#* verse / closed | promise with every step set down that we’ll take the long way around.

[duefaith-a]

         // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝ at least we’re both the same kind of stupid. ❞

          Cam has yet to forget. The disapproval etched upon General Landry’s face, his irritation at being interrupted. Teal’c’s raised eyebrow, signaling incredulity or interest ( Cam couldn’t say which with any certainty if his life depended upon it, yet he’s willing to guess the former ). Jackson’s unamused, almost tired fatigue, all tolerance for perceived bullshit ended. The furrow of Sam’s brow, confusion evident.

          Yet he swears, still swears, that he’s not stupid, that he’s not wrong. He surely can’t have dreamed the whole briefing nearly word for word. Sam’s technobabble, at the very least, lies beyond his imagination’s ability to supply.

          Landry had ordered him to the infirmary, and during each test Carolyn ran, Cam’s patience waned, good humor giving way to bitter frustration as her disbelief compounded upon his team’s and the general’s. Freed but ordered to take the rest of the day off while Sam took SG-1 off-world in his stead, Cam had retreated to the cafeteria, sulking over an untouched bowl of jello. Cubes lie now in fragments, torn apart by the edge of a spoon, though not one spoonful has he yet lifted to his lips.

          When Maeve joined him, dread settled in at the prospect of explaining to her his temper, his presence on base when he ought to be with his team. Yet he could not refuse to explain; not polite not kind not fair. He concludes with a bitter,    ❛ Or I’m just stupid and utterly losing my mind. ❜

          At her words, however, his back straightens, frustration at the universe forgotten in a heartbeat.    ❛ Are you tellin’ me that you remember today, too? ❜    Why them, he wonders, and only them? or, perhaps, it is not merely them.    ❛ I swear, Maeve, if you’re pullin’ my leg… ❜    He has no threat to make, though, only a desperate plea: mean it. He’s not sure he can stand to once more be the fool today.

[kueble]

Making Biscuits

This is a collaboration I did with @mistahkato for the @thepassifloradiscord Soft Tummy Week event. They were so much fun to work with, and I hope you like the results. Their art is here and I'll link it again at the end.

The prompt was: Pet Play and this takes place in my Kitten Play verse.

Teen. Warnings: Kitten Play. 2,400 words

Geraskier

---

Moving, as it turns out, is every bit as hellish as Jaskier remembered.  He feels like he’s been running at full steam all day long, and he can already tell he’s going to wake up sore tomorrow.  But as Geralt sets the last box down in the spare bedroom - their spare bedroom - he knows it’s worth every aching muscle.

“Unpacking can wait,” Jaskier tells him before walking over and wrapping his arms around his neck, crossing his wrists behind him.   Geralt settles his hands on Jaskier’s hips, grinning at him as they sway lightly together.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m way too tired to even think about christening the new apartment tonight,” Geralt says, chuckling when Jaskier pulls a face at him.

“Tomorrow sounds fantastic, actually,” Jaskier agrees.  He’s so in love it hurts, but he’s dead on his feet right now.  Even with the help of everyone they could recruit, moving out of two apartments in one day was a lot to handle.  “Let’s order the pizza we promised, and maybe our movers will leave us to settle in once they’re fed.  I foresee a hot shower and some couch cuddling in our future.”

“Submitted it on the app before I brought this box in,” Geralt says, and Jaskier could just kiss him.

So he does.  Geralt hums as their mouths meet, parting his lips under the press of Jaskier’s tongue.  There’s no real heat behind it, just a gentle familiarity that has Jaskier sighing into the kiss.  Geralt nips at him playfully, and Jaskier gasps before pulling back.  They stand there for a long moment, ignoring the sounds of their friends out in the living room, and just hold each other.

But then Jaskier’s stomach growls, and he steps back with a giggle.   “Ok, we’ll have time to be cute later.  Right now I’m starving.  Pizza should be here soon, so let’s find the bag we put the paper plates and chips in.”

“I ordered a salad, too,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier tilts his head waiting for an explanation.  When it doesn’t come, he reaches out and pokes Geralt in the chest, raising his eyebrows at him.  His boyfriend flushes and looks away before adding, “I’ve kinda put on some weight lately, so I figured it would be good for me.”

“If you’ve packed it on, I can’t see where,” Jaskier tells him quickly, but Geralt just frowns and taps his own stomach.  And yeah, Jaskier can tell there’s a bit more padding covering his abs, but he’s still the sexiest person Jaskier has ever met.  It looks good on him.   “Well, I love your tummy, and I’m always right.  So let’s forget about this nonsense and go feed our friends so they fuck off and let us shower.”

“Fine, but I’m still going to talk to Lambert about his gym,” Geralt says, and Jaskier shakes his head before taking his hand and dragging him from the room.  Honestly, this man is ridiculous.  Geralt is super strong and sinfully gorgeous.  Jaskier will have to remind him later.

—

Jaskier adores his friends, but he is so happy to see them leave and take their chaos with them.  He closes the door after the last stragglers leave and slumps back against it.  Looking around the apartment - so many boxes to unpack! - makes him want to curl up and sleep for days.  But Geralt is already digging around in the boxes labeled bathroom and he pulls out a couple of towels with a triumphant shout.

“I even found your fancy shampoo on the first try!” he says happily, holding up the silver shampoo bar tin.  Jaskier snorts and pushes off the door, letting momentum carry him when he wants to sag.

“Lush is nice, but hardly what I’d call fancy,” Jaskier says with a giggle.  He accepts the tin with a smile, though, and lets Geralt guide him towards their new bathroom.

Truth be told, it’s probably the reason they went with this apartment over some of the others.  The shower is absolutely gigantic, and there’s a free-standing tub to soak in as well.  Geralt is bulkier than him, but Jaskier is hardly small, and a shower that can fit both of them is hard to find.  Geralt starts the water, and they both start methodically stripping.  Jaskier knows he’s tired, because normally he’d put on a little tease of a show, but tonight he doesn’t have it in him.

“Yeah, you’re falling asleep on your feet,” Geralt says, laughing when Jaskier flips him off.  “Get in, bad boy.  Let’s make this quick and then we can watch something mindless to unwind before bed.”

“I’ll show you bad boy,” Jaskier mumbles, but there’s no fire behind it.  Instead, he sticks out his tongue and steps through the shower door.  Geralt follows him, darting forward to press a quick kiss against the freckles spread across his shoulder blades.  Jaskier hums happily before stepping under the spray.

He wets his hair first, hating to wash it this late in the day, but he needs the dirt from moving off of him.  When he opens his eyes, Geralt is smiling softly at him, and his chest pulls tight in a good way.  Moving in together is really one of the best things he’s ever done.  He just knows it’s only going to get better.

“May I?” Geralt asks, holding up the bright purple shampoo bar.   Jaskier nods and turns around to give his boyfriend access.  Geralt isn’t normally musical, but he starts humming under his breath, the deep sound echoing off the walls of the shower.  He works the bar over Jaskier’s hair and the scent of lavender and lime floods the air around them.

“You should quit your job and become a hair stylist, because your fingers are fucking amazing,” Jaskier murmurs, a soft moan escaping as Geralt digs his fingers into his scalp.

“Nah, I’d only do this for you,” he whispers back, and Jaskier is so happy he could cry.  For a few minutes, all he knows is the feeling of Geralt’s hands in his hair and the sweet scents surrounding them.  Then Geralt pats him lightly, nudging him to turn back under the spray.

“My turn!” he says once the suds are gone, and Geralt hands over his own shampoo with a grin.  Jaskier pops the top and squirts some into his palm, working up a lather while Geralt wets his hair.  Knowing his boyfriend, the shampoo is ridiculously expensive, and it smells vaguely of coconut.  It suits him.

Once his hair is wet, Geralt turns and leans his head back for Jaskier.  He starts singing while he works the lather into the long strands, some old Florence + The Machine song he forgot the name of.   Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, just sighs as Jaskier rubs his scalp and washes his hair.  He knows they won’t normally shower together, but he really could get used to this kind of gentle intimacy.

“All set,” Jaskier whispers, not wanting to break the mood.  Geralt ducks back under the showerhead and Jaskier soaps himself up.  They take turns rinsing off, falling into a giggle fit when Jaskier missteps and slips, needing to grab Geralt for support.  It’s the only mistake, though, and they make it out of the shower unscathed.

As he dries off, Jaskier watches Geralt, knowing full well he has a goofy smile on his face.  He’s so in love that it’s stupid, but he can’t bring himself to care.  This man is perfect for him, and he doesn’t care how lovesick that makes him look.  And by the way Geralt beams back at him from across the room, he knows he doesn’t care either.

He leaves Geralt in the bathroom to mess with his hair and pads his way down the hallway to their bedroom.  Thankfully Eskel insisted on helping them make the bed before he left, knowing full well how exhausted they would be.  It still amazes him how well his friends and Geralt’s family slotted together so well, but it just makes him that much more sure of this whole thing.

It takes a minute to find a box labeled Jaskier’s clothes, but he lucks out and it holds his pajamas.  He grabs a pair of shorts and an old worn out tee, sighing happily as he slides into them.  Yes, tonight is definitely a night for comfort.

With that thought in mind, he pokes around some more, looking for the box with his kitten gear in it.  Well…boxes.  He might have gone a bit overboard once Geralt got so involved in his play.  He’ll never want for ear and tail sets, that’s for sure!  He grabs a calico set, one that he hasn’t worn as much for some reason.  It’s a shame, because the white and brown and orange look so good with his skin tones.

His hair is mostly dry, the ends curling just a bit, and Jaskier grins at himself in the mirror as he sets the headband on his head.  The tail is one that ties around his waist, and once it’s on he can’t help turning to the side and preening in the mirror attached to their dresser.  He’s damn cute, and he knows it.

He hops up on the bed so he can get a better look at his tail, kneeling on top of their comforter and twisting so the long calico tail is visible in the mirror.  It’s so soft that he can’t help reaching down and stroking it, humming as the fluffy fur moves through his fingers.   He’s so lost in his head that he doesn’t see Geralt enter the room.

“How’s my narcissistic little kitten, then?” Geralt asks, laughing when Jaskier turns to frown at him.  “Oh hush.  You’re adorable and you know it.  I’m allowed to tease you now, one of the rules of living with me.”

His cheeks heat up at the words, and Jaskier knows all his emotions are written on his face right now.  He’d care more, but he loves Geralt and the man deserves to know how happy he is about it.  Geralt steps closer, cupping his cheeks before leaning in for a chaste kiss.  He’s still warm from the shower, and Jaskier leans into him, chasing that heat as he presses their mouths together.

“It’s just for comfort tonight, right?  Because I wasn’t kidding about being too tired for sex,” Geralt asks when he pulls back, and Jaskier answers with a nod.  Geralt presses a lingering kiss against his forehead and lowers his hand to scratch behind Jaskier’s fake ears.  He sighs at the light touch, already slipping into his kitten headspace.

Geralt grabs him under the thighs and lifts him, and Jaskier can’t help letting out a small squeak.  His boyfriend just chuckles at him and starts carrying him towards their living room.  He nuzzles Geralt’s shoulder and revels in the feeling of being cared for like this.

When they reach the couch, Geralt sets him down slowly and watches him stretch and circle around with a smile.  Once he’s comfortable, Geralt sits down against the arm of the sofa with one knee bent and one foot along the back of the couch.  It leaves Jaskier plenty of space, and he doesn’t waste time crawling over to him.

It always throws him a little that Geralt loves him back.  The man is far too insecure for someone who looks this gorgeous.  His hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and Jaskier knows it will be wavy tomorrow.   Little tendrils hang down and frame his face, and Jaskier has to fight down the urge to bat at them.  He’s behaving tonight, he really is.

His mind is mostly fuzzy at this point, but he remembers Geralt complaining about the weight he’d put on earlier.  He dips his head down and nuzzles his bare stomach before covering it in little kitten licks.  Geralt makes some kind of indignant noise, but Jaskier ignores him, because this is important.  He rubs his forehead against the soft skin, claiming Geralt as his own.

How could anyone not love such a sweet man?  Why would a little extra padding on his tummy make anyone think any less of him.  Humans are weird, he supposes.  Jaskier starts to hum - his version of a purr - and reaches out to get his paws on Geralt’s belly.  He stretches out his fingers, kneading the soft skin like dough, and purrs louder.

“Hey!  That’s, you don’t need to,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier looks up at him, blinking as the words wash over him but don’t really sink in.  He has no clue what Geralt sees on his face, but his shocked expression turns warm, and Jaskier knows he’s made his point.  “Fine, make all the fucking biscuits you want, you adorable menace,” Geralt grumbles, but his tone is light.

