father probably wouldn’t care.

As Draco and his parents walked around the Alley, stopping in shops to purchase what was needed, Draco kept an eye on everyone who was around his age. Lots of children were wearing short sleeves, it would be easy to see that ring of bruises. Then Draco could ask Mother if they could take them home. She’d probably let him. Maybe.

“It’s almost lunch time, Draco,” Father said. “I need to do one thing, then I shall join you and your mother.”

“We should get your robes measured,” Mother said. “Then after lunch I can take you to get your wand.”

Draco nodded. “You could let Mr Ollivander know now,” he said. “You talk too much to Madam Malkin, we’ll be there forever.”

Mother smiled and Father’s mouth straightened. Draco knew he shouldn’t have said anything. But then his mother placed her hand on his father’s hand and smiled more.

“Very well, Draco,” Mother said. “You can go to Madam Malkin’s alone. Tell her you need a full set of First Year robes and I shall see you outside Ollivander’s. We can go for lunch at Summer Isle’s and then get your wand.”

Draco nodded before turning and pushing the door to the shop open. He felt more grown up with his parents letting him do parts of his shopping alone. It was about time too, really. He was going to Hogwarts next month after all.

There was no one else in the robe shop, which disappointed him, then again, he was starting to get used to the disappointment of not spotting his soulmate. Madam Malkin stood him on a stool and began clucking about how grown up he was in a baby voice, making Draco think it had been a while since she’d spoken to an eleven year old properly, but he let it go. Father always said that he should try to appease people sometimes, even when Draco didn’t know what “appease” meant.

He stood in silence for a while as Madam Malkin pinned his robes, then the bell above the door tinkled as someone opened it. Madam Malkin led the new person over as one of her assistants worked on Draco’s robes, and Draco straightened his head, tilted his chin slightly, like his father did, and tried to hide his excitement.

“First year too?” he asked. He didn’t know this person, and although he was wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, it was too big for him, it almost fell past his elbows.

“Mm,” the boy said.

He had dark hair, bright eyes, skin that looked like it should be darker than it was and he was chewing on his lip.

“My mother’s down the street looking at wands,” Draco said. “Father’s probably looking at books.”

“Mm.”

He wasn’t very talkative, this boy, Draco thought.

“Where are your parents?” Draco asked. That was bound to get him an answer rather than a noise.

“They’re dead,” the boy said quietly.

Draco bit his own lip. He probably wasn’t doing a good job of making this boy like him.

Madam Malkin had the boy raise his hands as she slipped the robe over his head, and for a second, for the briefest moment, Draco saw a ring of bruises on the boy’s arm before they were covered with the black robes.

At home, Draco could understand that the boy didn’t like Draco’s questioning. He shouldn’t have been so forward, Father always said it was a failing of his. But would it have been too much for the boy to tell Draco his name before he ran off?

Well, at least Draco knew he was also a First Year. If he couldn’t find him on the train, he’d see him at the Sorting Ceremony. And Harry Potter was in his year too. Maybe they’d all be friends. Father wouldn’t be too happy if Draco was friends with Harry Potter but Father didn’t have the chance to go to school with a celebrity while he was a celebrity. The closest Father got was Gilderoy Lockhart when he was in his seventh year and everyone knew Gilderoy Lockhart was just a glorified storyteller. Mother said so, so it must be true.

No matter what Draco did though, he couldn’t convince father to let him take his broom to school. He said it was pointless, that Draco would need to focus on his schoolwork if he wanted to be the best. But maybe at Christmas, Draco could convince him that flying wouldn’t affect his marks.

Before he knew it, September 1st was there. Draco was woken early by his mother and got to eat his breakfast pancakes in bed while Mother cooed and sniffled and made noises about how her “baby boy” was all grown up.

He hugged his father tightly before they left, then Mother apparated them to the Wizarding side of King’s Cross. He tried to be grown up, not excited, but the train was amazing, and it was the start of his new life, learning to be a real Wizard in his own right. His mother’s grip on his shoulder tightened and Draco realised he was bouncing on his feet as they stood next to the train.

“You will write,” his mother said. The tone brokered no argument and Draco nodded. The sooner Mother stopped talking, the sooner he could get on the train. “Vincent and Gregory will be here soon and then you can leave, but for now we’ll get you boys a carriage.” with a wave of her wand, she lifted his trunk and floated it inside the train.

Draco followed as his mother guided his trunk into an empty compartment, taking the chance to look out of the window. As long as Mother stood close to the train, he could wave goodbye.

“Let’s head back outside darling, we don’t want your friends to think you’ve forgotten about them.”

Leaving, and the tearful goodbyes that came with it, was difficult. Draco was excited, but he wouldn’t be home now until December. He’d never stayed away from home before. What if he got homesick?

No. He was practically a grown up now, going to Hogwarts and everything. Only babies got homesick, he decided.

And if it took him a few minutes after the train left the station to suppress his tears, no one needed to know.

At least now he wouldn’t have random bruises popping up from whoever kept hurting his soulmate.

He still needed to find him.

And Harry Potter. He’d heard Weasleys talking about him and his scar, so Draco knew he was here.

“Come on,” Draco said, taking the lead with Vince and Greg. “Harry Potter’s here somewhere, we can go find him.”

Greg nodded and Vince put away the quill he was writing on his arm with. He’d been doing that for years, ever since he found out that Astoria Greengrass was his soulmate. Mr and Mrs Greengrass hadn’t been too happy, but Astoria loved it. She called him her pocket friend.

They started at one end of the train, near the Prefects’ compartment and worked their way back. Draco didn’t see his soulmate, but he didn’t see harry Potter either. At least not until they got to the last carriage.

“You’re Harry Potter?” he said when he opened the door and saw his soulmate sat with a Weasley.

It was just his luck really. His soulmate was Harry Potter and friends with a Weasley.

“Your the boy from the robe shop,” Harry said.

“My name’s Malfoy,” Draco said, tilting his chin. “Draco Malfoy.”

The Weasley snorted with laughter, Draco turned to him and narrowed his eyes. “No need to ask your name,” he said. “Father always said Weasleys had more children than they could afford.”

The boy, the Weasley, now Draco looked at him properly, was wearing hand-me-down robes, he had dirt on his nose and his hair was a mess, and not in the pretty way that Harry Potter’s was.

“That’s not very nice,” Harry Potter said.

Draco blinked. No one ever spoke back to a Malfoy. Not unless they were another Malfoy.

Then Draco took the chance to look at him. He was wearing tatty clothes too, just like he had been in the robe shop. Draco had thought that meant he was poor when he first met him, but now he knew who he was, he realised it was a clever tactic to make people leave him alone.

No wonder he’d attracted Weasleys if he was dressing like them.

“You’ll soon find out that some families are better than others,” Draco said, holding out his hand. “I can help you there.”

Harry Potter looked at his hand, and Draco didn’t know what the expression on his face meant.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” he said.

Draco had been at Hogwarts for years now. There was none of the tearfulness when he said goodbye to his mother anymore. This year though, was different.

The summer had been hell. Potter and his goons had got his father arrested and now the Dark Lord had taken up residence in Malfoy Manor. For years he’d thought Potter was an enemy soulmate, rather than a friend or lover (even when he didn’t realise exactly what a lover was). Then puberty hit, and all Draco’s assumptions had crashed down around his ears. It was a horrible secret to keep. Father had been proud that Potter was his son’s soulmate, he’d said it proved that he was the real enemy.

A single kiss during their fourth year, a few scattered conversations, and Draco didn’t know what was right and what was wrong any more. As angry as he’d been at the end of their last year at Hogwarts, it didn’t mean he’d wanted what had resulted.

Draco smiled at his mother and boarded the train, letting the smile drop as he turned away.

His arm still ached.

It always would, according to Professor Snape.

Even if he wanted to fix things with Harry, with Potter, he wouldn’t be able to.

He hurt Harry the first time he’d cornered Draco after the holidays, hoping that would be enough to make him stay away. He tried to make Potter hate him again. He should never have told the speccy git that they were soulmates.

He’d been raised by Muggles, Draco should have known he’d take it the wrong way, his mother had warned him of that.

He hoped she didn’t mention to the Dark Lord how Potter thought of soulmates. He’d probably hurt Draco until Potter came riding in, the chivalrous Gryffindor to the end.

And it would be his end.

It would be Draco’s too because he didn’t think he’d be able to watch Potter in pain. That stupid fucking Dragon had been enough and they didn’t even like each other then.

By March, Draco was preparing himself more to die at the end of the year than to succeed in the task he’d been set. By May, he felt himself break.

He couldn’t help how pathetic he was as he cried in front of Moaning Myrtle, he couldn’t help the pain and the rage he felt at Snape, Potter and the Dark Lord. If Potter had died, or if the Dark Lord had stayed dead, he wouldn’t be here. If Potter had stopped following him around and Snape had stopped nagging him about his progress, he’d have been more inclined to do what he could;. But he’d wasted so much time pretending he was better than them both that it had ran out.

At the end of June, he’d go home, his mother would die, and Draco would be a prisoner for real.

“What are you playing at Malfoy?”

Draco looked in the water-stained mirror in front of him and saw Potter in the doorway.

Why wouldn’t he just leave Draco alone.

Draco choked back his tears, as much as he could. Was it stupid for him to not want Potter to see him as weak?

There were curses thrown, not just hexes, and Draco’s anger felt like a shroud over his head. Why couldn’t Draco just suffer alone for once.

“Cruci--”

“SECTUMSEMPRA.”

It had been more than an hour. What was Potter playing at? Where the hell was he? He couldn’t have surrendered. He, of all people, should know that the Dark Lord wouldn’t keep his promise.

“HARRY POTTER IS DEAD.”

The crowd of people gathered in the entrance hall rushed through the broken doors and Draco stumbled as he followed.

It couldn’t be true.

The Half Giant was crossing the bridge, surrounded by Death Eaters, following the Dark Lord. Draco could see his parents’ fair hair in the sea of black robes.

“Harry Potter is dead.He was killed running to save his own life.”

It couldn’t be true.

“You have a chance now. Join the winning side, and I shall spare you. Resist, and you’ll all die.”

The oaf was carrying something, something with limp limbs that dangled from the cradle the huge arms made.

Draco stumbled once more.

It drew the Dark Lord’s eyes to him.

“Draco,” he said. His sibilant voice chilled Draco’s blood, but he moved forward. “You missed the death of your biggest enemy. The person you’d never walk away from.”

Gods but Draco just wanted to cry. This had been his secret for the longest time, now the noseless prick had spilled it to everyone. Draco saw a few ginger heads turn to look at him.

“You may view his body, if you wish. Your mother confirmed his death for us all.”

Draco glanced across to her, hoping she’d refute him. She inclined her head slightly and Draco hoped it meant that he was alive and not dead. But his mother didn’t know about their fragile relationship, Draco hadn’t told her.

He crossed the gulf between the two armies, he heard his fellow students behind him hissing insults. He headed straight towards the half giant.

Potter’s fringe had grown. Draco hadn’t paid attention earlier. It was long enough to brush the tip of his nose now.

He lifted one hand to brush it back from his forehead.

“Definitely him then, My Lord?” he said as he touched the still warm skin of Potter’s scar.

He didn’t wait for an answer, he just made his way to his mother.

The Dark Lord gave a speech that Draco didn’t hear, he insulted Longbottom which was probably stupid, Longbottom hated the Dark Lord as much as Potter did, and then there was fighting again.

Potter was missing. Not on the ground by the giant’s feet, and not in his arms either. Then the cloak came off.

And then…

And then…

And then it was over.

Draco fell to his knees the moment the Dark Lord’s body hit the ground.

It was over.

“Harry.” he called out.

“You made me think you were dead,” Draco said.

“I did die!”

Draco clenched his teeth together. “Not this time.”

Harry smiled and Draco could feel his heart melt a little. “Love, I’ve told you I’ll not leave you, that includes dying. I know I’ve said this a lot over the last few years, but I mean it.”

It had been years since the Battle Of Hogwarts, but Draco still had nightmares about brushing Harry’s too-long fringe of his face as Hagrid held his dead body. The nightmares never ended the same way as the actual battle though. It was always a relief to wake with Harry’s arms wrapped around his body, sleepily shushing him, telling him it was just a dream, that everyone was safe. Draco never loved Harry more than in those moments.

“I was just trying to make Scor laugh.”

“By pretending to be dead?” Draco was incredulous. How was that funny? Or anyone, let alone a two year old.

“He laughs when I jump up,” Harry said. “Then he runs away giggling. It’s sweet, you should watch him doing it.”

The soft smile as he spoke about their son was what made Draco realise they needed to talk about this. He’d put it off for years, saying it was nothing and hiding his fear behind anger.

“Can…” Draco inhaled deeply. He could do this. It was Harry for goodness sake. “Can you not do it when I’m here?”

Draco looked to the sofa where Scorpius slept. He was so innocent. Draco didn’t want anything to steal that from him, not even his own neuroses.

“Is this about the nightmares again? Are they back?”

Draco shook his head. Tears slipped down his cheeks and blurred his view of his beautiful son.

“They never leave. Every time I wake up before you, every time you fall asleep first, I have to make sure you’re breathing, that you have a pulse. I can’t forget it and I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I was terrified, Harry. I thought I’d lost one of the only people I cared more about than myself.”

“You didn’t sleep after we got Scorpius.” Harry said. “Not unless it was in the rocking chair in his room.”

“I had to make sure. I had to keep an eye on him because I was scared thanks to that muggle cot thing that Granger mentioned, and whenever I went to our room, you were asleep.”

“Draco,” Harry took hold of his hand. “Darling, please, look at me.”

Draco tore his eyes from their son and met Harry’s eyes. “I will do everything I can to keep you and our son safe. But I can’t help you with this on my own. You know that, yeah. That’s why you haven’t brought it up.”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Harry’d known him better than anyone else since they were fourteen.

“My healer can help us with this. Do you trust me to speak to them?”

Draco nodded that time. He trusted Harry with his life.

“We’ll make this better, Love. I promise.”

[searchingwardrobes]

Hope is the Thing With Feathers: 5/5

Finally, I have finished a WIP! Whoop, whoop! I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. This fic stalled for me, and every time I wrote anything for it, I ended up deleting it. Thank you to my co-creator @hollyethecurious for saving this chapter. The idea of them binding their souls together was her idea, as well as Henry’s place in breaking the curse. If not for her, I might still be staring at a blank word doc! Krystal, I hope you enjoy the ending to your fic!

Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon finds that both the castle and the man have secrets she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 for her birthday.

Amazing banner created by @hollyethecurious

Rating: M

Trigger warnings: positive portrayal of past Millian

Words: About 5,000 in this chapter

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kday426 @winterbaby89 @teamhook @bethacaciakay @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @thislassishooked @artistic-writer @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @xhookswenchx @shireness-says @gingerchangeling @nikkiemms @revanmeetra87

Chapter Five: Never Stops at All

There were a lot of ways Emma could have handled the bomb that Belle dropped on her in the library. She could have stayed and had a woman to woman chat about feelings. Nope, scratch that, it had never been Emma’s style. She could have gone to the loft for a hope speech and a cup of cocoa from Mary Margaret. Hell, Emma wouldn’t even have had to tell her anything and Mary Margaret would have offered some sort of motherly comfort. But school wasn’t out yet, which meant MM was still at Hopeful Elementary with her third grade class.

People in mature relationships probably would have gone to their significant other and had a meaningful conversation. Emma had been drawn to Killian’s side, that much was true, but the minute he opened the door, every word she had rehearsed in her drive there flew out of her head.

Instead, she had grabbed him and kissed him like her life depended on it. Every time he pulled back and tried to speak, she had silenced him with her lips against his. Killian had willingly gone where she led him, which was straight to his bed.

Again, probably not the best way to deal with her rampant feelings.

Now she lay in his arms, both of them sated and relaxed. Well, he was relaxed anyway, sighing against her hair. Did he know that ending his curse would allow him to move on? Did he even care about leaving her? Emma swallowed against the lump in her throat. The urge to run, to flee welled up inside of her.

Then she remembered his words on the hilltop and at Milah’s grave. She turned in his embrace, running her fingers along his jawline, tracing the scar on his cheek. He smiled tenderly at her.

She licked her lips. “What do you think will happen if we find a way to break your curse?”

Killian shrugged, tugging her closer to trail kisses down the column of her neck. “I’m hoping,” he mumbled against her skin, “to be able to take you and Henry sailing. Maybe even see this Disney World everyone goes on about.”

He chuckled against her collarbone, and Emma dug her fingers into his hair. She let out a long, sad breath. So Belle hadn’t told him, either.

“Killian,” she began, but got stuck on his name.

He pulled back from the distraction of her body to gaze into her eyes. He tucked her hair behind her ear, his face lined with concern. “Love, what is it? Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”

Emma closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against his. She then wriggled closer until they were pressed against one another, slipping her arms beneath his and grasping his upper back. She turned her head to press her lips against his shoulder blade. It was easier to get the words out when she wasn’t looking him in the eye.

“All my life, I’ve been running, leaving everyone before they can leave me. Until you.” Emma swallowed down the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Killian . . . I can’t lose you.”

He pulled back to cup her face in his hands. “I’m not going anywhere, Emma.”

“Killian, think about it. You’re not supposed to still be alive. If we break the curse . . . “

She trailed off, biting on her lower lip. His face went slack as realization washed over him. Wordlessly, he pulled her close again and just held her, running his fingers through her hair. She clung to him as if she could keep him with her through force of will alone. But she couldn’t be that selfish, could she? If she truly cared about him, she wouldn’t want this kind of existence for him.

“Emma,” he whispered against her hair, “I will gladly stay cursed for the rest of eternity in exchange for spending just one lifetime with you.”

She let him kiss her, let him make love to her again, knowing it was his way of sealing his declaration. Apparently, she was that selfish.

*************************************************************

Gold Manor was ready for the inaugural ghost tour on Halloween night. Tickets were being sold online and at all the local businesses. Granny’s Diner was catering the refreshments that would be served in the garden after the tour. The only thing left to do was prep the actors and rehearse for the actual tour.

Emma knew this. She also knew that Killian had reluctantly agreed to Belle’s insane idea that he play . . . himself. Of course, no one but the three of them knew he was the Killian Jones. To everyone else, it was just a happy coincidence. Jones, after all, was a common last name.

Yet, despite knowing Killian’s role in the ghost tour, she was not in the least bit prepared for the sight that met her three days before Halloween. She froze in the doorway of the manor and almost spilled her coffee.

“How do I look, Swan?” he asked, grasping the lapels of the almost floor length, black leather duster he wore. Emma struggled not to let her jaw drop as she searched for words. Beneath the duster, he wore a red leather vest over a honest-to-God black pirate shirt. It was buttoned even less than his shirts normally were, and his charm necklace resting against his exposed chest complemented the look. Then there were the leather pants - skin tight and leaving little to the imagination.

“Um . . . “ Speak, Emma! But all she could do was blink.

A grin spread slowly across his face, the bastard. He sauntered towards her, his head cocked to the side. He was wearing eyeliner too, which shouldn’t have been hot . . . only it was.

“Dashing, right? Devastatingly handsome?”

His teasing tone shook her out of her stupor, and she laughed as she set her coffee cup down on a nearby table. She ran her hands up his vest and grasped the lapels of his coat in a tight grip.

“It’s a good look on you, pirate.”

Belle cleared her throat, and Emma jumped back, her face flaming. She hadn’t even realized they weren’t alone. Next to Belle stood an auburn haired woman with a measuring tape around her neck. Her hair was pulled back in slim braids at the crown, the rest spilling down her back. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She grinned broadly at Emma’s assessment.

“Mission accomplished then.”

“Emma, this is Aurora. She’s the costume designer at the community theater,” Belle explained.

“Hopeful has community theater?” Emma asked incredulously, stepping out of Killian’s embrace.

“Not much of one,” Aurora chuckled as she put her sewing equipment away, “which is why I commute every day for my nine to five with the Portland Ballet.”

“Well, you are one of the best,” Belle assured her friend with a parting hug.

“Be careful when you take that off, Mr. Jones,” Aurora admonished as she headed out the door.

“I could help you with that,” Emma whispered in his ear, thrilling when it made his neck turn red.

“Emma, I’m glad you’re here,” Belle said, gathering up an armful of books, “there’s something I wanted to talk to both of you about.”

“I um, feel a little silly having a meeting in this get-up,” Killian said, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. “I think I’ll head upstairs and change.”

Emma watched him go with intense appreciation, humming under her breath until he was out of sight.

“I heard that,” Belle laughed.

Emma shrugged as she turned to her new friend, not in the least bit embarrassed. “What can I say? He looks good in tight leather.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Belle whispered, her smile turning soft.

Emma bit her lower lip as she looked down at her hands clasped in front of her. It sounded crazy; they hadn’t known each other long. Yet from the moment they had first met, there had been a connection between them. Belle took her long silence as an answer.

“That’s why you got so upset when I explained breaking his curse,” she said softly, “you don’t want to lose him.”

All Emma could do was nod her head, her lips pressed together so she wouldn’t cry. Belle simply lowered her head, running a hand over one of the books she had brought.

“I think I may have found a way for the two of you to be together.”

Emma gasped and hurried to stand at Belle’s side. “You have?”

“This spell,” she explained, running her hand over the yellowed pages, “binds two souls together. They literally become one after it is cast. The only catch is that you have to be soulmates or it won’t work.”

Emma swallowed nervously. “It’s worth a shot though, right? I mean, is there any danger if we try and we’re not soulmates?”

“Not the binding, no, but the second part of the plan would be. You see, if Killian shares your soul, he may be able to stay here after the curse breaks.”

“But if we aren’t soulmates, it wouldn’t work?”

“It may not work at all,” Belle admitted, “but it should. In theory.”

“But like I said,” Emma argued, “it’s worth a shot.”

“Emma,” Belle said slowly, “what I mean is, you could both die.”