Taking that for the invitation that it is, Jaskier makes himself comfortable, poking and prodding at Geralt’s stomach.  He feels a hand in his hair, scritching beneath his cat ears, and he purrs before leaning into it.  Time loses meaning, and he focuses on stretching his paws and touching his boyfriend.  After what seems like ages, Geralt clears his throat and nudges him back a little.

“Sorry, Jask, but my foot’s falling asleep.  Let me get more comfortable and then we can watch one more episode before bed,” he says somewhat sheepishly.  Jaskier meows in response and edges away so Geralt can move.  He ends up with a thigh against the arm of the couch and one foot on the floor.  With a snap of his fingers, he lets Jaskier know he’s ready.

Jaskier crawls into the space Geralt made for him, stretching and rustling around a bit before settling on his back with his head resting on Geralt’s thigh.  He leaves a paw on Geralt’s warm stomach, not bothering him this time, but just letting it rest there so he knows how much he loves him exactly how he is.  He curls the other around Geralt’s side, wanting to touch as much skin as he can.

Geralt bends down and kisses the top of his head before turning the tv back on.  Jaskier has no clue what they’re watching, but he doesn’t even look at the tv, just lets the sound of it flow over him while he looks up at Geralt.  He’s content as a cat in the cream, cuddled up with Geralt while he runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.  As he plays with his tail, he thinks how awesome this shared apartment is going to be.

Artwork here!

---

SFW Tags: @halerune @mayastormborn @dani-dandelino @feraljaskier @jaskierswolf @littoraly-art @tothedesert @dapandapod @theweirdlynx @tedrakitty @sharinalein @theamazingdevilgivesmehope @iamaqt314 @silvermintnightprincess @rockysstupidity @live-long-and-trek-on @hayleynzlive @holymotherwolf @thesynysterunknown @rebard-main @larawrmonster @gryffinqueen-blog @lovelyscot @fangirleaconmigo @mothmanismyuncle @fontegagrilledcheese @thestarkwinter @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @allthequeenshorses13 @221birl1823 @strippiluolamies @concussed-dragon @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @clarebear66 @feral-jaskier @j-u-s-tmyself​ @hayleynzlive @thisislisa

If you’d like to be added/removed, please let me know. Thank you!

[secret-engima]

Team Gremlin verse: The Reunion

(So this is ... a very rough draft so to speak of what I wanna do for the reunion scene with Oscar and Ozpin. I’m not dubbing it ‘canon’ yet because I’d have to wait for the actual fic to catch up and then tweak accordingly but so far- this is what is in my head and I figured I should let others enjoy the angst :D)

...

     Ozpin slipped away from the crowd exiting the tent with a pounding heart. He could feel his fingers shake on the hilt of Long Memory as he managed to duck into the shadows outside the large emerald and gold tent. He had found him. All this time searching, all this time praying and hoping and looking only to be too late and he had found him. He had sat in the stands and seen the boy in action, heard the music and seen the magic both fake and real, and felt the sheer energy and joy the little Ringmaster felt in his performance like lightning in Ozpin’s own bones. And then- the song. The final song. Because Oscar always rounded off with a song, ones not meant for spectacle, but instead for the heart. A sincere wish and message for those fortunate to sit beneath the ceiling of the Emerald City for the night.

     The song alone could have brought him to tears. But to hear it sung by the little boy in the ring, the impossible, wonderful, miracle child who had every right to lash out at the world in hate, yet instead chose to fill it with wonders … it had been all he could do to keep from crying with there in the stands. To not try to climb down the makeshift seating and into the ring because all he’d wanted was to hold him.

     His son. The son he had never seen outside of grainy photos and shaky recordings, who he had tried desperately to find the more he learned what the child had lived through. And now Ozpin had found him. Now Ozpin had a chance to meet him. He just had to get backstage.

     It wasn’t hard to escape the eyes of the crowd, and it wasn’t much more difficult to slip through the shadows to the little ring of emerald tents set up behind the big top, the tents where the various performers of the rare and popular Emerald City act stayed. He hesitated on the boundary, trying to pick out which one of the colorful, green-themed tents belonged to the Ringmaster —his son, his child that he had never gotten to meet, would never have known about save a series of accidents—. He heard laughter and activity behind him, the performers returning to their temporary homes, and he ducked forward into the shadows of a tent at random. They would run him off if they found him, he was certain of that. He was a stranger to them at best, or worse, a known player in the war that had created the boy he hoped to meet, that had no doubt hurt many of those who followed him —such as Hazel, and how the man had ever been swayed from Salem’s promise of revenge, Ozpin could not fathom but did not want to test—.

     He heard no activity from the tent he was hiding behind, and while the air whispered with hints of magic, it wasn’t coming from this tent, so he moved on to another. This time, he dared peak into the tent flap, but saw nothing but the vague shadows of personal belongings. No sign of the little Ringmaster —his son, his child—.

     Ozpin backed away from that tent, heart drumming anxiously in his chest. Then he turned and froze.

     The massive Grimm, the strange one that Qrow called Hound. The monster that for some reason Ozpin never wanted to contemplate —but had spent many hours doing just that— followed his son everywhere. Behaved like it was tame and natural rather than a creature of Darkness that longed only for destruction. It stood just a few feet away, so large it’s head was even with Ozpin’s chin as it watched him with flat, glowing red lights for eyes.

     His fingers tightened on the hilt of Long Memory, lifetimes of instinct screaming to raise his weapon and attack first before it could kill him or anyone else here. But he had seen recordings of this same Grimm, dressed up in ridiculous costumes to hide its true nature from unpracticed eyes, parading around in the circus ring like a big dog. He had seen his son ride on its back and balance on its head and Qrow had recounted more than one instance of Oscar and the other children escaping on its back. It hadn’t been present for this particular show, but he had seen multiple recordings of previous ones where it entered the ring and no one had been harmed. Of course, Ozpin’s son —Salem’s son, for all the second half of that coin tore at his guts— had been close by all those times, but here there was no one in sight but the two of them.

     The Grimm tilted its head slowly to one side, a ragged ear pricking like an actual dog’s. It wasn’t attacking. Even though Ozpin knew he must stink of so many different types of fear he could attract an entire pack of Beowolves all on his own. It just … studied him.

     Slowly, it’s jaws opened, and Ozpin prepared to dodge some attack. Instead, the large, blood red tongue slid out from between massive teeth and lolled there, a slow, thoughtful trio of pants before it licked its teeth and shut its jaws again. Without any further reaction, it lowered its head and turned away, walking slow and ponderously toward one of the tents that had light peaking through the bottom. Ozpin watched it leave with a blank, confused mind, then startled when it stopped and twisted around to look over its shoulder at him.

     It looked like it was waiting.

     It looked like it wanted him to follow.

     Inhaling raggedly —this was the stupidest thing he had done in lifetimes he was sure—, Ozpin started following in the Grimm’s footsteps.

     It led him to the tent farthest from the bigtop, nudged open the flap with something like practiced ease, and shouldered its way in. Ozpin lingered outside, suddenly too afraid to go a step further. There was a Grimm in there, but somehow, the realization that his son might be in there was even more terrifying than that. If he stood out here too long, he would be caught, he knew that, and yet…

     “Hey, Sondor,” murmured a voice through the tent fabric and Ozpin’s world crystalized, “Everything alright? You left in a bit of a hurry.�� A deep rumble, inhuman and bass and … oddly content sounding. The voice —a child’s voice, a gentle voice, a voice he’d just heard laughing and waxing dramatic for a show of fake magic and real mysteries— laughed faintly, “Checking on someone then? You know everyone has to stay up late on performance nights.”

     If he held on any tighter to his cane, he thought it might shatter, but the feel of it grounded him like it always had, and with the last bit of courage he possessed in this lifetime, he pushed the tent flap open and slipped inside as the voice —his son— finished saying, “We’ll be sure to take long naps in the morning.”

     Ozpin was here. He was standing in the same space as his child, without a crowd to be wary of or a performance to keep them apart. He was standing in some kind of makeshift workshop, with a cot on the floor on the far side and the vast majority of space taken up by a battered, foldable metal table that seemed to be a desk and all the tools of a magician’s trade. Cards and wands and hats, gloves and fanciful outfits and a hundred thousand other things that didn’t matter, because amid all the mess, with his back mostly to the entrance and a massive Grimm lying contentedly next to his feet, was the Ringmaster.

     His child.

     The Grimm raised its head again to stare at him, a low noise he’d never heard the monsters make before rumbling from its chest, and the boy tilted his head toward the tent entrance absently, still not looking away from the Dust gem he was setting in his elaborate cane, “Hey Neo, you’re back early. I thought you were still scoping … out…” he finished setting the Dust in his cane, looked up and saw Ozpin standing there. Neither of them moved. Green-gold eyes in a young face —he looked ten had Qrow really been correct on estimating his age closer to twelve or thirteen?— went wide, and the magic passively swirling through the tent shrunk in on itself until he couldn’t feel it.

     It occurred belatedly to Ozpin that while he had essentially been stalking his son for the last few years in an attempt to meet him and make sure he was okay, the boy wouldn’t know him at all. Or worse, had only heard of him from people who hated him —from Salem herself even—. And now Ozpin had just shown up in the boy’s living space without warning or invitation.

     Terror and nerves tangled up all the words he wanted to say, all the ones he’d longed to say, and instead he found himself folding both of his shaking hands on the pommel of his cane and bleating out the first, most habitual line currently living in his brain, “Hello, I’m Professor Ozpin-.”

     A shout, loud and gutted, and all his words died in his throat again as the boy threw himself off his little camp chair and at Ozpin. Long Memory clattered to the ground unnoticed as Ozpin instinctively raised his hands to wrap around the little body that collided with his waist, slender arms tightening like a vise around him and Ozpin couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe-.

     Had he really said-?

     A hiccuping sob from the child in his arms, a fully body thing that shook him from his tousled black hair to his shoes while that word spun endlessly in Ozpin’s mind, haunting him and confusing him because he couldn’t have heard that right. He couldn’t have heard…

     “Dad.”

     The word echoed between them again, muffled by a young face buried in his suit jacket, and Ozpin felt his own breath start to stammer as he clung tighter to the boy in his arms, sinking down to his knees despite the screaming in his leg and burying his face in flyaway black hair, “I’m here.” He choked out, “I’m right here. I’ve got you. You’re alright. I’m right … I’m right here.”

     Magic pressed against his skin, burrowed into his soul, needy and desperate and fearful in a way his daughters’ had never been until the very end —until the moment his shield broke and he could no longer protect them—. It begged him and Ozpin forgot about everything else, forgot every other concern or person in the world as he let his own magic unspool and twine with the younger, needy magic begging him for comfort. Behind his closed eyelids he could see it, the colors spinning and twisting in the space between their souls. His ever-dwindling green wrapping around a younger, deeper, stronger wellspring of emerald laced with snapping red, whispering black and dancing flickers of purple, gold, blue, and white.

     The younger magic coiled tightly in his, desperate and pained, crying in relief and fear just as loudly as the sobs that shook his son’s body. It was open to him, painfully open and raw, trusting despite how this boy had every reason to fear another’s magic. In the breath between crying and comforting and accepting, Ozpin’s magic brushed up against what could only be called a crack in his child’s soul. A jagged old wound that had never properly healed. Glass sharp and weeping and-.

     Pain-pain-pain-fear-fear-please-pleasedon’tleavedon’tleaveme-.

     Magic, green and old, bodiless and desperate and half-mad with agony sinking inside and locking in place in a message that screamed all the way down to bone marrow and soul fiber.

    Mine-my-child-I-love-you-I-loveyoumychildmy-

     “Oscar.” Ozpin choked out, struggling to shake off the remnants of memory hidden in soul shards and old wounds. Realization reeled, pulled at the fabric of reality beneath his feet. “Oscar,” he repeated, rolling the name of his son over his tongue and wondering at the sensation of right, of familiarity even though he had never met this child before. He had, of course, known his name. The boy made a little joke of it at the beginning of all his performances, but now the name had weight. Had an echo of knowledge to it that he couldn’t quite grasp.

     Even though, somehow, his son knew him. And perhaps that should terrify him. Because his son was a child still, yet somewhere in the spaces between incarnations, or in the moments between life and death and dreams, his child remembered him and clung to a message of love even though it had been tangled up in so much pain.

     “I tried,” Oscar sobbed into his chest, “I tried, I’m- I’m so sorry-.”

     Ozpin hushed him, ran shaking fingers through his son’s hair and ignored the way his glasses had completely blurred over from the tears they caught, “I know. It’s alright. You’re alright. You’re alive, Oscar.” He guided his son’s face to his scarf and pressed his cheek against the top of Oscar’s head, “You’re alive. That’s all that matters to me.” He inhaled raggedly and set aside the spinning theories trying to take root, the odd mix of age-youth-age and time-turned-back in Oscar’s magic that made him wonder. He had long assumed that Oscar’s aging was … strange, a byproduct of being the child of two immortals. Yet feeling Oscar’s magic, the soft echo of bells and clockwork gears hidden inside it, he couldn’t help but remember that gravity and its magic was an aspect of space and space was a partner of time. There had been spells that toyed with time long ago that left impressions on the souls that used them, though never on such a large scale as what Ozpin was contemplating.

     But if anyone could reinvent a way to turn back the hands of the world’s clock, it would be the child of Ozma and Salem, surely —had his son known a previous incarnation, or had his son met Ozpin himself in the future, had he lived a prisoner of Salem until he was a teen or even an adult, only meeting his father to see him die in agony at his mother’s hands, had a single dying message of love amid a lifetime of darkness truly been enough to make him fight time itself to make things right—.

     But that didn’t matter right now.

     He was here. Oscar was here. They were both alive and safe and his little boy was tucked trustingly in his arms, and that was what mattered right now. It mattered more than anything else in the world.

     “I love you, Oscar,” he whispered into his son’s hair as he rocked them back and forth, uncaring of his jacket and scarf becoming soaked with tears, or the way Oscar’s magic coiled around his soul so tightly it was almost burning, “I love you. I’m here.”

     “I missed you,” Oscar choked out between sobs, another piece to Ozpin’s puzzle set aside for later times, “I love y-you t-too.” A hiccup, loud and ugly, a shiver in Ozpin’s arms, “Don’t go.”

     “I won’t,” Ozpin promised, hand cradling the back of Oscar’s head, trying to shield him from the nightmares he could sense lurking within, “I won’t go. I’m right here.” He exhaled wetly, “I’m right here.”

[newcaptainofsquad9]

I Can’t Handle You Being Back~Chou Tzuyu x black! fem! reader {1}

Pairing: Tzuyu x reader

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 

Summary: Five years after your elimination from Sixteen, you remained in the United States, working on music, writing songs, dancing here, and there. All of the memories and incidents from the reality show still burns in your memory, you all but let them go until you get a familiar call from the man who sought out your talents in the first place, Jinyoung Park. The man had an offer you should have refused, but you longed to see your friends again.

  Genre: Angst, Idol-Verse, Romance, Slow Burn (not too slow), Hurt and Comfort, Best Friends to Lovers

Warnings: The reader is a Black woman and there will be parts when she has to deal with racist and close minded people(aka fans, netizens and others). If ya’ll read my Yoongi story, or unfinished Suho story, it’ll be a little bit like that.

  Word Count: 1, 831

Writer’s Note: More Twice fics are coming! Along with a masterlist of all my K-pop fanfictions! It’ll take a minute but it will be here and pinned on my blog so you guys can access it. Also! I want to point out that this is fictional and fictional depictions of idols and figures, just wanted to put that disclaimer. Here is another fic that will take me forever to finish like my others but regardless of that, I hope ya’ll enjoy!

I never thought I’d set foot in South Korea again, let alone JYPE’s building. The long, stress-inducing ride up the elevator didn’t ease me as I inhaled and exhaled through it. 

“You didn’t have to take this meeting,” Brittany, my assistant said. “We can just site see here in Korea, you need the break anyway.” 

I caught Brittany’s smile as she moved to put a hand on my shoulder. 

“I know being back here, it’s got to be tough,” she said. 

I nodded, yet she doesn’t know the half of it. Being a military kid had some perks: at childhood I couldn’t stop dancing, and at seventeen, people other than my parents began to notice. Those people being K-Pop scouts. They didn’t only come from JYPE, but other companies as well, although the smaller ones didn’t grant the biggest opportunity. 

JYPE was fond of my dance moves, and the man himself, Jinyoung Park promised a shimmering future. Most of the promises fell short: I didn’t get to train for very long (only a few months) before I was thrust upon the spotlight and cameras in the survival show, Sixteen. I wanted to be a star; JYP wanted a laughing stock, a black woman for views and to show his trainees how to accomplish, “ethnic hip.” I tried my best to be as creative as possible, to last with the competition, but it didn’t please JYP. Nothing I did could please him, I wasn’t the standard. I didn’t even come close. So I left, I played a game that many foreigners couldn’t win, let alone a Black woman. 

The elevator dinged as it opened, breaking me out of my mind. 

“We can turn around right now,” Brittany said. “Your call.”

I shook my head. 

“No, let’s just here what he has to say,” I said. “He did pay for our flight and all.” 

“Yeah, but that will never take back what he and that staff put you through,” she said. 

I smile as Brittany put a hand on my shoulder. Her worrying along with me solidifies this; my nerves are warranted. 

“I know, but maybe it’s just the old spirit from back then,” I said. “As if I have a chance to prove myself again.”

I don’t have to though. I told myself over and over again that I don’t. Yet, why am I here? What’s so important that couldn’t be discussed further over phone or video call?

“Ms. Y/L/N?”

My head jerked up once we stepped out of the elevator. A woman with a Bob and suit gave us both a grin.

“Mr. Park’s office is this way,” she said, leading us down the hall. 

As we pass, people murmured and stared. My name was even mentioned underneath breaths and gasps; I nod at them and only bow halfway as we pass. 

We stop at a door, the woman opened it for us and stepped aside. 

“Thank you,” I said.

Once inside JYP’s office, the dread returned. Just seeing Jinyoung Park slumped against his chair brought back more of the horrid memories. Brittany took my hand, forcing me to take a breath as Jinyoung rose. 

“Y/N! I’m so glad you could make it!” he said.

He threw his signature grin on, as he held out his hand. I took it. We shook hands before bowing respectfully.  

“You look well,” he said. “I’m glad to finally see you again.”

“Thank you Mr. Park.”

Jinyoung chuckled and gestured to the seat adjacent to his armchair. 

“Please, sit,” he suggested, he turned to Brittany. “You could take my chair if you’d like.”

I successfully didn’t shiver at how nice he was being, yet Brittany couldn’t: she twitched a bit, but hid it well with a quick grin. 

“Thank you,” she said as she plopped down. 

I leaned back, crossed my legs and got down to business. 

“Why’d you fly me out here, Mr. Park?”

Jinyoung chuckled. 

“Well, I’ve been keeping up with your progress as an artist and well, I’m extremely proud of the growth,” he said. 

Brittany and I traded looks of confusion. 

“Thank you,” I said. “You could have led with that over the phone.”

Jinyoung shifted on each leg before hopping up on the edge of his desk to sit. 

“Y/N, I might have made a mistake about you,” he admitted. “You’ve gained quite the following, and shaped into a fine dancer and vocalist.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What is it that you need from me? Did I not show that potential five years ago?”

Jinyoung frowned. 

“Well, yes, but the world wasn’t ready,” he said. “My colleagues weren’t ready, I wasn’t ready.” 

“What are you suggesting?” I said. 

Jinyoung bared his teeth in a mega-watt smile. 

“I’m suggesting a place for you as Twice’s tenth member.”

My heart quickened at his words; Brittany gasped. Did I hear him right? One of the biggest girl groups in Korea--the world bringing on a tenth member? Another member is already controversial enough in the industry(with the likes of Red Velvet getting hate for adding another a year after debut), but an American? A Black woman? The netizens tore me to shreds once, I couldn’t handle that again. 

“What’s the catch?” Brittany asked. “Out of all the contestants eliminated from Sixteen, why Y/N? This is looking rather performative Mr. Park, welcoming back your only black trainee who dealt with so much racism.”

Jinyoung’s eyes softened a bit. 

“I’m still learning from my mistakes,” he said. “You have every right to decline Y/N, but I need someone to ease Twice in towards the west.”

“Why not Somi!” I said. “There’s your westerner, half white! Very digestible to the western world.” 

Jinyoung nodded.

“True, but K-Pop is changing drastically,” he explained. “And I know Twice can hit the west hard, they can adapt to America with someone who knows it. You played against the American entertainment industry and I know you can with the girls.”

“How are you so sure?” I said. 

“You catch onto choreography quick,” he said. “You’ve done almost every Twice cover online, you’ve been Grammy nominated for songs you’ve written it’s a perfect match.” 

“What about stylists?” Brittany asked. “Have you even notified Twice about this offer?”

“I discussed it with their leader, Jihyo and she’s open to it,” he said. “I’m sure she can ease the others into it, I’ve already explained it to them that we’re working towards the west and they understand that.”

My mind spiraled at the thought of Jihyo; she’s come so far, they’ve all worked so hard. Me joining would just throw a wrench in all they’ve accomplished. 

“All of this sounds great in theory,” Brittany said. “But I change like this could make you lose popularity here in Korea, with the Korean public. You’ll lose fans, they’ll drop like flies.”

Jingyoung shrugged. 

“A risk we’ll take,” he said. “Y/N?”

Brittany gave me a sympathetic stare. 

“If I do this, will I get legal protection against hate comments,” I said. “I would be one of your artists officially, you should treat me like one.”

“Of course,” he said. “Will you take these terms, Y/N?”

Brittany shook her head as she gave me a hard look. 

I shouldn’t accept the terms. It’s just like five years ago all over again; I was tricked into becoming a prop of the industry, but somethings different. Jinyoung could go about various ways of doing this, I know I’ll have more benefits this time. 

“I will, if I have a stylist of my choosing,” I said. “And an American manager.” 

“Done,” Jinyoung said. “We can discuss this further, but I want you to meet up with the girls as soon as possible.”

My body shook at the mention of meeting up with Twice. They were my competition at one point, hell many of them I thought hated me. All except one,  Chou Tzuyu. She and some of the maknaes and I were close due to age, but Tzuyu opened up to me the most. She’s been through so much, they all have. 

“Is there any way I can practice and get to know them again,” I said. “Before we start promoting?”

“That was the plan,” Jinyoung said. “You’d be new to the public and fans, but not to Twice. Like working with an old friend.”

Yeah, an old friend who’s forgotten about you and moved on with their life. This would benefit Twice and I, but is it worth the risk to see them again. To see Tzuyu again.

 *     *      *  

“You’re sure this is the right move?” Brittany asked while our black car rolled down the street. 

Right after the meeting with JYP, he insisted I settle into the dorms and meet up with Twice before training. Brittany and I are now in the back of a car with my new manager, Miyoung

“I’m sure.”

Brittany nudged me. 

“You don’t owe him anything. Why are you doing this?” 

I leaned against my side of the car, letting the rapid speed of each car flash and rip by while my eyes slip close. The memories from five years ago swarmed me: Tzuyu and I practicing from night to morning with sweat clinging to us like newborns; the constant words we’d trade about debuting together and visiting each others countries. Tzuyu’s distraught during my elimination, begging me to stay in Korea for her. Maybe I’m doing this to help her and be there for her, if she accepts me. I can’t admit that to Brittany though, relationships that form during adolescent years don’t really last anyway. At least from what I’ve seen. 

The car came to a halt; we’ve arrived at the dorms. 

I sat up, but sunk back down in my seat as I spot all of Twice standing outside, waiting with their managers. 

“We’re ready when you are Y/N,” Miyoung said. 

She and the driver already stepped out the car with expectant looks at me. 

Brittany took my hand and rubbed my knuckle as I composed myself with a few deep breaths. The moment I stepped out, all of Twice cheered and hurried toward me. Sana was first of course, embracing me so tight that I couldn’t breathe.

“Y/N!” she squealed. 

Nayeon hugged me next, then Jihyo, Chaeyoung, Momo, and Dahyun.

“Finally my fellow ‘98 liner is back,” Dahyun teased, making me chuckle as she lightened my mood.

Joengyeon embraced me a bit too tight as well, pulling back with a tiny grin. 

“You look healthy, that’s great,” she said. 

I nodded and glanced over at Tzuyu, who kept her distance. Our eyes met, yet she didn’t smile or come over for a hug like her fellow members. She only perked her lips and waved. I wanted to scream; I felt like crying but I managed to hold the tears back again. 

Mina must have noticed as she wrapped an arm around my shoulder. 

“Are you OK?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” I lied. “It’s great to see you guys again.” 

[piceuscelus]

oops have some more fucktoy ciri verse, this time with branding! sooo the usual noncon, body mod via hot iron branding, mind control, sex slavery, underage, daddy kink, any of the usual warnings on the verse i’ve forgotten,

also on ao3!