Emma felt the blood drain from her face as the words sunk in, and she shut her eyes tightly. She thought of Killian, how safe she felt in his arms, how right. She thought about his curse, how he’d lived a long, lonely existence for centuries. She knew, deep in her heart, what she had to do.

She opened her eyes and told Belle firmly, “Like I said, I have to try.”

“No.”

The two women startled at the deep voice coming from the foot of the stairs. They hadn’t noticed Killian descending as they talked.

“Killian!” Emma exclaimed upon seeing him.

“No,” he said again, shaking his head, “I won’t let you.”

Emma rushed across the room to him, taking his hands in hers. “But if there’s a chance to break your curse -”

“I won’t let you, Emma. I won’t risk the life of the woman I love. Neither will I risk leaving Henry an orphan.”

Emma’s heart sank as she slowly released his hands. What kind of mother was she?

“Henry,” she breathed. She hung her head in defeat. Killian was right.

********************************************************************

“Okay, kid, what’ll it be for movie night this week? Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Thor: Ragnarok? Or Return of the Jedi? The theme of course is conclusions of trilogies . . . “ Emma trailed off as she regarded her son’s pensive expression. “What? You didn’t expect me to throw in Captain America: Civil War did you? Because you know how I feel about that. It’s an Avengers movie, I don’t care what the MCU says.”

She poked Henry in the shoulder, then waved a Twizzler rope in front of his face. “Kid? Earth to Henry?”

“When are you going to tell me the truth?”

Emma’s eyes widened at her son’s angry expression. “The truth about what?”

“About Killian?”

Emma blinked. “Okay, I didn’t know you wanted the details, but . . . well, I love him, and -”

“Ew! I’m not talking about that!”

Emma shook her head. “Then I’m confused.”

“What is he? A ghost? What?”

Emma’s jaw dropped at his questions. “I . . . I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please,” Henry scoffed with a roll of his eyes, “I’m not stupid. He can’t leave the manor grounds, he talks like it’s the 17th century, and he knows a strange amount of stuff about Hopeful hundreds of years ago. And his name is even Killian Jones?”

“Henry, you can’t be serious -”

“Then there was this today in history class.” Henry shoved his schoolbook on Maine State History into Emma’s lap, and there on the open page was the same drawing of Killian that Belle had in her stack of research on Gold Manor. A box next to the picture told the story of the witch trial of Milah Gold and the legend of pirate captain Killian Jones. According to Henry’s textbook, most scholars believed the existence of the pirate to be a myth.

“What the hell!” Emma muttered, pulling the book closer. “I can’t believe this!”

“What, Mom?”

“This idiot scholar at The University of Maine says that the romantic imagery surrounding the supposed pirate in conjunction with Milah Gold’s possible madness leads one to believe that he was a figment of the woman’s imagination!” Emma shoved the book away in disgust. “Have you ever heard anything so sexist in your life? Assuming Milah made Killian up because she was crazy. Is it so hard to believe that a woman back then would want anything other than marriage to a wealthy man? Did they ever consider that it was her husband who had lost his mind, not her? Of all the pigheaded things -”

“Mom!”

Emma startled at her son’s voice, and sheepishly bit her lip to stop the flow of words. Henry arched his brows at her.

“So he is Killian Jones, the centuries old cursed pirate.”

He leaned back against the couch with a smug expression. Emma couldn’t help smiling and shaking her head.

“Only you would so easily believe it.”

“The evidence is pretty clear, Mom.” He sat up then, bouncing eagerly. “So how do we break his curse?”

“We don’t, unfortunately,” Emma told him sadly, “not without . . . losing him. He’s supposed to be dead by now, kid.”

“But there has to be a way! You said you love him, didn’t you? Can’t true love break curses and stuff?”

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Henry.”

Her son narrowed his eyes and studied her face, and Emma squirmed beneath his perceptive gaze.

“There is a way!”

Emma shook her head. “No, it’s too dangerous.”

“You just have to believe!”

“Henry,” Emma told him gently, cupping his face, “not if it means leaving you alone.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Whatever it is, it will work, Mom! I’ve never seen you so happy. We both like it here. We have David and Mary Margaret, and we both have friends.”

“And great onion rings,” Emma teased.

Henry laughed, “Yeah, Granny’s is pretty awesome.”

Emma pulled him against her and kissed the top of his head. “You’re right, Hopeful’s been pretty great, and Killian is partly why.”

“Don’t you wish he could be here for movie night?”

“Yeah,” Emma sighed, “I do.”

“Do you love him for real? Like, a lot?”

“More than any one in the world, besides you, kid.”

“Then it will work, Mom, you just have to believe!”

It was crazy, but something in Henry’s expression steeled her resolve. She picked up the phone and dialed Belle’s number.

“Belle, what do I have to do for this soul binding thing?”

************************************************************************

Emma clutched her purse tightly as she stood on Killian’s porch. Inside she had tucked what Belle said she needed to perform the soul binding. There was just one tiny little detail bothering her.

She was doing it without Killian’s permission.

Emma knew she was playing with fire, knew he might see it as a betrayal. After all, his will being taken from him was the crux of his misery. But ironically, Emma going against his will was the very thing that might give him his agency back. Besides, his concerns were all for and Henry anyway.

This was the twisted logic she had come up with to ease her conscious, at any rate.

She was afraid he would see right through her the minute he opened the door, but he simply greeted her with a beaming smile. He had a kitchen towel tossed over one shoulder, and he eagerly pulled her into the cabin, the delicious smells of whatever he was cooking filling the space. As they talked easily over the meal, Emma’s guilt abated. (The wine they were imbibing helped too.)

As the sun slipped below the horizon, Emma informed him with a sultry smile that Henry was staying the night with David and Mary Margaret. It would be the first time she had stayed with him all night, and he smiled like an eager school boy. That smile, so trusting, so devoted, made the guilt come back, pricking at her resolve. Then he was making love to her in that intense way of his, and the desire to have him with her always, in every sense of the word, made her more sure than ever of what she must do.

Emma waited until Killian’s breaths evened out, then she got up and opened the curtains partway, just enough so that the moonlight fell over his form. He shifted in his sleep, and Emma held her breath. She released it, and tiptoed to retrieve the needle from her purse. She crawled slowly back into bed and tucked herself into Killian’s side.

She took a deep breath before using the needle to prick the tip of her left finger. A dot of dark red blood welled up. Trembling, she took her finger and made the shape of a cross over the left side of Killian’s chest where his heart resided. There was barely enough blood to make the mark; most of it was soaked up by his chest hair. Hopefully, he wouldn’t even notice come morning.

She pressed her hand to the spot, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Anams ceangal a dheanamh.”

To be honest, Emma didn’t expect anything to happen. She had fully anticipated feeling slightly foolish as she wondered if it worked. The last thing she had ever imagined was the pulse of energy surging from Killian’s chest, up her arm, and through her entire body. It sent her tumbling backwards off the bed, and when she scrambled to her knees, Killian was sitting up, breathing hard, eyes wide, his hand to his chest.

“Emma?” he asked in a frantic voice.

“Killian,” she said slowly, “I had to -”

“What did you do?”

She flinched at the higher pitch of his voice. He rose from the bed slowly, looking slightly disoriented as he rubbed at his chest. His demeanor was more frightened than angry, and his voice held a hint of betrayal. She would rather he be angry. The moonlight spilled over his naked body as he came closer to her, and she wasn’t sure if it was the spell or just him, but he looked like some sort of Greek god, both ethereal and strong. When an almost overwhelming desire to make love to him again surged through her, she was positive it was the spell.

His chest heaved as he searched her with a lust-filled gaze. It seemed the spell was affecting him, too. He pressed his eyes shut and asked her again, jaw clenching, “What did you do?”

She stepped into his embrace, pressing her cheek to his chest.

“I think you know.”

His arms came around to hold her tight as if he could fight it no longer.

“I told you not to.”

“I never listen.”

His answer was a searing kiss. They were both left panting when he pulled away, and he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I feel . . .”

“Something’s different ,isn’t it?” she finished his thought.

“Aye, it is. I love you, Emma.”

For the first time in over ten years, those words didn’t scare her. Instead, a comforting warmth spread through her body.

“I love you too.”

**********************************************************************

They made love again after the spell worked, in a frantic, almost desperate way. They had fallen asleep, still entangled in each other’s arms. Emma feared when morning came, but she woke to a blissful Killian, happy that she was still there in his arms. They flirted and teased one another, laughing and smiling between light, morning-breath kisses. In short, they avoided the elephant in the room in favor of being ridiculously in love.

When Emma met up with Belle at the library later that day as planned, she dropped her purse on the circulation desk with a loud thud. She met the librarian’s gaze with a single-minded fire in her eyes.

“It worked. What’s next?”

*******************************************************************

Emma was a bundle of nervous energy. The Halloween event at the manor was in full swing. The cones and rope and ended up working just fine for parking, as well as the dozen or so volunteers in orange vests directing traffic. People were processed in the main room of the house where Killian and his construction crew had put up a reception desk. Next to it was a display of brochures on other historical spots in Maine. Belle was working the desk with Henry’s help, checking tickets and giving each visitor a time to return for their tour. While they waited, guests mingled in the garden, enjoying the refreshments. Many were in costume. Some fit the theme, dressed as pirates or 17th century maidens, but there were also people dressed as Thor, or vampires, or students from Hogwarts.

The actors leading the tours were doing a fantastic job as well as the “ghosts” chatting with visitors in the various rooms: a man playing Robert Gold at the balcony from which he flung himself to his death, a woman playing Milah sitting at her vanity in her chambers combing her hair, and of course Killian pacing the long hallway. He was honestly having a good time startling people with a dramatic spin of his leather coat, and Emma chuckled every time she heard screams from upstairs. He had felt a little uneasy over the actress playing Milah, but other than that, he was taking the whole crazy thing in stride and even having fun with it.

“It’s been centuries, love,” he had assured her multiple times. He also appreciated that the representation of Milah was more accurate, stating that she was falsely accused of witchcraft with no hint of the ridiculous claim that she was mad.

Yet none of that was the cause of Emma’s nerves. She was three heartbeats from a panic attack because of what she and Belle had planned for after the event. Killian didn’t know a thing about it, but it had to be done tonight, on the anniversary of when his curse was originally cast. Belle had everything they needed squirreled away in the closet beneath the stairs. Emma kept glancing that way, despite her being pulled in a thousand different directions, and every time her heart beat sped up.

“Well, Ms. Swan,” Mayor Regina Mills said, stepping into her line of sight seemingly from out of nowhere, “I must say I was skeptical that you could pull this off, but this just might become a Halloween tradition in Hopeful.”

Emma wet her dry lips and forced a smile. “Thank you, Ms. Mills.”

“And tell that man you hired - a Mr. Jones, was it? - to come see me on Monday. I may have a permanent position for him.”

I hope he can. Emma thought to herself. Outwardly, she simply gave the mayor a nod. “I’ll pass that along.”

*********************************************************************

Emma cursed the ancient floor boards as she wrestled the ancient cauldron into place in the middle of the parlor. She righted herself after tripping over a warped board, ignoring the strain of the muscles in her arms as she heaved the cast iron kettle over the burning wood in the fireplace.