It’s Lambert who suggests it, one day while Vesemir is fiddling with the old brands still sitting in the armory, from the days when Kaer Morhen had herds of cattle and other livestock. 

“We should mark her,” he says. “Permanently.”

“With what?” Eskel asks, before he looks over to Vesemir. “Those?”

Lambert nods, then shrugs. “Or others, we have what we need to make more, don’t we?”

Eskel hums. “What do you think, Geralt?”

He hums right back, thinking for a moment. Ciri is in the dining room currently, entertaining Coën; he can just hear the sounds of skin slapping skin and Ciri whimpering desperately, half-pained. He thinks about all that smooth, blemish-free skin they all love to bruise and mark, and the idea of something permanent….

“Yes,” he nods. “Yeah, we should.”

– – – – – 

They decide to use one of the old Kaer Morhen brands, specifically the one they used on the bitches marked for breeding, but also make some new ones, too. The process of making the new brands takes about two weeks, and meanwhile they get all of the use out of Ciri they possibly can.

Sure, her pain isn’t of much concern, but they don’t want to deal with any of the brands getting infected.

The night before they plan to brand her, they put her up on the bench after dinner. She’s eager for it, even without any of the usual potions, squirming against the bonds as she’s tied and begging prettily to be used.

“We’ll use you, little slut, be patient,” Lambert snaps when she asks for him specifically, and Coën follows the words up with a harsh slap to Ciri’s backside, leaving a livid red handprint. Tears spring to her eyes but she doesn’t beg any further, just makes a weak, wanting little noise, still squirming against her ties. 

“Be good, Ciri,” Geralt orders, and she makes another meek little noise.

“I will, Daddy, I’ll be good, sorry,” she says softly, and he reaches over to pet over her hair in approval.

Lambert finishes up with getting her strapped to the bench, and his hand joins Geralt’s in her hair, but he grips harshly and pulls, making the tears spill over. “Needy little brat,” he hisses. “Beg me to fuck your throat.”

“Please fuck my throat, sir,” Ciri gasps immediately, still with tears streaking down her face as Lambert doesn’t relent on the grip in her hair. Geralt – and the others – settle back into their seats to watch. “Please, want your cock so badly, please give it to me – I’ll be good, please fuck my throat, sir, please?”

Lambert huffs. “Not half bad,” he says, about as close to praising Ciri as he ever gets, and finally lets go of her hair. She doesn’t drop her head, though, just opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out, practically a welcome mat, and that makes Lambert laugh. 

“Nasty little whore, you really are desperate for it, already drooling.” He pulls his cock out of his breeches and rubs the head of it over her tongue, laughing again when she makes a needy noise and tries to surge forward to suck at him. It’s futile, with the straps keeping her immobile on the bench, but it’s fun to watch her struggle, and Lambert lets her try for several minutes, just teasing her with rubbing his cockhead over her tongue, her lips.

Eventually, though, he gets bored with that and steps forward, rolling his hips so his cock pops right into Ciri’s throat. She chokes and gags violently, the bench rattling with how hard she convulses; Lambert just groans.

“Gods, yeah, just like that, keep your throat nice and tight,” he mutters, rocking his hips.

It doesn’t take long for Ciri to turn red, and then near purple, and only when her head starts to wobble does Lambert pull back enough to let her breathe properly.

“Thank you, sir,” she chokes out around heaving gasps, “please, please want your cock again, thank you, please fuck my throat – ”

Lambert just grunts and fucks back into her mouth. At this point, Geralt has pulled his cock out of his breeches to stroke, and so has Eskel. After a bit longer of listening to her gag and convulse, though, apparently Coën is tired of waiting; he steps up, breeches already gone, and sets to fucking his cock into her ass. He never preps her, not after that first time, just uses a ton of lube – according to him, it’s the only way she’s tight enough to enjoy. Ciri sobs when he says it, but begs for him to fuck her sore every time.

Ciri screams, at least the best she can around Lambert’s cock in her throat; Coën and Lambert just laugh and keep moving. Geralt has to swallow back a flood of drool at the thought of how sore and used she’ll be tomorrow, how loud she’ll scream and cry when they brand her – how pretty she’ll sound when he makes her come with each brand.

They spend the rest of the night fucking her, until all of her holes are gaping and she’s cross-eyed, nearly unconscious from the amount of times she’s been fucked straight through several orgasms in a row. She’s still drooling and mumbling thanks and pleas when they plug her up to keep their cum inside and put her to bed.

– – – – –

The next morning, Vesemir is the one to get her out of bed and take her down to the dungeons. She goes obediently and without question, as usual, and Geralt tries to ignore the way his cock throbs at the wide-eyed, trusting look she gives all of them when they crowd into the room with her.

“Arms up,” he orders, and she puts her arms up immediately, looking up at him when he comes near. He can’t resist kissing her, petting a hand down her front to feel the way her belly is still bulging from their cum and the plugs. She hisses, tears welling up at the shifting, but just bites her lip and looks at him, arms still held in the air.

“Good girl,” he praises, and she beams. He steps aside to grab the chains that Vesemir already set up, and pulls her wrists up a little further to lock them into the manacles. It leaves her balanced on her tiptoes, wobbling a little, and he swats at her ass just to see her flail and hear her squeak.

Eskel gets her feet chained, leaving her entirely suspended with her legs spread. She looks a little afraid, at that point, but when Geralt pets over her hair and whispers, “Be a good girl,” in her ear, she nods.

“I will, Daddy,” she says, and then, when Lambert snorts, “I will, sir, I’ll be good.”

“Mhm,” Lambert nods, intentionally doubting. Geralt chuckles when Ciri huffs, but when she opens her mouth to protest he stops her with a mean pinch and twist to her nipples.

She cries out and thrashes for a split second before settling when he lets go. “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll be good, I’m sorry.”

Eskel steps up to her front, so she’s essentially pinned between he and Geralt, and puts a hand over her cunt, making her gasp. 

“You’ll get a reward if you are,” he promises, and from the way Ciri shudders and her head lolls, he presses at the pugs keeping her stuffed.

“Yes, sir, thank you sir, please, I’ll be good.”

The two of them step away, Geralt with one last nipping kiss to Ciri’s throat and Eskel with a mean flick to her already-swollen clit, and Vesemir lights the fire in the makeshift oven he built in the corner. He goes first, once the original breeding bitch iron is hot, stepping in front of Ciri and, ignoring her frightened squeaking, carefully pressing the metal just above her cunt, right over her womb.

She screeches, shrill and piercing, and Eskel is quick with Axii. 

“Come.”

She screams again, pleasure this time as she gushes all over the floor. “Th-thank you,” she stammers when she’s done and Vesemir has pulled the brand away, leaving an angry red burn that clearly marks her as one of Kaer Morhen’s breeding bitches.

Geralt spares a momentary thought to getting some hunting dogs again, just so they can let the mutts knot Ciri, but pushes it aside for later. 

Coën and Lambert go next, both at the same time, marking her inner thighs on each side. Her entire body jerks and convulses with the pain, but Eskel’s Axii is strong, and when he orders her to come again, she does with a reedy whine, panting like some kind of overtaxed animal. 

Since Eskel is maintaining the Axii, Geralt goes after Coën and Lambert. His brand is the biggest of them, though none of them are particularly large.

“Look at me, Ciri,” he orders, and she does, eyes hazy but on him, mouth open and spilling drool and a little blood where she must have bitten her cheek or tongue. “You’re mine, aren’t you? And ours.”

“Yes, yes,” she slurs, nodding. “Yours, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” 

He presses his brand right below her throat, on her collar and just slightly between her perky tits. Her voice gives out on the scream she gives at the pain of it, but she’s whispering a hoarse, “Thank you,” before Eskel even makes her come.

When the Axii drops, she sobs, thrashing in the chains, but Geralt puts her under again quickly, making soothing noises.

“You feel so good, don’t you, Ciri?” he asks. “Everything feels so good.”

He watches as his will overtakes her own, her face falling slack, and his cock throbs. He’ll have to take care of himself until all their brands are healed, but that’s fine. She sleeps in his room; he’ll be able to look at her, and see the brands when he changes her bandages, and hear her sweet, hurt little noises. It’ll be plenty of fodder for him to jerk off to – and besides, he can feed her his cum off of his fingers without risking her healing.

Eskel is last, and he circles around to her back, placing his brand just above her ass. Thanks to Geralt’s control, she comes without even being ordered, feeling even intense pain as pleasure now, and he’s not the only one who groans desperately about it.

“Good girl,” he praises, carefully holding her up as Lambert and Vesemir unshackle her. “Such a perfect little toy, Ciri, and all ours.”

“Y-yours,” she slurs, voice shattered, and passes out.

also in the work on ao3!

[yanara126-writing]

The Adventures of Hildraed Dawnsbane -  Fucking Morals and Damnit Fine (5/?)

Farmer, Pirate, Menace, Captain, Dawnsbane. Hildraed has many titles, she really could have lived well without Watcher.

-

Hildraed meets a certain chanter and is faced with the uncomfortable revelation that she might be making friends.

-

Read here or on Ao3. (3224 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

The keep was… something. Something for sure. Even from a distance they could see the broken, rotting walls. How fitting. Certainly reflective of her mental state.

Mud stuck on her boots as she dragged them over the moist ground, not bothering to lift her feet. She could practically feel the elf boy’s disapproving glare. Well too bad for him, if she had suffer she’d at least look like it too, so nobody got any dumb expectations. Thankfully that message seemed to come across to her companions, because no one bothered her until they finally reached the outer walls.

Well, technically none of them bothered her then either, instead it was someone else, an island aumaua happily humming at a crumbling wall. Alright then. Sure there weren’t all that many fortresses in the Deadfire, but still this decaying pile of stones could hardly be that interesting.

“Fascinating brick wall, I’m sure.” Some distant part of her brain told her it probably wasn’t her greatest idea ever to immediately antagonize every random stranger just minding their own business, but she really, really didn’t give a shit right now. She winced at another painful pulse shooting through her head.

Fortunately the stranger didn’t seem to mind either way.

“Oh, it is! Or the wall itself maybe not, it is a very traditional build. But here look! An inscription! The builders most likely, signing their work. Isn’t it fascinating?” The aumaua was smiling at her now, his terrible sincerity completely frying Hildraed’s brain. That and the Rauataian accent. That was a bit unexpected.

Once again the stranger didn’t seem to mind her undoubtedly rude, mindless stare, for he didn’t even wait for an answer before continuing his excited babble.

“But the truly interesting part is in there." He points a piece of charcoal in his hand at the gates. "...and I haven't had much luck in reaching the keep itself. I hoped to find the master of this place - a man by the name of Maerwald - but it seems that he either holds his privacy most dear or else has been devoured by his houseguests.” Somehow, not even his with sharp teeth infested grin he seemed threatening. How could a humanoid shark look so cuddly? Oh wait, he probably expected an answer.

„Mjam. Old man, delicious.“ Oh well, not the worst thing she’d ever said. That opinion quickly changed when the stranger’s loud, bellowing laugh nearly made her go cross-eyed from the headache.

“For some fellows I’m sure! But personally I’d prefer a talk over making a meal of him. You see, I’ve travelled far and wide over Eora in search of the Tanvii ora Toha. You know it?” Unfortunately. Though she hadn’t encountered a ton of Rauataians (or at least not many willing to have a talk), there had been a few. And they tended to talk when drunk. Often unbidden and at length.

Okay that was a lie, Hildraed had always sucked up knowledge like a sponge, so of course she had interrogated everyone in reach for anything interesting or useable. Not that this guy needed to know that. Why had they been talking about that again? Oh yes. Wait what?

“Sure, sure. But why should it be here?” Still undeterred his grin grew even wider.

“Now that is the question isn’t it? I have no idea! But still the traces are leading me here. Unfortunately I haven’t had much luck breaching the defences, however unintentional they are.” For the first time during their conversation something other than rampant enthusiasm appeared on his face. If she hadn’t known better Hildraed might have called it sly. Oh who was she kidding, she didn’t know any better. “There must be some reason you’re here, is there not? I’m certain together we’ll have better chances to reach the fort than alone!” His eyes wandered over to the side. Oh yes, she wasn’t travelling alone. If she was forgetting this already the headache was slowly becoming more dangerous than annoying. Still very annoying though. “That is, if your companions don’t mind me joining.”

The elf boy did look miffed, but when did he not? And he didn’t seem inclined to deny the protection another party member would bring, so Hildraed counted him on board. She doubted the farmer would be an issue, but then again what did she know about these people. She turned around to him. And promptly did a double take at his dopey grin.

“’Long as you don’t try to hang me off a tree, I’m square.” Hildraed blinked. Perhaps it wasn’t actually her, perhaps people just talked to this man like that. And from the way he STILL grinned that was probably not farfetched.

“That I believe is a promise I can make. I don’t even think any of the trees left here would be able to hold you.” Yep, that settled it. Everyone else here was just as insane as her. How comforting. “Now to official introductions, my name is Kana. Kana Rua. At your service.” What followed was hat flourish that made Hildraed actually home sick. How come everyone had an awesome hat except her?

Introductions were quickly done away with (or so Hildraed thought, at this point she couldn’t be sure of anything), and they set off for the keep. The sooner they were inside the better.

Unfortunately the mentioned house guests apparently disagreed with that sentiment. As soon as they set foot into the courtyard they were set upon by multiple shades, followed by some phantoms, all of them very angry.

And at this point Hildraed was too. Her head was hurting like a bitch, nothing made sense in this damn place, and even the fucking wildlife wanted to skin her. She was tired. Oh so tired. But she was also absolutely livid.

The shades swarmed them, phantoms following up close and the banter died down. Swords slashed against strange, mist like flesh in an uncomfortably screeching noise, spells were muttered and let loose in stabbingly bright flashes of colours.

And Hildraed screamed. As soon as the creatures were within range she let loose howl so disharmonic it could barely be counted as a chant. The spirits, hanging dark and heavy in the air, almost seemed to screech along with her as they were pushed back, but they had no chance to compete with Hildraed’s pure rage. There was no one around anymore, just her and (soon to be) dead bastards.

Feet on moist earth, cool air of the evening brushing almost gently across her cheek, thuds in her ears, red in her eyes, heavy breath from her throat. Gravity pulling at her she fell into every swing, using momentum to rip her broadsword back up. A deadly dance accompanied by her furious chants. One she had danced and sung many, many times. One she had not actually wanted to dance and sing again.

And that cost her. She was tired, angry, frustrated. And also no longer used to solid ground as her dance floor. She stepped forward, swinging her sword upwards in anticipation of a wave that didn’t come. The sword went wide. The weight pulled her along, eyes wide as her balance tipped. Her breathed hitched, a second to long for the chorus, and her next verse slipped out of her grasp. The familiar sensation of an ended chant was just as horrifying as her fall. A lost chant was a lost life in battle, be it hers or her crew, most likely both.

Her back hit the ground with a heavy thump, her sword clanking right next to her, ripped aside with a well-trained reflex to not impale her. Not that it would do her much good anymore.

One more clank, this time from above her. A back to her, broad, and blond hair on the head above it. What?

Suddenly her head burned hot for a second, and the world was back in sharp focus. The farmer in front of her fending off the phantom she’d attempted to decapitate, from behind her a chant. Her chant. Well not anymore, now with a halfway clear head again she could feel that chant had not dissolved when she’d lost hold of it, instead someone else had picked it up and continued it. Somebody who sounded like they had shark teeth.

The light of a Minoletta spell stabbed her eyes for once she was glad for the headache it caused (strangely reduced now from before), as it finally triggered her fighting instincts again. She rolled over, carefully avoiding the sword (and getting grass stains all over herself for it) and dragged herself back up.

She allowed herself one glance backwards, which told her that indeed the newcomer was a chanter, and not a bad one at that, and also that she should most certainly remain on the front line with the farmer. The elf boy looked both determinedly terrified and very squishy, and though the sharkman could probably take a hit, there was no need to risk the chant breaking again.

Ripping her eyes away from the first chanter she’d seen in a long, long time, she heaved her sword back up and fell into a defensive position between their main fighter and the squishy wizard. Not a position she was used to, but she would manage.

The fight didn’t continue for much longer, as her companions had made short work of the spirits while she’d been in a bloodthirsty (smokethirsty? Aetherthirsty? Maybe ask the wizard later) rage. Few hits managed to get through to her, and though she would have been hard pressed to admit it, it was probably for the best. The voice from behind her was deeply distracting. He wasn’t singing her phrases anymore. Neither did he sound much like her. But she- she liked it. It was nice. Unfamiliar.

The last shadow disintegrated and a loud collective sigh moved through the group. The wizard was obviously very desperately trying not to hug his grimoire for comfort, the fighter was drenched in sweat like he’d been dropped into the sea, and the- the chanter’s hat was close to falling off, much like his by now wavering grin.

And they’d made it barely through the courtyard.

Fuck.

Hildraed was very tempted to just let herself fall into the giant, overgrown flowerbed next to them and wait for the ground to just swallow her. But then again, she’d lead a crew for too long to give in to that impulse. The close house it was then. The keep itself would definitely be infested, but perhaps, hopefully, the house had been spared this fate. They’d see. At the very least it couldn’t be too many in the enclosed space, and Hildraed really, really didn’t want to camp again. Or at least she didn’t want to camp outside in the cold anymore.

“Ladies, we’re trying our luck in the house.” Despite her desperate need to fall over again, she waited for the others to shuffle past her, in the elf’s case with a badly suppressed glower at her word choice. Which was indeed very funny and Hildraed could feel her lips twitch upwards. And though in other situations she would have relished in the mirth, perhaps right now wasn’t time for this. Sadly.

Thankfully, no one had any other objections (in fact she was almost sure the singing shark had found it funny.) and they made their way over to the house with only their general grumpiness as an obstacle.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The inside of the house was hardly comfortable, but Hildraed had slept in worse places. She certainly didn’t want to stay in this shithole, but it was acceptable for a night, if it would keep her out of the wind.

That was what she kept telling herself, continuously plucking out gravel from her ass and back, as she had made the grave mistake of attempting to lie down. Or more accurately, she had flopped down and immediately cursed herself. Loudly.

That in turn had made the elf into a blushing, stammering mess, and he’d fled into a corner digging his nose into a book. Which he had from… somewhere. Hildraed wasn’t quite sure where, but she wasn’t about to ask. Mostly because she was curious how long it would take him to admit that he was sitting on a sharp stone.

“Ow.” She grimaced and winced as she pulled out (probably) the last pebble. She hoped these weren’t like sand. Sand you’d find in the weirdest places days later. Much like companions apparently.

One of which had left to check out the stairs up and had yet to return. Strange noises were coming from the direction of hallway, but as none of them were growls or shouts, Hildraed was willing to ignore them. She didn’t know what the lonely farmer was doing in the back that would cause minor rockslides, and frankly she had no intention to find out.

A fire was lit in the middle of the room, next to the broken fountain. The structure might have been beautiful once, but now it was barely more than a heap of rubble. A shame really. Not that Hildraed cared. It wasn’t like the thing reminded her of the old church, the only impressive construction in her old village. It wasn’t like they’d had anything like it there, a small pool in which she’d played with the other children during her childhood. Nope, not at all.

With that thought she slumped down on the ground (carefully making sure to not repeat her mistake), her back to the structure, and poked the fire a bit. It crackled in front of her, warm and bright, while at the same time dousing the room in an ominous shadow, flames dancing on the walls in a constantly changing rhythm.

“Are you alright?” The voice sounded genuinely concerned, which surprised Hildraed more than the sudden words. She looked up through the flames, and her stupidly poetic with exhaustion brain tried to jumpstart another ramble at the sight of the aumaua’s changed skin colour. She was tempted to try and find a stick to beat her head with, but somehow, she didn’t think that would be very helpful. She sighed.

“Are any of us?” Another dumb thought she hadn’t wanted to voice. The crew didn’t need to know her own insecurities. Thankfully, the awkward silence was broken by another one of their companions.

“The stairs up are completely collapsed. Before anything from up there could attack us, it’d break its neck coming down.” Edér stepped out from the side room, rubbing his neck, rubble stuck all over his clothes and his hair. At least he hadn’t broken his neck. With whatever he was doing. Since his clothes only seemed dirty and not actually all that dishevelled though, she felt almost bad for her inner monologue’s implications. Only almost though, because obviously he’d still been dumb enough to crawl around there.

He flopped down next to them, giving Aloth and his book a cursory glance. Only to immediately grimace in regret again. Hildraed snorted.

An awkward silence followed. Hildraed stared into the flames. But really what should she say to these people? She didn’t know them, not really. She was just sitting in these fucking pebbles with them. Right? And why would she want to know them, knowing them brought responsibilities, knowing them would mean having to take care of them. She was done with that life, she didn’t have a crew anymore and didn’t want one. The fact that she had referred to them as such meant nothing. Old habits, nothing more.

“Would you sing with me?” What?

“What?” Hildraed blinked at- at- Kana. His name was Kana.

“Would you sing with me?” Nope, not any clearer, not even with his grin restored. “Your form in the fight was fascinating, and I would be honoured if you were to give me the opportunity of a chant with you.” He was looking at her over the fire with this shining, honest smile, and for a second Hildraed could feel her heart break. Gods be damned he was cute. He was a full grown man with the enthusiasm of a child. No she couldn’t keep looking at this, his excitement might actually melt her.

Unfortunately, for some reason, turning away didn’t help. On her other side sat- Edér. And though he wasn’t quite as high level excitement, he looked terribly derpy with his dusty face and clothes, and also intrigued at the concept of show. Which she was not giving. She wasn’t a fucking circus horse.

And the- Aloth, sitting across the room, doing a horrible job of subtly eyeing them with interest over his book would change nothing about it. Not even his embarrassing blush at having been spotted.

Oh who was she still trying to lie to. She had tried to keep her distance and had failed, now she might as well enjoy what she got out of it.

The self-revelation came and took the last bit of her adrenaline though. If she was going to give them a show, it would at least be an impressive one. She sighed, and for some reason it felt strangely liberating.

“Fine, boy, but not right now. First a nap. I couldn’t hit a note right now if I tried.” Now that was probably a lie, but she still wouldn’t be good. She almost didn’t dare look up, in fear that he had also mastered the sad puppy look, which might just be fatal for her conviction. Regrettably, her eyes drifted over on their own, and though he looked a little disappointed, Kana either couldn’t or didn’t want to utilize the sad puppy dog look. For Hildraed there were reasons to hope for both.

And while she was already looking at him, she couldn’t help but eye him.

“You know, you could bolster your chances for tomorrow by being my pillow for tonight.” He stared at her with surprise, and Hildraed wanted to bite herself. She was mushy enough, no need to make it worse! (And what if she’d made him uncomfortable now?)

The moment passed though, and his grin returned full force. Instead of giving a verbal answer he just opened his arms expectantly. Before he (or she) could come to their senses and realize just how stupidly mushy they were being, she turned to the side, putting her head on his thigh. (Which was exactly as comfortable as it looked.)

This however put her into the uncomfortable position of having to see Edér’s slightly jealous glances, and Aloth’s now more frequent shifting. She rolled her eyes.

“Fine, come here, bear, we don’t want anyone getting pneumonia here. And kid, please just come to the fire at least, there’s no need to skulk. And also pull that stone out of your bum, you’re proving nothing.”

Before she could see their reaction she turned into the other direction, entirely ignoring the shuffling behind and beside her. She didn’t care what they doing. Okay she did, but at least for now that was only her business.

Which is why she definitely didn’t ask: “How about a demonstration if you’re still so fit?”

Which is why she definitely didn’t feel vindicated at the excited answer.

Which is why she certainly didn’t fall asleep to the velvety tunes of a Rauataian hymn.

[shrinkynatural]

(The Witcher) Ficlet: Minigiant!Geralt and the bard who is not sick, no, seriously, Geralt, he’s fine!

Previous parts in the series: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) I will make a proper tag for this soon, I swear.

And a note I made in an ask yesterday and figured I should clarify here, these are all set so far around the first few years that Jaskier and Geralt know each other. That makes Jaskier between 18 and 22 as he is in this piece. They kind of jump around and they aren’t in order.

Anyway, on with the fic!

--

It starts with an annoying case of the sniffles when Jaskier wakes up one morning, the air being particularly damp this time of year and camping out three nights in a row didn’t help. He shakes his hand through his hair to get rid of the dew that collected there, sniffling and coughing a bit to clear the heavy feeling in his nose and throat.

Geralt is across the camp, sitting cross-legged and eating the last of the fruit they’d foraged the day before. He’s paused with a bruised apple halfway to his mouth and he’s watching Jaskier with a surprised and suspicious look, which the bard just waves away.

“Bit of a morning frog, don’t give me that look,” he chides, voice a little hoarse yet. “I’ll be right as rain in an hour or two.”