Emma swore as Belle crushed ingredients with a mortar and pestle. There wasn’t much time. It was almost midnight.

Belle handed one ingredient after another to Henry, who rushed to toss it into the bubbling cauldron as Emma stirred. Her hands shook as she heard Killian’s boots stride across the floor above.

“He’s going to kill me,” Emma muttered as she caught her son’s gaze.

The sound of Killian’s boots were closer now, descending the stairs. Not that it mattered if he was angry. They had to try. As if reading her mind, Henry grasped her hand.

“This will work, Mom.”

Belle hurried over, the last ingredient crushed at the bottom of the small mortar. The two women shared a nervous look, then Belle shook the white powder into Emma’s palm. Just as Emma lifted her fist above the potion simmering in the pot, the sound of Killian’s boots stilled and his voice filled the room.

“Emma?”

She stopped abruptly as his eyes took in the room; the fragile yellowed book open on the coffee table, the ingredients scattered across the buffet table, and the mortar and pestle in Belle’s hand.

“Killian,” Emma explained slowly, “we found this spell, and we had to try . . .”

“Emma, no!” Killian cried as she dropped the crushed white swan feathers into the cauldron.

Emma took a deep breath and spoke the incantation: “Swan in woman’s form, injustice to right, the enslaved to free.”

A pulse of bright light suddenly pulsed from the cauldron, knocking all four people in the room off their feet. Emma moaned, grasping her pounding head in her hands. There was a ringing in her ears, and she could barely make out Killian’s face hovering worriedly over her.

Well, we’re not dead.

It was her last thought before she passed out.

Six Months Later . . .

The last remnants of the harsh Maine winter blew on the April breeze. The front porch of the cabin Killian had made his home for centuries was lightly framed with purple from the lilac trees that grew nearby. Emma was leaning against his old tan pickup, admiring the picturesque scene. Her smile grew as Killian and Henry came out of the front door with boxes in their hands.

“These are the last two, love,” Killian told her.

“Really?” she asked in surprise as she took the box from Henry’s hand and set it in the truck.

“Well,” Killian said with a shrug, “possessions aren’t of much value when you have no one to share them with.”

Emma grinned as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “You’re so wise, oh ancient one.”

Henry snorted a laugh as Killian feigned offense. Then Henry was gagging instead when Emma went up on her tiptoes to kiss the pout off Killian’s face.

“I’ll be in the truck,” the boy announced with a wrinkled nose.

“I thought he liked me,” Killian frowned.

“He does,” Emma chuckled, “it’s just - to a kid, grown ups kissing is disgusting.”

“Ah, I see. Unfortunately, now that we are wed and all three of us are sharing a home, he’s going to have to get used to it.”

Emma laughed as Killian placed exaggerated smooches all over her face.

“Speaking of home,” Henry shouted through the back window, “can you stop being gross so we can go ?”

They both laughed, but despite Henry’s request, Emma pressed her cheek to Killian’s collarbone and gazed at the little cabin. Her hand rested against his chest, her wedding ring catching the light of the spring sun.

“I’m glad we broke your curse, but is it wrong if I don’t want to give up this place?”

Killian held her close and kissed the top of her head. “We don’t have to, love. As groundskeeper of Gold Manor, I’ll be converting it into my office, remember.”

Emma smirked up at him. “But it won’t have a bed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I bet it’s not appropriate for my innocent ears!” Henry called out again from the truck.

Killian’s head tilted back, and a joyful and carefree laugh burst out of him. “Okay then, Joneses, lets get home.”

Emma had to admit as they pulled up in front of their new blue Victorian with its wraparound porch and view of the sea, that home was a pretty incredible place. She was glad she was too busy back in the fall to see a realtor.

********************************************************************

“What’s the surprise, love?”

Emma laughed as Killian almost tripped over a tombstone.

“Bloody hell, woman, if you’re going to blindfold me, then you better get me safely to my destination!”

Emma brushed a kiss to his cheek. “Sorry. We’re here though.” She removed the blindfold and gestured to the tombstone in front of them. Killian just stood there, slack-jawed, his eyes blinking.

The tombstone was the same one that had been erected centuries ago. Better for historical integrity, Belle had explained. Yet the marker erected behind it, tall and on top of a pretty black, wrought-iron post, was brand new.

“It’s officially on the historic registry,” Emma told him softly, biting her lower lip. “Do you like it?”

He blinked and cleared his throat before managing to read it aloud.

Milah Gold

Born 1661

Hanged for accusations of witchcraft in 1693

Like many of her day, Milah’s only crime was

defying the societal expectations of women.

Her life and death reminds us that we should

never stop fighting for justice and equal rights.

“Milah would be happy, right?” Emma asked nervously.

“Actually,” Killian replied turning to pull her into his arms, “this marker wouldn’t have mattered to her. She would be happy because you’ve broken me free of that curse and given me a reason to live again.”

He lowered his head to kiss her, and Emma wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. As their kiss intensified, she dug her fingers into the hair at his nape, humming when he pulled away.

“So,” she said, her forehead still pressed to his, “ready to live just one lifetime? Or do you have regrets?”

“Never. One lifetime with you, becoming old and gray together, is all I could have ever dreamed of.”

[mass-effect-tales]

Shot in The Dark ch.7

"Mija over here!"

"I ask again! What are you calling me?!"

The children just giggled as they led Skye to their next stop. Ever since Skye mentioned to the kids she used to live by a beach they started calling her Kalahira.

Skye helped a young boy named Hevalt carry the last two pots of usharet blossoms to a couple who thanked them for their delivery.

"I've never seen a human visit Kahje before. What brings you here?" The woman asked while her husband carried the pots into their home.

"Oh, a friend of mine is visiting his mother and she sent me to deliver the usharet in her place." Skye explained, brushing her hair out of her face. Her worn out hair tie had finally broken and throughout the deliveries her hair had slowly unwound from its braid. Luckily she was able to keep the usharet blossom Kjaere gave her by placing it behind her ear.

"Oh, will you be staying for Sinnahan? It'll be starting in a few days."

"What's Sinnahan?" Skye asked curiously. Before the woman could explain another one of the kids, a sweet girl named Setna tugged on her shirt.

"Come on Mija! Sele Verge makes us kepta when we finish our deliveries!"

"Alright alright," Skye laughed, waving goodbye to the woman and letting the children lead her back to Kjaere's house. The smell of spices was the first thing Skye smelled when she walked in with the kids. Kjaere had placed a plate of what looked like biscuits on the table which the kids happily crowded around.

"Thanks for helping the kids. Hopefully they didn't wear you down too much." Kjaere chuckled as Skye sat down on the couch. 

"It doesn't matter what species you are one thing is always the same; kids have way too much energy." Skye laughed, giving the kids a hug as each one left. 

"The children seem to like you." Kjaere smiled lightly, passing Skye a kepta. Skye was right, it was like a soft flakey biscuit made with spices.

"They kept calling me this name while we were delivering and they wouldn't tell me what it meant. They kept calling me Mija." Skye explained which made Kjaere laugh.

"Kalahira is our goddess of the ocean and by association, afterlife. When we die, our souls travel across the sea to Kalahira's beach. Mija is one of her handmaidens who is said to wait at the shore for arriving souls and welcome them to her home."

"Ah that explains it. I told them I used to live by the beach on earth."

Kjaere laughed, reaching out to take a lock of Skye's hair between her fingers.

"I think it's more like they see you as what Mija would look like; kind, caring, beautiful."

"I think you're giving me too much credit." Skye blushed, looking away. 

"Nonsense, come here. Did Nero tell you I was a dressmaker before I developed kepral's?" Kjaere took Skye's hand and lead her to her bedroom. She had Skye stand in the middle of the room while she grabbed a ribbon to take Skye's measurements. "I used to make dresses that Tejhar, the hanar I served, would sell at the Citadel."

"No he didn't. Where is he anyway?" Skye asked as Kjaere gestured for her to undress.

"I sent him out to collect ingredients for dinner. Which leaves us plenty of time to finish this. Luckily your size is similar to a drell so we won't need to start from scratch." She passed Skye a sea green sleeveless top that showed off her midriff and a long skirt that brushed against her ankles. 

"So you were a dressmaker? I didn't see many women in dresses when I was out." Skye mused, raising her arms so Kjaere could wrap a coral colored sash around her waist.

"Since most of us work for the hanar, we'll usually wear clothes more suited for the rain and getting wet. Dresses are usually worn during festivals or ceremonies nowadays." Kjaere finished the outfit by draping a sheer white shawl over her shoulders. "There, take a look."

Skye turned around to look at herself in the mirror and almost couldn't recognize herself. The outfit was light and breathable which suited the dry and hot environment the drell lived in. 

"Mother, I'm back."

Skye jumped at the sound of Nero's voice. Before Skye could think to change Kjaere had grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where Nero was setting down the items he bought. Nero turned when he heard his mother walk in and froze when he saw Skye. If he died right now, he wouldn't have minded if she was the last thing he ever saw before journeying to Kalahira's shore.

"You... your hair is down." 

Skye couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, my hair tie broke. Also your mother turned me into her personal doll."

"She has talent," Nero mused, reaching out to take a lock of hair between his fingers. Her hair felt like silk. "The outfit suits you Mija."

"Oh no not you too!" Skye laughed. "I keep being called that today!"

Nero froze, "who else has called you that?"

"The children started calling me it when I told them I used to live by a beach when I lived on earth." She could see Nero visibly relax which made her snicker. 

"What? Did you get jealous thinking some other guy was calling me that?"

Nero surprised her by smirking, letting go of her hair and hooking his fingers under her chin, tilting her head back to look him in the eyes.

"And what if I was?"

She could feel her face flush at his question. How would she feel about him being jealous?

"Skye, would you like to help me with dinner?" Kjaere asked as she collected the ingredients she needed. Skye reluctantly moved away from Nero as Kjaere shooed him out of the kitchen. Kjaere showed her how to season and cook zhati, a plentiful fish found on Kahje which had a similar taste to flounder when Skye tried a piece. The zhati was paired with roasted vegetables and a drell wine. After dinner Nero and Skye sat in the living room while Kjaere stepped out to bring some of her cooking to her neighbor. Nero looked up from the message he was writing to Mordin to look at Skye.

"My mother said she can accompany us if we give her a week to train an apprentice to take over the care of the usharet. She suggested that we stay the week and I told her I'd ask your opinion on it."

Skye smiled brightly. "Are you kidding? Of course I'd be up for staying! Is there somewhere we could stay?"

Nero nodded, "there's a hotel not too far from here." 

"Great, I'll let Nihlus know if you tell Mordin." Skye pulled up her omni-tool while Nero finished his message to Mordin. When Kjaere returned Nero informed her their plan which delighted her. After quick goodbyes Nero led Skye through the bustling streets until they reached the hotel. Due to the upcoming festival they were only able to get a single room with two beds.

"Nero what's Sinnahan? It seems like everyone is excited for it." Skye asked as she sat down on her bed. 