And he is, being upright and moving will have cleared his head and by midday Jaskier is strumming his lute and singing away as they walk. Geralt puts it out of his mind and is soon distracted by the village they’ve finally arrived at.

He hates the settlements of men, tiny buildings cramped together containing tinier people. People give him a wide berth when he leads Roach between those buildings but children tend to get too close if they aren’t held tight by their parents. Geralt walks slowly, watching his feet and Roach’s hooves. It helps that Jaskier has taken to walking a few paces ahead of him, arms waving and taking up more space than he should.

For all that Jaskier’s talking about a nice hot meal and a nice and comfortable bed he leads the way straight to the noticeboard. He scans it and makes idle commentary even as Geralt walks up behind him and looks for something useful as well. Nothing here.

“Ah well,” Jaskier sighs, leaning back against Geralt without caution or care. “Looks like it’s my turn, doesn’t it? We have enough coin to stay the night and if they’ll let me play I should be able to earn it back and more. I can debut my new song about you and the ghouls! I worked on it all winter, you’re going to love it.”

He does not love it, it’s exaggerated and twisted to just barely teeter on the edge of truth. The crowd does love it, all their attention on the bard as he weaves the story around them. There are gasps and clapping to the chorus and not as much coin as they hoped but it was still a success. There are still wary looks Geralt’s way but at least no one decides to be ‘brave’ and confront him with their opinions.

They meet back in the tavern for breakfast that morning and Geralt can hear that frog in Jaskier’s throat again. He’s drinking a steaming, herbal beverage from a small cup and he obviously isn’t enjoying it from the face he makes every time, but he waves off Geralt’s concerned look.

“Just overworked myself a bit last night, it happens.” He smiles a bit and hides it quickly with another sip. “Looks like I’ll just have to practice more often.”

Geralt gives him a look but the arrival of his breakfast distracts him from anything he might want to say to that. Breakfast is rather quiet with Jaskier focused on his tea and for once Geralt decides to fill the silence.

“How much coin did you get last night?” he asks, because a practical question is the easiest to ask. “We should restock on supplies before we leave, the settlements are rather far apart in this area.”

Jaskier smiles and his voice cracks when he goes to speak. The bard makes an annoyed face and holds up one finger as he takes another drink, then clears his throat. It sounds wet and thick but Geralt supposes that’s just the tea. “I made back what we spent and then some, like I said I would. We can easily pick up supplies before we leave. And maybe some treats as well, we passed the baker’s on the way here and, Geralt, I’m telling you there are things sweeter than bread baking in there.”

“Maybe. It’s still early in the year, we should be saving for emergencies.” Geralt holds his free hand out for the coin purse, not even twitching at the disappointed whine Jaskier lets out. “Stop that, I promised your mother--”

“It’s spring! I’m not going to starve in spring! And I already gave you my allowance, you brute,” Jaskier protests. He still reaches to his side and grabs the decently heavy pouch, handing it over.

He knows how much they still have on them, all the way up to and including the breakfast they’re eating now. Coin is important to Witchers, something he doesn’t think Jaskier’s quite felt the reality of in their months of travel together the last three years. Or maybe he forgets, because to him security is only a letter home away.

They have enough for supplies and Jaskier buys a tin of that tea and Geralt allows him to buy one sweet from the baker’s. He splits it between them despite Geralt’s protests.

Over the next few days Geralt becomes very closely acquainted with the smell of that tea. Jaskier drinks it first thing in the morning, when they stop for lunch, and when they make camp for the night. It seems to help the thickness in his throat in the short-term, but after a couple of hours he’s having to clear his throat often and occasionally even cough.

Before Jaskier had insisted on singing as they walked, but soon he was only strumming his lute and eventually not even that. He would sing when they made camp, but now he was out of breath before he’d get through a couple of verses. Any time Geralt would comment on it the bard would dismiss his worries, saying it was only a little cold. An annoying thing, but not a threatening one.

But then Jaskier started sleeping restlessly. And took longer to wake up even though they had barely finished dinner before he was climbing into his bedroll.

He walked slower.

He didn’t sing or strum his lute.

He didn’t tease Geralt or try to sneak Roach treats.

He didn’t talk at all.

And still Geralt’s concerns were waved away with the less and less reassuring reassurance that it was only a cold and would pass.

He wasn’t stupid; he’d been human once, he’d had a cold…probably? It was difficult to remember. But Geralt has been around a long time and he’s seen people recover from these things and more often drop dead of them as their body drowns them in their sleep.

He doesn’t sleep when they camp for the night, choosing to meditate with the sound of Jaskier’s rattling breathing and weak snores taunting him. By morning he’s made the decision and before Jaskier wakes Geralt packs up most of their camp and makes him his tea. The bard doesn’t stir even when he deliberately makes noise, leaving him to go over and nudge him awake himself.

The cough Jaskier lets out when he goes to speak is awful and he scrambles for his handkerchief, one of many they’ve washed multiple times over the last week. Geralt doesn’t say anything, just passes him the cup and makes him drink. Even swallowing looks painful for Jaskier now and that only supports his decision. While the bard drinks his tea Geralt starts picking up their packs and supplies, only instead of placing them on Roach they go around his shoulders, over his back.

“You’ll ride Roach today,” he says it casually despite the wide-eyed look it gets him. Not once in the three years they’ve known each other has Geralt let Jaskier ride Roach when he wasn’t bleeding or otherwise injured. “There should be a village within a day’s walk and we’ll make it there faster if you ride. We’ll stay there until you’re better.”

He turns away before Jaskier can protest and puts his bedroll across Roach’s back, hoping it’ll help to cushion and steady Jaskier for the day’s ride ahead. He might have to walk alongside him to keep him steady. When Geralt’s done he goes back to put out the fire and collect the cup from Jaskier, tucking it away in one of his bags and rolling up his bedroll next. Jaskier tries to do the job himself but Geralt’s quicker and he’s tying it closed before the bard can make the croaked protest.

“Ger’lt, ‘m ‘ine,” he declares, voice barely more than breath on the wind. “I ‘nt ‘low ‘s dow…n.”

“You have been,” Geralt counters bluntly and doesn’t flinch at the hurt look Jaskier gives him. He does sigh. “Jaskier, you’re sick. You need rest. Warmth. Safety. You’ll get that in the village, not out here. We tried it your way and now it’s my turn.”

He holds out his hand and after a stubborn moment Jaskier takes it so he can help the bard to his feet. They go over to Roach and Geralt can see Jaskier hesitating over just how he’s going to get up onto the massive pack horse. There’s no way he has the strength or the breath for that so Geralt just gets behind Jaskier and settles his hands on the bard’s slender waist, then lifts him up easily so that he can get his leg over Roach and then carefully sets him down.

“Is that comfortable? I have no saddle, but the bedroll should be enough padding.” He steps forward, tugging at the front of the bedroll to straighten it and then looking up at Jaskier. The man’s cheeks are red and Geralt hopes that isn’t an indication of a fever.

“’S ‘ine,” Jaskier breathes, his hands fluttering around before grabbing onto the bedroll with one and Geralt’s shoulder with the other. It startles them both for a moment since they’re rarely so close in height like this. “Bit…un’teady.”

“I’ll walk alongside, just keep your hand on my shoulder,” he instructs him softly, and then he’s gathering up Roach’s lead and they’re off.

Travel does go faster once they figure out the right pace and Geralt rests his free hand on Jaskier’s back to keep the bard from listing away. It’s not comfortable and after a couple of hours when they take a break to get Jaskier some water he gives Geralt the most pathetic look.

“C’n’t…car’y me?” he asks, tiredly stretching his legs out and bending his knees.

It would be easier, but more dangerous along these roads. Geralt would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it, as much as he’s always made a fuss about the bard climbing him like a child scaling a tree. “I need my hands free in case we run across trouble. I can drop the gear, I won’t drop you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows go up and his lower lip wobbles just a bit. “’hat’s so ‘weet.”

“It’s practical,” Geralt corrects with a roll of his eyes. To keep the bard from waxing even more poetic and straining his throat worse he reaches down and lifts him up into his arms so he can take him back to Roach.

Even with the regular stops to give Jaskier rest and drink water or tea they make good time to the village. The bard is a half-asleep, miserable, moaning mess but he does try to temper his dramatics once they start walking past people. Geralt always draws looks wherever he goes so it isn’t difficult to get someone to point him in the direction of the inn. It has a stable attached, thankfully, and he goes there first.

The stable boy stares up at him with wide eyes but he takes Roach’s lead and the coin Geralt passes to him without a fuss. Children are always more fascinated than scared of him. The sight of a massive, terrifying Witcher gathering a grown man into his arms probably helps lessen the intimidating image.

“Is he going to die?” the boy asks, looking from Geralt to Jaskier and back with that typical fascination with the macabre that children have.

He scowls at him, only trying to lessen the severity of it when the boy steps back. “It’s only a cold, he just needs to sleep.”

The stable boy nods, then as Geralt turns away says, “The baker’s mum had a cold last year, only it made her lungs rattle and she drowned for three days.”

This time Geralt doesn’t even attempt to rein in the glare he sends the boys way, darkly satisfied with how he pales and hurries Roach into the stable. He holds a barely mumbling Jaskier closer and strides to the inn. He has to duck through the doorway and as always his presence brings the early dinner crowd to a screeching halt. The innkeep behind the bar looks like he wants to say something, likely turn him out, but his eyes land on the bard in his arms and the confusion causes him to hesitate long enough for Geralt to speak.

“He needs a room. On the ground floor.” He makes sure to leave no room for argument in his tone, and the man just nods and stammers out the price--one that’s pretty fair as well. Geralt shifts Jaskier to one arm and grabs his coin purse, fishing out the correct amount and pushing it across the bar.

He picks up the pouch again and follows the innkeeper through the still staring crowd and down the narrow hallway to the room. Geralt has to hunch over and curl his shoulders in and they still brush either wall. He keeps Jaskier close so he doesn’t knock his head or feet against the walls either and it’s a relief to be shown into the room. It’s narrow as well but a damn blessing compared to the hallway. There’s a pallet against one wall he can set Jaskier on and enough room for Geralt to sit and stretch out his legs on the floor next to him, so that’s what he does.

Jaskier lets out a whiny, pathetic noise as Geralt sets him down and he has to take the bard’s hands and pry them off of him. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are flushed and he really hopes Jaskier hasn’t gotten a fever. He removes his boots and covers him in the bedroll not soaked in horse sweat, and once he’s settled Geralt starts to remove all of their travel gear to find the tea. He’ll have to go ask the innkeeper to let him brew some, and maybe he’ll ask if there’s a healer or someone willing to sell him more in the village.

It’s a slightly unsettling feeling to get up and leave Jaskier in the room, but Geralt tells him where he’s going and promises to be right back. He sighs and pushes again through the too-small hallway into the dining area. Everyone hurriedly turns back to their meals like he wouldn’t notice they were watching his door. He hates villages, he hates being stuck here. He carries the tin of tea up to the bar where the innkeep is waiting, a startled look on his face like he hadn’t expected the witcher to reappear so soon, and sets the tin on the stained plank of wood.

“I need to make this. Do you have soup?” Geralt watches as the man looks at the little tin as though it might up and attack him, then turns that same look on him.

“Ah, yes, yes--well, it’s a stew,” the man corrects himself, then holds up his hands. “But we can thin it if you like! Two bowls?”

Geralt thinks on it and looks into his coin purse, mentally calculating the cost of being here until Jaskier is well enough to travel. It doesn’t help that he isn’t sure how long that will be so it’s best to err on the side of caution. He still has plenty of rations in his pack, better to leave the coin for Jaskier and Roach.

“One bowl. And the tea.” He places the coin down and puts the pouch away. “His throat is sore, taking his voice, and he has a cough that started in the mornings but lasts all day and night now. We’re just here until he’s better.”

It’s meant as a reassurance and it works, the innkeeper and the general feeling of the room relaxing now that they know what’s going on. The man takes the coin and the tin and disappears into the kitchen, leaving Geralt looming at the bar and waiting.

“Are you that White Wolf then?” one of the patrons asks, breaking the silence and making a few people around the room jump. “Geralt of Rivia?”

“Not the name I know him by,” another one murmurs, hurriedly looking down at his bowl when Geralt turns to look at them.

“That lad must be the bard then,” the first continues, clucking his tongue. He’s quite advanced in his years, a sun-wrinkled face and a barely there fluff of white hair around his ears. Too old to put effort into fearing anyone or anything. “Pity he’s sick, I’ve heard a couple of his songs when I go to the nearby town for market. I thought you’d be taller. Maybe when he’s better he’ll give us a performance, eh?”

The absurdity of…all of that makes Geralt huff in what would almost be laughter. “He likes to exaggerate. And he might give a show, if we can stay that long.”

He adds the last like an afterthought, thinking Jaskier would be proud of him for even attempting the lament like the bard so often does. It even works, with the man waving a hand like witchers--especially one specific witcher--don’t get run out of towns and villages on the regular.

“Plenty of work to be done this time of year,” he tells Geralt. “Might not be the big monster slaying you’re used to, but it was a harsh winter. And there are a lot of fences need fixing in the fields and the roof of Henry’s barn sunk in after a heavy snow. Can start as early as tomorrow morning, no sense wasting time.”

Geralt nods, easily not looking as smugly pleased as he feels. “I’m willing to help.”

There are a few murmurs and nods from others in the room and he’s saved from more conversation by the innkeeper coming back out from the kitchen. He’s carrying the tin and a bowl of thinned stew that he sets on the bar.

“Tea’s steeping, I’ll have my wife bring it back to your room when it’s done.” He nods, and it’s as kind a dismissal as Geralt ever gets so he nods back and picks it up before heading back to Jaskier without a word.

He finds the bard much as he left him, eyes closed and lightly snoring. Geralt would like to let him sleep but Jaskier hasn’t eaten much the last couple of days because of his throat, and Geralt’s poor excuse for a rabbit stew will hardly compare to the richness he can smell coming from this bowl. He sets both down on a small table and kneels beside the pallet, rest one hand over Jaskier’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shake.

“Jaskier, wake up.” He tries to keep his voice low and soothing but even he knows it’s quite loud even so. As the bard said once when he was trying to make the witcher sing with him one night, he has a big voice befitting a big body and it’s such a damn waste that he rarely speaks.

The shaking only produces a wheeze from the bard and he tries to roll over on his side away from Geralt, but he’ll be having none of that and easily pulls him back.

“’o ‘way, sleep’ now,” Jaskier mumbles, half-heartedly swatting at Geralt’s hand. He cracks his eyes open to give him a glare that wouldn’t scare a kitten. “Ger’lt.”

“I brought you something to eat, and the tea will be ready soon. You need to sit up,” Geralt explains, hoping the promise of food and tea will tempt the bard into rising. It does, with some help and grabbing the other bedroll to stuff behind his back so he can lean back against it.

He turns to grab the bowl and when he turns back Jaskier’s eyes are slightly more clear. He’s looking around the room in confusion and embarrassment starts to creep into the expression.

“We made it to the village. Yes, I carried you in. Eat the stew before it gets cold and unpleasant and we’ve wasted coin.” There’s a touch of embarrassment in Geralt’s tone as well, rising up when Jaskier turns surprised eyes on him as he speaks. He gets that damned dewy look on his face and Geralt pushes the bowl at him before he can try to speak and hurts his throat more. “Eat, bard.”

Jaskier reaches for the bowl with a wide smile and takes a sip, eyes closing and letting out a rough little sigh. After that he takes the spoon and takes more, sticking mainly to the broth and only occasionally tackling a piece of meat or a vegetable. Satisfied that he won’t drop the bowl Geralt sits back against the wall and pulls over one of their bags, taking out some dried meats and a few edible leaves from their rations.

Geralt eats contentedly, mindful not to get too relaxed in this place in case attitudes turn, and it takes him a moment to realize that Jaskier has stopped eating. He looks over and the bard is giving him that weepy look again, eyes flicking from his stew to Geralt’s rations.

“No,” he states firmly before Jaskier can travel any further down whatever mental rabbit hole he’s thinking himself into. “You will eat all of that and you will rest and get better. We are not so low on coin but I want to be careful so we can stay here as long as we need.”

Jaskier still opens his mouth to protest but Geralt just sits forward, plucks a soft bit of parsnip from the stew and shoves it into the bard’s mouth.

“No talking,” he scolds, ignoring the absolutely indignant look Jaskier is giving him right now. “The people here have heard your songs, they want a performance when you’re better. Would you disappoint them after they’ve helped us? I didn’t even have to struggle for a room or food for you here.”

That gets Jaskier’s attention, first excitement at being recognized and second surprise and delight at their reception of the witcher. He nods and performs the best motions of a bow to Geralt that he can while sitting before going back to his stew.

The bowl is nearly empty when Geralt hears footsteps coming down the hall. They stop in front of their room and there’s a moment’s hesitation before the innkeeper’s wife knocks.

“Come in,” Geralt calls as softly as he can manage, and the door opens to admit an older woman carrying a steaming mug.

“Oh, good! He’s up and eating!” she coos, momentarily distracted from her anxiousness. Jaskier has that effect on people, especially when he makes his eyes big and gives that crooked smile like he’s doing right now. He holds up the nearly empty bowl and nods, making her smile back. “Thank you, I’m glad you like it. Now I’ve got that tea the good witcher asked us to make for you; it’s a good mix, our herbalist has one much the same and others, too. She’s asleep already by this time of day but tomorrow I suggest you get something proper that’ll help clear up that cough of yours.”

She moves to walk into the room but hesitates at Geralt’s outstretched legs that take up nearly all the free space of the room. He hurries to pull them in, clearing a path to the pallet where she hands the tea to Jaskier and takes the bowl in its place. The endearing smile is still on the bard’s face but he can see his lips twitching even as he nods again and mouths a ‘thank you.’

“All right, don’t either of you hesitate to ask for anything while you’re here,” she says, nodding to both of them as she quickly steps back to the door. “We’re looking forward to hearing some good music around here when you’re better. And Master Witcher, Leo said he’ll see you outside the inn at dawn if you were serious about helping with the barn and the fences. Have a good evening!”

She closes the door behind her when she leaves and Jaskier cracks, letting out a laugh that’s nothing more than a harsh rush of air. Geralt stretches his legs back out and just taps the side of the pallet with his foot, not wanting to make him spill any tea. It’s good to see him having the energy to laugh, even if it isn’t the same.

“Drink your tea, Jaskier,” is all he says in response to that bard’s humor. “And get some more rest, I’m going to check on Roach and make sure she’s settled in.”

Instead of listening, Jaskier is quick to put down his tea and make fluttering hands toward his bag on the other side of Geralt. He obliges and passes it over, watching curiously as the bard digs through it and lets out a wheeze that is supposed to be one of triumph? As he pulls out a small pouch and holds it out to Geralt. He takes it and opens in, the sharp, sweet scent of sugar hitting his nose.

“How are Lettenhove’s horses not all fat and toothless with how you spoil them?” he huffs, but he pulls it shut and keeps it in his hand. Jaskier just grins at him and presses a hand to his heart. “Drink. Your. Tea.”

He gets to his feet while Jaskier takes a very deliberate, overacted drink of the tea. Geralt huffs back at him and resists the urge to reach out and give him a little shove like he normally would. He leaves the room, careful to make sure the door is firmly closed behind him, and walks past the now more crowded room to the exit.

As glad as he is to get Jaskier that room Geralt feels a rush of relief once he’s outside. He can stand to his full height and he rolls his shoulders as he walks to the stable. The mouthy stable boy is a good kid, Roach is brushed down and has fresh water and hay in her stall and she has that heavy-lidded look that only comes from a good meal after a long day.

“You did a good job today, girl,” he tells her, reaching out to brush his fingers over her nose. She pushes into the touch and he allows himself a small smile. “I’m proud of you, I know you don’t like carrying a rider but you did what you had to. I promise we won’t let it get into his head that he’ll get to do that all the time.”

He brings up the small pouch of sugar and rolls his eyes as her ears prick forward and she stretches her neck out to get at it. He nudges her head to the side with his free hand and steps back so he can pull it open, tipping a couple of the crumbled cubes into his palm.

“Easy,” he soothes, holding out his hand flat for her to eagerly lip up the treat. “There you go. We’ll be here a few days at least so you’ll get some rest, but we’ll go for a walk around the village tomorrow. You can stretch your legs and I can make sure broken fence posts are the worst thing this place has to offer.”

Geralt spends more time than he means to out there, but he’s only had a year with this Roach so not long at all. She’s proven to be a smart and faithful companion so far and for hopefully many years to come. He pats her again and tells her good night, pausing when she reaches for him and indulging her with more pets. She’s certainly one of the most affectionate Roaches he’s had over the years.

“I’m sleeping with Jaskier tonight, much as I’d rather be out here,” he tells her with a little sigh. The stall right next to her is empty and wide and so damn inviting. “But someone has to keep an eye on him, and I can take a cramped room for a few nights if it means he doesn’t drown in his sleep. He doesn’t deserve that, the little bard’s survived the Path with me for three years now. I can watch over him for a few nights.”

He brushes his fingers through her forelock and bids her good night, then goes back to the inn. The sun has finished setting and the tables are packed with people getting a drink after a hard day of work. They stare when he walks in, of course, but the innkeeper and a couple of men who were here when he arrived just nod to him and no one says anything. Geralt makes it back to their room in peace and feels relieved when he closes the door behind him without incident.

It’s dark in the room, not a problem for the witcher, and Jaskier is safe where he left him on the pallet. The bard is dozing again but he rouses as Geralt walks to his previous spot, this time settling into his familiar meditation pose.

“Ger--” Jaskier starts and has to clear his throat, the hoarse drag of phlegm unsettling in the silence.

“It’s me,” Geralt confirms, not wanting the bard to keep speaking. “Go to sleep.”

But of course he’s stubborn, pushing himself up onto his elbow and staring in his direction. “’eeping ‘here? Ro..ach?”

“Sharing a room costs less coin--don’t argue,” he says firmly the moment he sees Jaskier looking fussy. “It’s not a problem.”

He can see the bard’s face twist into a scowl, likely remembering all the times that it has been a problem. In their time together Geralt has been vocal about how he hates inns; they’re never quiet enough for him to sleep and the rooms are always too small and the people smell irritates his nose.

“Jaskier.” Geralt lets his voice turn soft and Jaskier recognizes what that means. He can see the fight go out of him as he lies back down--with a scratchy huff, because he must be contrary. “Thank you.”

Jaskier flutters a hand at him and settles on his back, shifting to get comfortable. Geralt can tell he’s still fatigued from how quickly he drops off. He knows that sleep is important for the body to heal and he’ll make sure Jaskier gets that while they’re here.

[my-arlington-academia]

Tadaxel fic for Tadashi’s birthday! 👔🤝😳

And I OOP- I did it. Sorry. No actually I’m not, it was a nice change of pace to write this. I think I might do more CharacterXCharacter fics from now on! I was getting a ’lil bit tired of always doing Main10XScholar fics. Don’t get me wrong though, I love Scholar! I just needed to change it up a bit. (And like promised Olivier is in it too whoops.) This fic is almost 3k words long! ...God, what am I doing with my life? Anyways, have a nice read! 💗💖

---------------------------------

Autumn was starting. The days were getting slightly shorter as time went on and the weather colder and colder. Knowing his friends, Tadashi had warned them about one thing.

”Don’t plan a birthday party for me. I don’t have enough time to celebrate it this year.”

Homework and ”student-body-president-duties” were kicking in so the *one* area from which Tadashi decided to take time away from was his birthday. Everyone found that line of reasoning ridiculous. He always had time for others and for work but never for himself. It was almost as if he loved suffering. The worst part of it was that his birthday conveniently fell on a Saturday this year. It was the perfect moment to celebrate it, Ellie especially was jealous of how lucky Tadashi got and yet he still decided to ”CaNcEL” his birthday. Ellie didn’t have that luxury, her birthday was always during the exam period of the year: in June.

Alistair tried his best to dissuade him and get him away from his desk, the place where he spent most of his day. His BIRTHday. Tadashi didn’t budge. Only when the sunset was setting did he finally decide to step back. Time went so quickly and all he did was working on assignments. He had one last thing left for the day: go shopping. Something that he had ever rarely done thus far. It was about time to learn how to, until now Tadashi was always sent ”shopping” with a butler to ”help him” choose. In reality, all Tadashi did was try on the clothes they ordered him to wear. In the end, all he had for his casual wear was white shirts, ties, dark colored pants and mostly brown shoes. Even if he won’t celebrate his birthday with his friends, he still wants to go out and buy something for himself. More precisely: a set of clothes that wasn’t dictated by his father.