"It's a celebration for the goddess Sinna. While Sinna is the goddess of love she is also the protector of innocent souls. It's tradition for someone to give an usharet to someone they wish Sinna to protect."

Skye nodded, laying back in her bed. She wondered what else she'd learn during this week on Kahje.

---------------------------------------

Skye had become well known by both drell and hanar over the last three days. Kjaere had given her extra outfits to wear which Skye was grateful for because she would have probably died if she kept wearing jeans in this heat.

Today to keep the kids out of the way while the adults prepare for the festival tomorrow Skye offered to take some of the children to the beach on the edge of the city. She was able to find a swimsuit that fits at one of the local shops and was teaching the kids how to build a sandcastle while Nero was sitting in the shade and watching. He found it amusing how each child tried to get her undivided attention only to be taken by another child. When she was finally able to sit down her legs were caked in sand from scooping water into a bucket to wet the sand and kneeling down next to the kids.

"You know, I don't think I could have imagined seeing your brooding self sitting in the sand around kids a year ago," Skye noted with a laugh. Nero had changed out of his spectre armor in favor of a white button up shirt and grey pants. Two of the more shyer children were taking a nap on the blanket next to him.

"For the last time, I wasn't brooding," Nero sighed, trying not to chuckle as Skye tried brushing the sand off her legs. "You need to stop watching those action movies." 

"Listen, Blasto 4: Rising Tide was good and you just have no taste in movies." She pouted, flicking him with her braid as she flipped it to her other shoulder. Kjaere was kind enough to make a hair tie for her using a ribbon so she could return her hair to its usual braid.

"At least it's not Fleet and Flotilla. I still remember Garrus and Tali spending hours talking about that movie."

"Don't let Tali find out you're bad-mouthing her favorite movie." Skye laughed, smile softening as she looked out at the horizon. "I wonder how her and Wrex are doing."

"Knowing Wrex he's probably either running things on Tuchanka or shooting something right now." Nero grunted, carefully picking up the sleeping kids. It was getting late so Skye called the rest of the kids over to get them ready to leave.

"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" She asked as she helped the kids brush sand off their legs and feet. "I mean, Shepard was the one that brought us all together and with her gone…"

"I have a feeling we'll see them again." Nero reassured her. "Something tells me we'll cross paths again in the future."

[skvaderarts]

Words cannot properly express how much the story in this cheap little notebook means to me.

So, when I was in high school, my life was total and utter shit. I won't go into the specifics as to what the hell was going on because I don't want to upset anyone, but take my word for it when I say that I needed an escape of some sort.

As a result of being dirt poor when I was young, I loved to read because library books were free. I especially loved when back to school started because the notebooks were like 25 cents and that was the only time I could talk my mom into spending any money on me. I hated going back to class though. I was a quiet kid so no one really liked me very much. My love of literature extended to writing stories as well since I didn't have other kids to play with.

When I turned 12 I was lucky enough to have been gifted a very old original PS2 by a much older cousin (Which I still have over ten years later and it still works. The disk drive hates me though) which is when I was first introduced to gaming. My first five games were Resident Evil 4, Devil May Cry 3, God of War, GTA3, and Final Fantasy Dirge of Cerberus, which naturally meant that the adults around me didn't give two shits what I was playing. This was totally amazing to me however because I was amazed at this new form of storytelling. How had I missed out such an amazing form of writing for so long?!

Why is this important? Because it led to the creation THIS:

This is the oldest notebook that I own. I spent over two years in Highschool carefully cultivating my ideal story in it. For 182 pages, I poured my heart and soul into this notebook in the hopes of taking inspiration from everything I loved and creating a story that one-day people would enjoy reading. I went through countless packs of pens. This book helped me through so damn much. I even contacted a publisher at one point about it to see if they liked it.

And then one day I just stopped writing it.

I forgot about my story and I think I lost a big part of myself when I did.

I just gave up at some point and just didn't even notice.

And then, after FIVE YEARS it just fell out of a box I was unpacking the other day and I picked it up, sat down, and read it cover to cover. The writing was absolutely awful; an accurate reflection of my mindset at the time and my inexperience as a storyteller. But the story its self was actually very good and the grammar was pretty spot on, so I couldn't help but wonder to myself:

Would anyone actually read it if I gave them the chance?

Did anyone else even care that this story existed?

I mean, I never even gave the book a name... 

I had planned to do that when it was finished so that I wouldn't feel pressure to live up to the title. It's a weird problem that I have when I create literally anything.

And that brings me to the point of this post. I wanted to ask a question: If I rewrite and finish this story, would anyone here actually want to read it? Would any of you take the time out of your lives to take a look at the story I spent so long creating? Does anyone want me to finish writing this book?

I wouldn't post it on this blog. It would probably have it's own Tumblr page, but we can get to that at a later date. I guess what I'm trying to ask here is would any of you be interested in reading this story? It's like a weird combination of DMC, supernatural world mythology, and the first two Underworld movies (but it's not another overdone vampire novel. They are in it, but are not a central focus. It just has a similar asthetic, so to speak) with a little bit of Steampunk thrown in for good measure. That's the best way I can explain it without spoiling anything.

Man, this post is long. Sorry about that. I just had a lot to say, I guess.

TL;DR would anyone like me to rewrite my entire mythos that it took me almost three years to create so that they can read it? Because I'm very much considering rewriting it but, I don't think I could convince myself to take on a task this heavy knowing that I would be the only person to ever enjoy the end result. At the end of the day, art is art, but if no one sees that art, it just doesn't feel complete. There are very few people who want to spend a lifetime creating something just to hide it away where no one can ever appreciate it. 

Not that I can guarantee anyone will appreciate or like it... I can only hope.

I wouldn't be giving up writing fics for DMC. Not at all. This would just be another project for me to take on in what little spare time I can find. I can make room in my life for it if I know someone would actually want to experience it. That’s what I did back when my best friend was writing her story and we used to swap every week to see what the other had done.

So... what do you think? Should I do it... or should I just give up?

Thank you for restoring my love for writing, V. Thank you so damn much.

[tarithenurse]

On my mind, in my soul - 14

Prompt:  Prompts are by Devilbat: “Lose you tonight” by HIM, Istanbul (cause I’m difficult), a fork. However, the originally suggested song had the ability to really get me down, so they suggested “Burning Desire” by Lana Del Rey. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual (I think), so much lemon you won’t see clear for a day. Oh and a bit of feels. A/N: Alright, so I’ve updated twice within a short time. That doesn’t mean we’re back to the old routine, just that I’m procrastinating from thesis to avoid screaming at my project partner. Please! I need some kind words of encouragement, so comment and reblog if you like the chapter! And let me know if you want a tag.

Touch down

Tears are streaming from your eyes and your knees are weak, threatening to buckle under you. The cacophonic lightshow known as Bifrost has disappeared and all that’s left of it is a smouldering pattern on the ground around you and Loki.

Loki.

Turning in the arm he’s wound around your waist you finally have a chance to look properly at him since the morning days ago. He looks healthier. Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell because he’s so pale from nature (or whatever it is that makes him look human) and of course he’s still pale. But there are no dark bags under his eyes, and his lips are soft and pink, begging you to kiss them.

All too son, he pulls away. “[Y/N]. I should not indulge you but chastise you.” Still he pecks a series of tiny kisses onto your face.

“You’d rather be stuck alone in a cell?” The words are mumbled, half swallowed by your quest to find his mouth again.

A chuckle and sharp bite to your bottom lip is the price you get. “It was risky.”

“I’d already lost everything.”

Turquoise eyes find yours, boring into your soul while managing to retain their own secrets. Almost. A shimmer collects and dances before spilling onto the perfect cheekbone. Loki allows you to kiss it away, but as soon as the salt has touched your lips, the god embraces you tighter than ever before. You can feel his chest heave. Feel the tremble of his shoulders underneath your palms that seek to cradle him in return.

“But…you would have…lived!” Hoarse. Broken. Each word contains more pain and desperation than you thought this controlled man could show. “Ris-sking your lif–“

“Shut up!” Surprisingly, he does as you tell him, backs strained to see each others’ faces. “What good would a life be if it’s spent in misery? Gods, I sound like your brother the way I talk! But you get it, right? You understand that I’d be missing a part?” The words are rushed, interrupted by soothing noises and kisses. “Maybe…maybe smarter people would call it Stockholm Syndrome…I dunno…an’ I don’t care! I just know that while I was dying, I was holding on for you. And when I woke…it was you I needed.”

“Please, don’t...”

“No, you need to understand this!” Why doesn’t he want to accept it? “My life is yours. I love you.”

It would’ve been neat to say the world stood still as you watched the words sink in, burn themselves into Loki’s heart.

But the way reality works, the only sudden event nearby is a bird chasing a cat away. Some insects are buzzing in the drying bushes on the other side of the grassy area, and at least the sun is shining hot and unforgiving, but the traffic noise in the distance continues relentlessly. And still, you wait for Loki to say something. Anything.

“[Y/N]…” he whispers, “nothing I can say will be enough…but I love you too.”

A breath you didn’t know you’d been holding escapes as a soft whine. All it takes to stifle it is to find the cool lips. Soothing in the heat. Oh, it’s warm alright, and dry too.

“Where are we?”

The place where Bifrost has dropped you seems to be a sort of park on top of a hill, but it’s so dry that most plants have either withered or are the type that might survive in an actual desert. Beyond the hilltop, a city sprawls in all directions, rising and falling with the landscape beneath the buildings towards a glittering sea and a sort of canal leading in through the very heart of the metropolis. Alright, metropolis might be taking it a bit too far for a New Yorker, but it’s obvious even for you that this is a big and probably old place.

“I know this place,” Loki smiles, “Although it has changed since my last visit.” Squinting up at him, you wait for an explanation. “Welcome to Constantinople!”

“We’ve been dumped in Istanbul?” Fuck, none of us have passports.

But Loki’s beaming, already weaving magic over the both of you to fix the appearance. “Is that what it’s called nowadays? Either way, no need to fret, my dear…I’ll take care of you.”

…

You ask me where I've been? I been everywhere

He hadn’t lied. Of course he hadn’t. As soon as the two of you had left the park, he somehow managed to hail a cab, and before you knew it, you’d arrived at a swanky hotel in the best part of town. It’d confused you for a moment that the concierge apparently knew Loki, but you were willing to forgive either of them when you were led into a mindboggling suite on the top floor.

Since then, you’ve showered and dressed (choosing from a selection of clothes that had been brought up to the suite) and now find yourself standing on the terrace. The rays of the descending sun have lost the bite and you revel in the breeze that carries a tang of salt and seaweed floating in the air over the low buildings or between the few wannabe skyscrapers. One of the first things you’d noticed were the minarets in the distance and you promise yourself you’ll use this opportunity to actually see some of the world.

“I find the view magnificent.” Loki’s voice drifts from the open door.

Turning, you see him dressed perfectly in his signature black-on-black suit, hair still damp from the shower. “Mmmm, I don’t mind looking this direction though.”

You return the grin even though a heat springs to your cheeks at the way he’s looking your over. Lazily. Devouring you with his icy eyes. He ought to, though, because you’ve taken special care to find a figure-hugging green dress with black and golden accents. Although the front is relatively modest with long sleeves and high neckline (ignoring the tightness, though) the back is bare, skin visible through a cut-out shaped like a kite that shows off exactly what isn’t worn underneath.

“It can’t be that long since you’ve been here since you know people,” you observe as you walk over to take his arm, allowing him to lead you away from the gorgeous lodgings, “where else can you expect a greeting like that?”

Rather than answer, Loki begins to tell you about the city and its convoluted history where diverse cultures have clashed again and again.

…   Loki’s PoV   …

There are many interesting people even in this measly realm known as Midgard. In fact, Loki might even go so far as to say that the world itself can hold a certain charm with the oddities there are to learn if scrutinizing the events of past and present. And the mortals? Naïve. For the most boring and grotesquely optimistic of their own importance. Of course, there are the Avengers which are entertaining in their own way. Nothing compares to you, my love.

[Y/N] is listening to every word, [Y/E/C] eyes glittering with fascination at the sight of the ancient city walls where long forgotten armies had held the ancient capital under siege. It’s not the first time Loki notices how eagerly the woman absorbs information. Not only history, but anything from the position of a chair, the movement of another person, or the writing on a building. Nothing escapes her attention but is evaluated silently.

Coloured lips cradle the edge of the glass before sending him a slight smirk. Loki feels his body react to the way [Y/N]’s tongue delicately licks a stray drop from the bottom lip and his soul screams in protest as she excuses herself, disappearing further back into the restaurant with a sinful swaying of the hips and the perfectly sculpted back exposed to the gaze of everyone in the place. Mine. Pride mixes with the sting of jealousy towards those that stare for too long. But he cannot truly fault them for looking.

Mine.

Memories resurface of the woman’s back arching, his own hands running trailing the spine and sides until his fingers dig into the flesh of the shapely hips to pull her closer. Hard and fast. Every movement met by a thrust of his hips that makes the feminine shoulder blades before him shift under soft skin and [Y/N] cry out in ecstasy.

The clink of cutlery against porcelain shatters the illusion, brining the god back to the present where his cock is straining against the trousers and his throat has gone dry.

Your hands were on my hips, your name is on my lips Over over again, like my only prayer

…   Reader’s PoV   …

Dinner hadn’t finished before you started teasing the god. Maybe the wine had made you braver, maybe the intensity of the last many days had made you reckless. Whatever the reason, you found immense satisfaction in watching Loki’s eyes darkened with lust and fixated on you each time you swiped the tongue over your lips or when you withdrew the fork from your mouth, careful to slow the action enough that it almost became lewd. For a moment, the god’s hands had disappeared below the table and an idea popped into your head and after checking the coast was clear, you slipped off the chair and under the perfect hiding spot created by the tablecloth.

The fork was still dangling from your lips, freeing you to crawl to Loki’s knees and slide your hands up his thighs. You could feel the muscles tense as he shifted in his seat, but it’s his cock that quickly had your attention as it was freed from the confines of his pants. His balls too, just for good measure.

Muffled by the table, the god’s hiss still reached you when your tongue traced the length of his erection. Hand and tongue played across the thin skin, quickly ensuring glistening precum to be swept across the head of the cock with each motion. And you hadn’t even taken him in your mouth.

Steps approached, a waiter asking if everything was to the satisfaction, when you decided to place the cold metal of the fork on the cockhead. No reaction. A slow drag of the prongs over the delicate skin of his balls had the wished effect of a stutter in the speech. It also paralysed his movement, though…and how were you supposed to ignore such an opportunity. Taking him in fully, you felt the shaft throb against your tongue as the tip reached and passed your gag reflexes in one smooth move. A shattering of glass could be heard from somewhere above you.

You don’t know how you’ve made it all the way back to the hotel without Loki losing his composure. He’s shaking, eyes dark and there’s even a hint of red seeping into the sclera from the edges. Not a word is spoken during the elevator ride, but his palm never leaves your lower back.

The moment the door to the suite closes behind you, he spins you and press your chest up against the wood. Arms twisted behind you back and legs nudged as far apart as possible by his knee, it surprises you that no fear rears its head even now when Loki’s got you at his mercy although you can feel cold radiating from his body.

“My pet,” he growls, breathing heavy against your throat, “are you truly aware of what you have started?”

Tilting your ass slightly to rub against the bulge in his crotch, it’s impossible not to smile at his groan. “Oh…I know.”

The sound from Loki is feral and it’s a miracle he bothers using magic to rid you of your clothes before hoisting your over his shoulder. Hell-o! Golden sparkles dissolves his own clothes, granting you with a view worth all the riches you’ve ever stolen. Never in your wildest dreams (prior to meeting him, of course) had you thought you’d end up loving the colour blue as much as you do now, but it’s possibly divine on the perky ass of his that shows perfect definition with each step through the suite. Just out of reach. Wiggling doesn’t bring your any closer, it only buys you a slap that makes your own ass sting and every muscle in your nether regions clench. At least Loki soothes the sting by stroking gently. Then a cold stroke flutters along the part of the folds that are easy to reach.

Without any warning, the world tilt and spins to make sure you landing, bouncing, on the bed, but as you try to get your bearings everything gets flipped around once more and you find yourself on knees and elbows with your ass kept in the air by strong hands on your hips. Oh, is all you manage to think before you’re filled in one smooth thrust.

“Mine!” It’s a snarl, pulled from the depths of Loki’s chest.

Concentrating to formulate anything similar to a coherent sentence, you retort: “Your what?” You try to relax, hoping to acclimate yourself to the size of his cock.

“My pet,” he accentuates the nickname with a hard thrust, “my queen.”

Core clenches tightly around the ridged member, making you both groan. It’ll be a miracle if he can last much longer before blowing the load, because he’d been denied that pleasure at the restaurant partially for fear of getting caught…but mostly to torment him. Now you’re dealing with the consequences. Fuck yeah.

Perhaps there’s better sex to be had, but after seeing Loki so weak...after almost losing him…

“Ma-make me yours, my-y king!”

Your keening cry is the only argument needed for him to reach his high. His heaving chest against your back, the last few ruts of his hips are accompanied an almost painful bite on your shoulder that muffles his guttural growl.

I've got a burning desire for you, baby (I've got a burning desire)

[writing-royza]

Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Thirty-two - Declaration of Intent

A/N: Hey, everyone, and Happy… Monday. Sorry for the delay; my in-laws were coming for dinner yesterday and I felt the need to clean obsessively, and a busy week beforehand didn't leave much time to write. But hey, there's a chapter for this week and we're soooooo close to the end! It's gonna be good, so stay tuned. Enjoy!

I do not own FMA.

---------------

Chapter Thirty-two - Declaration of Intent

UNINHABITED ZONE, JADAD, ISHVAL 0117 HOURS, APRIL 30

The massive open space had all the earmarks of a cave: darkness that lay thickest in the deepest corners, a dankness in the air and faint, occasional dropping that bespoke some water source nearby, a faint green cast to the meagre light that evoked imagery of algae and bioluminescent plants.

Lying over it all was the musty scent of decay, an earthy kind of stink reminiscent of wet dead leaves and loam that clogged his sense of smell the moment he came through the doors.

Pausing just inside, letting his eyes adjust, Kimblee slowly scoured the room for any sign of habitation. He stood in a kind of foyer, with one set of double doors closed behind him, and another set ahead, open into the huge atrium beyond. He stepped forward, taking care to make no noise, and emerged into the wide open space.

A wide walkway ran the perimeter of the room, surrounding a long rectangular depression in the floor. Steps led down into the shallow space at several points, the surfaces of both the walkway and sunken area tiled in squares of flat grey stone the size of his palm. At several points around the outside of the walkway stood open-topped braziers filled with smooth, fist-sized rocks, a basin and ladle mounted to the wall beside each one. Overhead, a multi-paned skylight twenty feet wide rose into a majestic dome that filtered moonlight down to provide a ghostly, ethereal light.

Ah, he thought, beginning to recognize the layout. A bathhouse. How archaically quaint….

He moved forward to the edge of the walkway, looking down into the empty pool. Water had recently flowed over the slate tiles, judging from their slightly damp appearance. The pool had likely been drained sometime in the last day or so, otherwise the vast space would smell dusty and dry, just like everything else in this forsaken landscape.

"I would think," he said to the room at large, "that since the Flame Alchemist can no longer use alchemy, his fear of water would have evaporated."

"Who said I was afraid?"

A silhouetted figure slinked out of an open archway on the far side of the long atrium, likely one that led to a change room. White clothing seemed to glow in the dark, the shadows falling away as Roy Mustang stepped forward into the light, moving with the purposeful grace of a pacing wolf. Deeply purple eyes glinted with challenge behind the fringe of his bangs.

"Long time, no see, Kimblee. But not nearly long enough for my money."

"Mustang." He said the name with the cold contempt of nobleman addressing a leper. "Our dear Riza had finally deemed you fit enough to come out and play, has she?"

He sensed the anger rolling off the other man even at this thirty-foot distance, anger that Mustang swiftly brought back to heel, damping it like the coals of a fire. "If only so that she doesn't have to look at your despicable face herself," he answered, his own tone cooling considerably. "After all that you've put her through, it should be understandable why she wouldn't want to see you again."

He laughed, a short, sharp bark that reverberated from the walls. "Please, she saw me less than a week ago and showed no inclination then of running off voluntarily. Of wanting her personal space, certainly, but not outright avoiding me." He grinned, showing his teeth. "She wouldn't dare leave her sire. Not permanently."

Mustang folded his arms across his chest, standing with his feet planted in a stance of defiance. "She would if she herself was mistress to someone who outweighs you in importance," he shot back. "And even before she turned me, I was more important to her than you can ever hope to be."

"It isn't a question of importance." Taking a step forward, Kimblee watched the other man tense, anticipating the oncoming fight. "It's a question of mastery."

"Something of which neither of you has when it comes to your emotions."

She emerged from the same archway, her blonde hair and white abaya ghostlike in the dimness. Where Mustang had moved with the wild intensity of a wolf, Hawkeye walked with the lithe, easy step of a panther. She slid a hand up his back to grasp his shoulder, her free hand rising to his chest as she stopped beside him, though her eyes remained fixed in Kimblee. "The first contact you have with your kind in days, and the first thing you do is get yourself baited into a dick-measuring contest? So much for a vampire's patience and self-control."

"You speak to me of self-control?" he countered. "When the two of you can hardly stand to keep your clothes on around each other for more than a few minutes at a time?" He eyed their pure white outfits critically. "And for the clothes themselves… was white really the best choice you could make? Creatures of the night ought to blend in with their surroundings, not stand out like beacons."

"Just because we drink people's blood and are the embodiment of anti-death doesn't mean we need to dress like we're going to a funeral every day," Roy countered. He tugged at the front of his knee-length dishdasha, the white fabric edged in gold embroidery. "And when a lady goes to the trouble of stealing me something so nice, it'd be a shame not to wear it."

"And when it gets covered in bloodstains from your prey?" Kimblee countered. "Or do you plan on stealing new wardrobe items whenever you need to?"

"Barring accidents, we eat far more neatly than you do," Riza answered, her voice carrying a note of distaste. "And we won't need to steal anything, before long. Everything we could want will brought to us in tribute when we claim dominion over the city."

Kimblee went still, his eyes narrowing as they rested on her utterly calm face. Dominion… tribute…? Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. "Ah… so this is why you wanted to keep the citizenry as a sustainable food source. Why you wanted to grow your strength… why you've allowed me to come to you." His smile pulled his lips wide, the tips of his long canine teeth showing. "Your commander's ambition has rubbed off on you. It's not enough for you to merely stalk the nights of this city. You want to rule."

"Why not?" she countered, her right should shoulder rising and lowering in an insolent shrug. "It's ever so much easier to sustain yourself when you have servants to either bring the blood to you, or else just lie down and let you feed on them." She smirked. "No one refuses a queen."

He gave a soft snort. "I see. And in this delusion of grandeur, which of us is king? Mustang, or me?"

"Delusion or not, the answer remains the same." Rising slightly on her toes, she pressed a kiss to Mustang's jawline, then rested her head against his cheek as he turned a smug look on Kimblee. "He's always had the drive to assume leadership; all you've ever done is destroy. And I don't want half my subjects being vaporized before I even get a chance to call for my coronation."

"You're a loose cannon, Kimblee," Mustang said, with what was probably supposed to be an apologetic air. It sounded more… contemptuous. "There's no room in the new monarchy for someone like that; if the Queen dictates you're out, you'd best be out of the city by sunup."

Rage boiled in his stomach, working its way up his throat like bile. "You can't kick me out of this place," he growled, his vow low, and full of menace. "Without my influence, you'd still be living your boring, pathetic human lives, both of you. I made you the way you are, gave you strength, gave you power… and now you think you can turn aside from the destiny I created for you?"

He threw his head back and laughed, the eerie, madness-tinged sound reverberating from the tiled walls to ricochet around them. "Without me, you're nothing! I am the sire, and if anyone here is going to claim rule over these worthless sheep, it's me!"

Riza's voice was soft, but carried easily in the open space. "Big words for a prisoner."

It took him a heartbeat to realize what she had said, and another to formulate his question. But before he could do more than open his mouth, there was the sound of a door being flung wide behind him. The words 'what do you mean' died before they reached his lips, and he started to swivel toward the door.

At the same moment, both Mustang and Hawkeye streaked off in separate directions, elongating into bright white streaks to cover more ground. Kimblee whipped back around to them, looking first in Mustang's direction, then giving chase after Hawkeye. Whatever was happening, what trap they had so evidently sprung, she was his ultimate goal.

She materialized a few metres out from the far wall, turning to watch him speeding in her direction. He hadn't shifted into his long, ropy form, and he came at her with his hands outstretched, levelled at her neck. Her amethyst eyes were impassive, watching him close the distance, making no move to defend herself –

His hands hit some hard surface and his arms folded in toward his chest. Unable to slow his momentum, he cannoned face-first into an invisible wall, and rebounded to sprawl, stunned, on the damp tiles at the bottom of the empty bathing pool.

---------------

She watched with a sense of gratified smug superiority as Kimblee picked himself up from the bottom of the pool, spluttering in surprise and rising anger at the indignity of having been knocked flat on his ass by a wall he could not see. His purple eyes landed on her, narrowing at the broad smile on her face.

"What have you done?" he demanded, his voice low and menacing, echoing off the walls. He paced slowly across the tiles in her direction, ignoring Roy's quiet snickering behind him. "Tell me! I command it!"

"Feeling a little claustrophobic?" she taunted, not flinching as he approached, not backing down. "You shouldn't have to ask me what's going on. You've come up against a wall like this before." She reached out, tapping on the invisible barrier like a child with a fish tank. "And besides that… I'm not the one who actually did the trapping."

The scuff of a footstep on the tiles near the entrance brought Kimblee's head whipping around to glare at Scar, crouched low on the tiles in front of the final symbol he had just etched to seal it with Miles standing just behind him. The warrior glared right back, his right hand curling into a fist where it dangled from the arm resting across his leg.

Riza tapped the toes of her right foot beside the symbol nearest her, the mark only visible as a thin white scratch on the tile floor. "We had some concern whether or not you would notice the markings when you came in," she commented off-handedly. "If you had, our entire plan might have been derailed, so I appreciate you walking so willingly into your own downfall."

"Mine as well as your own," he snapped, turning back to her. "So this is your true plan, is it? A fool's errand if there ever was one. You know as well as I do that once I'm gone, your own powers will fade and you'll lose your abilities and vampire persona entirely."

Ah, the crux of the matter. This was the aspect of her personal plan that Riza had to play extremely carefully: hiding the fact that she and Roy had no intention of letting Kimblee be destroyed. They all wanted the old, boring Riza back, the one who loved her paperwork, her dog, her firearms, her boss… but unfortunately, that particular girl was gone, and her replacement was going to have a find a way to stick around. She and Roy had spoken with deliberate quiet when outlining their plan for dominance so that Scar and Miles, sneaking closer, wouldn't hear; hopefully, they hadn't.

"You win some, you lose some," she answered airily, as much to herself as to him.

Climbing to his feet, Scar glanced between the two vampires on his side of this little conflict. "That's the first circle. When should we close the second?"

"Not quite yet," Roy spoke up. "It's really just a backup in case he should break out of the first one, so if he starts showing signs of doing that, then go ahead." He stood with his hands in his pockets, regarding Kimblee with cool contempt. "Until then, let him stay in there and wait for sunrise."

"Sunrise?" Kimblee repeated, his face set in a suspicious glare.

"Sunrise," Roy confirmed, before pointing upward… the skylight directly over the centre of Kimblee's imprisoning circle. "That serves a double purpose. On the one hand, it brought light in so that anyone using the bathhouse wasn't doing so in total darkness. But on the other… it concentrates the sunlight so that it helped warm the water."

His eyes came back to Kimblee with fierce satisfaction. "Seeing as you can't run, or hide, you'll be incinerated like an ant under a magnifying glass."

Kimblee was still gazing upward at the object of his eventual destruction. "I see. You did this as a boy, I take it? Burned ants on the sidewalk for no other crime than carrying on with their nature?" A faint smile touched his lips. "Just as you would now burn me for following my nature. Rather hypocritical, isn't it? Given that you have the same nature yourself, now."

"Whether it's hypocritical or not is hardly up for debate," Riza cut in sharply. "I would think, given that you have only a few hours left on this earth, you'd like to spend it more productively than debating philosophy."

"Philosophy in itself is a worthwhile way to spend several hours," he countered, then shrugged, settling himself cross-legged directly under the skylight's apex. "But, have it your way."

Riza watched with barely concealed distaste as he closed his eyes, sitting straight with his hands in his lap, the very picture of peaceful meditation. She was aware of Roy glancing in her direction from across the circle, then beginning to move around the perimeter to where Scar and Miles stood, also watching. Pushing thoughts of the sire from her mind, she focussed instead on the rest of the plan, and started around the edge of the circle toward the others.

"We can recall the others from hiding, now, I think," Miles was saying as she arrived. "Now that we have him trapped, everyone should be on hand here in case something goes awry."

"Doesn't make much sense for them to be waiting about in the dark for someone who's already here," Roy agreed. "Go ahead and give the signal."

Miles moved back toward the open entrance of the bathhouse, stepping out onto the front stairs. Putting two fingers to his lips he gave two short, sharp, piercing whistles, and waited. Seconds later, there was an answering whistle, and he nodded in satisfaction. Neither he nor Scar showed any indication they knew what was really being planned… meaning the time was right to set it into action.

"In the meantime," Riza added, "perhaps we should seal the second circle." She looked doubtfully from the inner set of symbols to the outer. "Call me crazy, but something about this doesn't feel near as safe as it should be. Maybe it's some kind of vampire sixth sense, but… there's something about this that bothers me." She looked back to Scar. "I think I'd feel better if the second circle were sealed."

He watched her carefully, hesitating. "… You and the Colonel will be stuck inside if it is," he cautioned. "Is that something you want?"

She took a carefully choreographed deep breath, then nodded. "There's not much else for us to do. And if he does break out of the first circle, we're here to take him down physically."

Roy glanced over at her. "Would you feel even better if we checked the symbols around the edge of the first circle? If this is a legitimate vampire sense, that something's wrong, could be that's the trouble."

"Yeah, all right."

The two of them circled off in opposite directions, walking slowly with their eyes on the ground, studying each holy glyph etched into the tiles… or at least, pretending to. Riza half-watched out of the corner of her eye as Scar crouched, scratching the last, sealing symbol into the outer circle with the point of a ceremonial stone knife. The thing was tiny in his huge hand, but a weapon nonetheless she would have to rid him of if they wanted to have any kind of chance.

Her gaze switched to Roy, directly across the circle from her, and caught his eye. She gave the smallest of nods.

"Wait, hang on a second," he called a moment later, coming to a stop with a frown. "This one might be it. Looks like the symbol's all there, but its on a rougher piece of stone and the knife might've skipped over some of the bumps. The circle works, but this section might be a little weaker." He looked up. "Miles?"

The Major crossed the invisible barrier of the outer circle, his unadulterated humanity allowing him to do so. Riza kept her own eyes on the ground, moving slowly until she was another five feet along before coming to a stop.

"I've got one over here, too," she called. "Same sort of deal. Scar, could you come take a look?"

He, took, crossed the barrier with no trouble, checking the outer glyphs as he came toward her, just in case. Riza indicated her suspect symbol with a pointed finger, stepping aside to allow him closer to it. "That one, there," she lied. "Just a rougher piece of shale that would have been more difficult for the knife to scratch."

He went to one knee for a closer look, careful to keep his head back from crossing the inner barrier. Red eyes searched the pale white lines for any discrepancy. "I don't see what you —"

Her weight landed across his back before the sentence could finish leaving his mouth, knocking him off-balance. Throwing his hands out to catch himself on the tiles, he didn't waste breath asking just what the hell she thought she was doing; he could tell. The cord around his neck was pulled upward, the pouch rising to press against the underside of his chin. He thought, for a moment, that she meant to strangle him with the thing… but then the charm was yanked from around his neck and went flying off into a dark corner of the room.

Scar pushed to his feet, the vampiress dangling from his shoulders like a small child wanting a piggyback ride, and practically ran backward, slamming her back-first against the invisible barrier.

Riza's breath left her in an angry hiss, the warrior's wide shoulder blades digging into her ribs, but she held on. If her vampiric strength couldn't help her win against this musclebound stoic, then what good was it? From across the room came the sounds of Roy engaged in his own struggle, but she ignored it. Her fight was here.

Wrapping her arms around Scar's neck, she dragged herself higher on his back, gasping a breath, gripping with her knees and using his own pressure against her to keep herself in place. Hooking one arm around his neck, she grasped her wrist with her free hand and squeezed, focussing on trying to compress the two arteries either side.

Bet Armstrong wishes he hadn't taught Riza all those holds when he finds out about this, she thought grimly, gritting her teeth as Scar's neck muscles tightened, trying to fight the sleeper hold. She retaliated, snugging her arm tighter around his neck. In a last-ditch effort, Scar abruptly pulled away from the wall, turned ninety degrees, and dropped flat to his back, trapping her beneath him.

The air rushed out of her lungs once again, but she kept her grip against the 200-plus pounds of muscle bearing down on her. Her lungs burned, her body needing air even at the reduced rate caused by the vampirism. She just had to stick it out a little longer… just a little longer….

Finally, she felt the great body go slack.

Riza gave it another thirty-count in her head to make sure he was well and truly out, then shoved him to the side and sprang up, ready to defend herself if he was playing possum and came after her. Scar lay still, breathing shallowly, but clearly unconscious. With a hunter's pride in victory swelling her chest, Riza turned to where Roy was just stepping back from where Miles lay limply on the ground, his hands raised in a boxer's stance.

"Is he out?"

The former alchemist looked up, flashing a triumphant grin. "I clocked him on the jaw and he went down like a sack of bricks," he reported. "I'd call this half of things a success."

Kimblee had opened his eyes when the scuffling began, and now sat watching the two of them with curiosity, his head moving back and forth. "Just what are you two up to?"

"Nothing that'll work if you don't keep your trap shut," Riza snapped. "Just sit there and don't move, will you? We're trying to figure this so that all of us might survive tonight, so just let us work!"

Bending, she caught hold of one of Scar's thick wrists, beginning the arduous task of dragging him to the far side of the circle, away from where the rest of the vampire-hunting crew would be coming through the entrance. Her sharp hearing began to pick up faint sounds of conversation, the occasional sand-shuffling footstep, and she redoubled her efforts.

When the group came through the front entrance two minutes later, she and Roy were standing over the two unconscious Ishvalan men, both of them bound with their own waist sashes, ready and waiting.

---------------

ABANDONED BATHHOUSE, JADAD, ISVHAL 0158 HOURS, APRIL 30

Rebecca hesitated on coming through the doorway, stopping just at the edge of the second circle of markings. In the centre, looking calm and unearthly as he sat bathed in a shaft of moonlight, was Kimblee… though a very different Kimblee than her own faint memory. He was ghastly pale, the effect strengthened by his dark suit and hair, his long, white fingers folded meditatively in his lap. His eyes watched her with bland disinterest, as though she were nothing more than a pigeon crossing his path.

Behind him, slumped together in a two-person pile of apparent unconsciousness, were Scar and Miles. Her heart jumped in alarm at the thought that Kimblee must have gotten to them before he had been contained… and then she saw Mustang and Riza.

The Colonel was standing with his arms folded and legs spread, watching the group enter with all the solemn menace of a bouncer at a nightclub. His eyes shone a faint, dark purple in the reflected moonlight behind the half-curtain of his bangs, and he stood with an impossibly perfect stillness that betrayed his current preternatural state.

But it was Riza that made her shiver.

She stood with her hands folded demurely in front of her, watching the group enter with quiet aloofness; a royal duchess watching her guests enter for a party. Glacially calm, she glanced from one to the next with only the motion of her eyes, not turning her head in the slightest, not acknowledging the two men at her feet, her superior in the place of deference behind her left shoulder, or the vampire imprisoned before her.

Rebecca swallowed hard as those cold amethyst eyes landed on her, feeling a chill start to spread outward from the pit of her stomach as Riza smiled. In all the years she had known the other woman, a full smile had been rare, and a smile that showed teeth had happened maybe twice. Now, for the first time, she wished her friend — or the thing that occupied her friend's body — would never smile again. She simply didn't want to see those teeth.

"Welcome back," the female vampire — Hawkeye, Rebecca corrected in her head — purred. She raised one hand, gesturing to her prisoner. "I'm sure you all remember this face. Former State alchemist and federal prisoner Solf J. Kimblee, current vampire sire." She smiled again, and Rebecca fought the urge to shiver again. "Even more current prisoner."

"So the plan worked," Breda commented, though Rebecca could hear the note of trepidation in his voice. "Good. What happened to Scar and Miles? Did he —"

"Oh, no. Not at all." Folding her hands again, she gave him a knowing smirk. "They're merely necessary for the next stage of the plan, and we needed some way to keep them under our thumb until that part was over."

"Wasn't the next stage of the plan to wait for daylight to weaken Kimblee enough that we could… remove him?" Falman asked, more than a little hesitantly.

"That was your plan," Hawkeye corrected, sounding for all the world like a schoolteacher lecturing a particularly dense pupil. "My plan was to trap Kimblee here and then simply leave him trapped so that I can carry on in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed."

"Your plan?" Mustang echoed, sounding slightly reproving.

"Oh, sorry, love." Turning, she reached back and patted him on the arm. "Our plan, not just mine. And so that we can carry on our lifestyle. I'm sorry, I just got caught up in the thrill of the moment."

"Wait, what did she call him?" Fuery whispered, sounding vaguely scandalized.

"Forget that," Rebecca muttered back. "What the hell is she talking about? 'Their plan?'"

Hawkeye's head whipped back around at that, and she stood still a moment, like a spooked deer listening for further sound. When no one spoke, she turned fully to face the group. "I'm sorry, this must be so confusing for all of you," she said, her tone conveying no trace of true apology. "Listen, I know this is probably going to throw a wrench into things, but… the plan you all thought we were following has changed."

"Changed how?" Armstrong asked, his blue eyes wary and suspicious above his moustache.

"Changed in that instead of destroying Kimblee to free us from the so-called 'vampire curse,'" Mustang chimed in, "we'll instead be shutting him away in some dark little corner and keeping our vampire forms."

"You know how sometimes, people go on vacation to a new place, and they find they really like it, so they buy a summer house? That's kind of like what this is," Hawkeye explained. "We've decided we really like having control over human bodies, despite the whole 'can't be in daylight' and 'have to drink blood' parts. And, just like any other sentient creature…" Her eyes hardened. "We'll fight to stay alive."

"You can't do that," Rebecca burst out, immediately regretting the probably futile words. "You stole those bodies; you don't get a say in whether you get to stay in them or not."

The blonde woman snorted derisively. "What, and you do? Listen, sister, the only two people who could possibly stand a chance at knocking me out of control of this body are right here." She placed a foot on Scar's shoulder where he lay, just beginning to stir, on the ground in front of her. "And they're a little… tied up, at the moment."

Red eyes cracked open, and the scarred man visibly tested his bonds as he lay on his side, glancing at the group standing several feet away, the vampire still imprisoned in the centre of the room, and finally at the one looming over him. "…What have you done, witch?" he growled, rolling onto his back to see her more clearly.

"Vampire," she corrected, almost off-handedly "And the only thing I've done is ensure my own safety. Riza remembers you being something of a spectacle with those arms of yours, and while I doubt you'd go so far as to explode my — and by extension, her — head, you could very likely still cause some damage." Bending, she patted his cheek with a beatific smile. "Now, just lie still, and I won't have to choke you out again. Fair?"

She didn't wait for an answer, standing straight. "The rest of you, if you would be so kind as to separate out of that little knot you've got yourselves in, and stand at least four feet apart around the room." When nobody moved, her calm expression dissolved into a fang-baring snarl. "I said move."

Slowly, carefully, the five remaining members of the vampire hunting team began to spread out along the front wall of the atrium, no one taking their eyes off of Hawkeye or Mustang. The two of them were as alert as a pair of guard dogs, and probably twice as bloodthirsty, given the chance.

Literally bloodthirsty, Rebecca thought, suppressing another shudder. Best that we play along for now, and look for an opening later.

"Just what are you hoping to accomplish here?" Armstrong asked, his rumbling bass voice echoing off the tiled walls. Hawkeye's eyes shot in his direction, and her lips curved, but he kept speaking. "Are you hoping to take on all of us? Restrain us like you have Scar and Miles? Or something more… permanent?"

Her earlier ire was gone now, replaced with a look of motherly fondness so sickly sweet that it had to be fake. "Oh, Alex, you don't need to worry," she soothed. "We're not going to harm so much as a hair on any of you… unless you give us reason to. And in that case, I think it'd be fair to call it self-defense, don't you?

"As for what we're planning — Miles, please stop squirming, it's distracting." At her feet, Miles, who had been shifting slightly as he regained consciousness, went extremely still as Mustang leaned warningly over him, holding a finger to his lips for quiet. "As for what we're planning, it's all very simple. I'm hoping that in as little as two days from now, we will have secured our rule over this city, its citizens, and any other refugees that arrive looking to find shelter here."

"Your plan… is to declare yourself ruler over the Ishvalan remnant?" Falman clarified, sounding stunned.

"They'll never go for it," Breda added, frowning deeply. "Even if you weren't trying to take over by force, you're still outsiders. They'd never accept you as a leader even if you were human."

"Who said anything about force?" Mustang said casually. "The only force we've used in this takeover so far is to subdue two people who stood the most likely chance of stopping us before we began. Now that the path is relatively clear, however…." He stepped forward, sliding one arm possessively around Hawkeye's waist, sending a smirk to his shocked former subordinates. "We'll be approaching the Ishvalan leadership tomorrow night to inform them of the change in hierarchy."

Shaking his head, all Fuery could manage was a baffled-sounding "Why?!"

"It's case of symbiosis," the vampire explained patiently. "We need blood on a regular basis in order to thrive. The Ishvalans need someone to rule to guide them through the reconstruction and into the future where they can also thrive. So, in equivalent exchange, they will provide us with blood — which we will take very carefully so as not to turn or kill anyone — and we will promise to be good, benevolent rulers and help them grow back into the prosperous nation they were before the civil war." He grinned. "Everybody wins."

"You think you can just unilaterally declare yourself King and Queen of the Ishvalan people?" Miles snapped from his place on the floor. "Even before your country annexed ours, we never had royalty."

"Yeah, well, you do now," Hawkeye retaliated calmly. Her eyes turned to the row of people in front of her. "Now, what do you do when you're before the Queen?"

For several long, terrible seconds of dead silence, no one moved. Rebecca could feel her heart pounding in her throat, partly out of fear, but mostly out of shock. Things had gone so drastically sideways in such a short amount of time. We never should have agreed to work with them, she thought bleakly. We thought that we could handle any hidden agenda they might have… but I guess we were wrong….

The battle on the Promised Day seemed small and insignificant in the face of this personal battle of wills. It went against everything she felt to submit to these two strange creatures… but defiance would only earn her injuries or worse. This was not a situation Rebecca Catalina, firearms specialist, could fight her way out of with a gun. Armstrong's muscles might help, but he wouldn't be able to bring himself to fight two former friends. Falman's memory, Breda's brains, Fuery's technological know-how…. All of it was useless in this moment. They would have to bide their time, wait for an opening. And to get a chance at that opening….

What did one do when they were before the Queen? They bowed.

Rebecca sank slowly, cautiously to one knee, her gaze on the tiled floor in front of her. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the others' heads turn to stare… before they reluctantly did the same.

When she looked up, the smile on the vampiress's face confirmed a dread fear: the Riza she knew had no say in this. Her friend was terribly, conspicuously absent.