Since a while back, Tadashi always felt like there was a disparity between his taste and those of his classmates. His casual clothes didn’t even look all that ”casual.” When he would go out with his friends, he looked like a coworker taking a break with his colleagues. But last week, reality had slapped Tadashi in the face: he can dress how he wants to. Or more accurately, Olivier had slapped him in the face with this revelation. He was having a conversation with him about the fashion department for some reason, then, Olivier took off his cat mask and looked at Tadashi straight in the eyes. He said:

”Tadashi. You’re free now. You can dress however you want to so please do it. I’m begging you.”

Tadashi was confused. This was coming from a guy who wore a black suit all the time instead of the school uniform. Actually, Tadashi was pretty sure that this was the very first time he saw Olivier’s face. He looked ugly but in a really cute way, he was like slightly above average with a sprinkle of misplaced handsomeness here and there. It was as if God didn’t really know what to do with him and used the ”random traits” button. Anyway, Tadashi wondered how he was a senior and yet Olivier, who was supposed to be one year above him, was still coming to school. So instead of answering what he was asked, Tadashi used his remaining braincells to try and get a response to his urgent question.

”How come you’re still here? Did you get held back a year or...?”

Olivier covered his face with the mask again and closed Tadashi’s mouth with the palm of his hand.

”Sssshhhh. Listen. I’ll only tell you this because I blindly believe that you won’t ditch on me but... I’m actually not a student here. I’ve never been. In reality, I’m a programmer in my twenties. My hobby is to pretend to be a teenager in Arlington, Lady A owes a big debt to my family so she can’t do anything about my presence here. All you have to do is to not tell anyone, okay? If the students find out, I’ll be kicked out for sure. But as far as they know I’m just a weird student who’s been held back in my senior year for 2 years in a row. There will come a day when I won’t be able to fool them anymore but for now, please just play along.”

”Okay.”

After that day, Tadashi pondered a lot about what Olivier had told him...

...

......

.........

”You can dress however you want.”

Yes. That was the one truly important thing he had taken away from this conversation. Thank you Olivier for your wisdom. Tadashi had made up his mind: the day of his birthday he’ll go shopping alone. And that’s what he did.

The curfew was in about 2 hours, in normal circumstances, the custodians didn’t have the right to let the students go out so late... however, if Tadashi had learned *one* thing from his family, it was the use of Privileges™. So using his ”I’m the student body president” card, he managed to step out from the school grounds and promised to come back as soon as he could.

He decided to go check out the most basic stores first just for curiosity’s sake, such as: H&N, Sike, Levy’s, Kalvin Clein, Badidas, etc. Until last year, all he would get was tailored suits and other ”professional” bullshit a teenager shouldn’t have to wear. Now he was finally free to go wherever he wanted, and it’s in the middle of those shops that he came across the one person in front of which he didn’t want to look stupid. A black hoodie on and his hair in a ponytail, he was looking straight at Tadashi.

”...What are you doing here?”

Tadashi instinctively switched to his "fake offended" look.

”Um. Shopping? Like you are?”

Axel glanced at the salmon pink shorts Tadashi was holding, not at all convinced by his try-hard witty remark.

”Oh? So uh, were you aware that it’s fall already or are you buying your summer clothes in advance? ’Cause those pink shorts ain’t gonna cut it to keep you warm buddy.”

Tadashi looked down at this random piece of clothing he was holding and hurriedly put it back while averting Axel’s gaze. He had already made a fool of himself from the very start of their encounter. Seeing that he was clearly embarrassed from the mocking comment, Axel dropped the act.

”No but seriously, why are you shopping alone at this hour? It’s your birthday, go have fun with your friends.”

Thinking about it now, from an outsider’s perspective his actions must look pretty dumb. Begging your friends to not celebrate your birthday, working all day then going shopping alone in the evening for some reason? Every single one of his decisions made sense in his mind but not in the eyes of others. In the end, he had worked himself to exhaustion all day, then he went shopping alone at the brink of the night. Understandably, his actions didn’t seem to make any sense.

”I... I wanted to buy some clothes by myself without the help of anyone else.”

Axel’s confused face turned to bewilderment the moment Tadashi uttered those words.

”*What?* Dude, you sound like you’re twelve. Come on, it’s not like it’s your first time choosing your clothes for your... self... Oh boy. Don’t tell me...”

At Axel’s realization, Tadashi looked down in shame hoping that this moment would come to pass as quickly as possible. That’s right, just make fun of me and get over with it. But instead of mockery or a mean joke, Tadashi felt a strong grip on his shoulders.

”Tadashit, listen. Even *I* can’t make fun of this. We have to fix this problem as soon as possible and we’ll definitely celebrate your birthday tomorrow, okay?”

Tadashi’s mind immediately rushed to all of the tasks he had to fulfill tomorrow.

”But-"

”Shush. No buts. I’m gonna help you buy two or three outfits, we’ll start from there. But eventually, you’ll have to replace all of your horrible wardrobe, okay?”

When Axel finally let go of his shoulders, he then grabbed Tadashi’s wrist and started dragging him out of the shop they were in. Tadashi was mildly fighting back, one part of him not wanting to get help from Axel of all people, another part of him curious of what kind of advice Axel could give him.

”H-hey! Where are you taking me?”

”To Never 21, hopefully they’ll have something that suits you Tadashit. Even if you’re planning on changing up your wardrobe, we’ll start with some really basic clothes though. For example, I feel like something simple and dignified would fit you, you get me?”

”Uh... what?”

Simple and dignified? What does that even mean?

Upon entering the shop, Axel finally let go of his wrist and started looking around in search of something ”simple and dignified.” Tadashi hesitantly followed him, not knowing what to do. He felt like a kid again, the kid who would stand next to the butlers and wait for their decision. That is until Axel picked up a light blue shirt and showed it to him.

”So what do you think of that one? It has a cute little logo on the chest pocket or... whatever those are called.”

”...You’re asking for my opinion?”

Tadashi’s face subtly lightened up as he remembered that this situation was not at all the same as before. He was shopping with a friend, not a butler who gets commands from his father.

”Duh. You’re the one who’s gonna wear this, not me. Frankly, I think that it’s still too tame but you don’t want to stray too far away from what you usually wear, right?”

”Hm. Actually. Can you dress me up in different styles? I want to see what fits me and what doesn’t. You seem much more well-versed in fashion than me, I think that I’ll really need your help.... Please?”

Thrown off by Tadashi’s honesty, Axel couldn’t even take a jab at him. In fact, being able to communicate with him without bickering was quite refreshing. Actually, it was about time for them to stop quarreling for every single thing.

"...Alright. Let’s do that. But just so you know, we’ll probably be late for the curfew. Oh. And you owe me.”

Like promised, Axel dressed Tadashi up in a lot of different outfits. Surprisingly, a lot of things fit him. Even the most unlikely styles, like the ”hippie style” weirdly enough. Or rather, ”bohemian” as Neha calls it.

”Huh. I was planning on making fun of you but you know what? You look good.”

Tadashi felt confused because of the unexpected, but genuine compliment he got. So all he could do was smile awkwardly while looking down at the floor again.

”You think? But I’m not a big fan of this... ”style” to be honest. I’d rather take the one I tried a bit earlier, the one with the pink-ish shirt.”

”Fair enough. Let’s buy that one then.”

Axel couldn’t help but notice that Tadashi may or may not secretly really like the color pink. Maybe it was a subconscious choice, but he would always pay attention to pink, yellow, and green colored clothes. Maybe because he never got a chance to wear bright colors before? He would always be in black and deep blues so he most likely yearned for more lively colors. Thinking about it now, it was obvious that his clothes were always dictated by his father’s tastes. Despite the fact that they used to fight a lot, especially last year, Axel felt a big amount of empathy towards Tadashi and quite a bit of respect for being able to stand up to his father after all of those years of getting manipulated.

At the counter, Axel impulsively decided to take out his credit card.

”I’ll pay for that.”

Tadashi looked up from his own wallet, surprised.

”Wait, really??”

”Mh-hm. It’s your birthday today and I didn’t really prepare anything so...”

The cashier folded the clothes, pu them in a bag and handed them to Axel. Axel in turn, handed the bag to Tadashi.

"There you go... Happy birthday, Tadashi.”

Even if he would never admit it, the sincerity in in Axel’s voice made Tadashi feel soft for half a second. His voice didn’t sound annoying when he wasn’t joking around and making stupid comments. Actually, this may have been the first time Tadashi realized that Axel had a pretty voice.

”Uhhh... Th-Thank uh. Thank you.”

What’s going on? Axel’s voice is pretty? No no no. It sounds annoying and condescending, not pretty. Absolutely not!

While Tadashi was having a crisis and fighting back against himself, Axel was already plannig on moving to the next shop. Like earlier, he tried to grab Tadashi’s wrist and drag him to their next destination. However, his aim was bit off as he did not look down before seizing his target. Tadashi was thrown off once again.

”Uh. Axel...? That’s my hand.”

Axel’s gaze finally went down to where he was grabbing. Seeing that it wasn't Tadashi’s sleeve but his hand, he immediately let go.

”Ah. Damn, sorry dude uhh... I didn’t mean to hold your um...”

The poor boys looked down in shame at their mistake, or rather ”aCcidEnTaL hAnD hoLdiNg.” Axel started feeling the same kind of emotional distress Tadashi was fighting against earlier. What’s happening? Why is it so awkward? If something like this happened at school, they would already be in the middle of cursing at eachother.

”Um. Anyway! Just follow me, okay? I shouldn’t even need to drag you in the first place. Let’s go.”

They tried to ignore that incident as best as they could and moved on to the next shop. In the end, they bought more than 3 outfits. Even Axel picked up some things for himself with Tadashi’s help. Everything was going well until they looked at their phones, remembering the thing they had forgotten.

”Ugh. Shit. Dashi, it’s already 5 minutes past our curfew. But you’ll cover for me, right?”

”Dude, of cour- Wait. Did you just call me Dashi?”

Axel’s mind had clocked out entirely. He looked at his right, desperately trying to look unconcerned.

”Uh. No?”

”... Yes.”

”...”

Axel couldn’t ignore Tadashi’s pressuring gaze. His grey eyes were really convincing when needed.

”Okay fine. But it was only because Raquel often calls you that.”

Satisfied of his win, Tadashi started walking on ahead towards the nearest restaurant with a little smirk on his face.

”Uh-huh. Sure, Axel.”

”Hey! Don’t give me that all-knowing look! Or else I’ll go back to calling you Tadashit.”

”Oh please, you’ll do that tomorrow whether I want it or not.”

Tadashi passed the door and sat down next to a window, followed closely by Axel.

”Dude, didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s past our curfew, we’re already late and instead of hurrying back you sit down in a restaurant?”

Waiting for an answer, Axel stood there dumbfounded as Tadashi gently shot a smile at him and placed his wallet on the table, already waiting for the the waiter.

”Sit down, I’m treating you for your help today... Thank you, Axel. Really.”

Axel’s annoyance was short lived. He really couldn’t do anything in front of this guy’s demanding look. Is that how he always gets everyone’s favors? By looking people in the eye and smiling? As much as he hated it, Axel was starting to understand how Tadashi was so convincing: it was his stupid, dumb, frustrating... pretty grey eyes. Screw him and his ”I know what I want and I’ll get it” look. Screw the curfew, the custodians, all the people who always got fooled by this gaze. But most of all, screw himself for getting tricked too. Goddammit.

Axel sat down with a slight blush on his face that he was trying to hide under his hand as he placed his mouth on his palm.

”You’re welcome. But fuck you.”

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Annnnnd done! I think this one was pretty fun! Not only to write but to read too. Please tell me what you think! I miss the funny comments you guys always left tbh 😂 My favorite part was the aCcidEnTaL hAnD hoLdiNg. Thank you for reading 💗💖

[fvckyouimaprophet]

Some Other Town

Summary: The infamous gunslinger Steve Rogers doesn’t usually stay in the same town long enough to put down roots. Not until now that is, and might just have something to do with a bartender named Bucky Barnes. Wild West AU. [read on ao3]

Author’s Note: Shout out to @sirdorkalot for for beta reading this fic, letting me babble about all my ideas for this verse, and always helping me out with the historical details.

Steve tries his best to step into the saloon unnoticed. He’s just about to the bar and certain that he’s made it when someone shouts, just above the sea of voices, “That’s Steve Rogers.”

For a moment, the world stills. People’s gazes hover over him before dropping to their respective tables, quickly averted. Steve frowns and slides down into a stool, his back facing the wall, positioned towards the door. He glances around, memorizing the layout of the room. It’s precautionary, but he’s learned the hard way not to let others get the upper hand just by knowing how to navigate the space better.

His attention moves to the bartender, and he takes him in—brown-haired, well-built, his every step precise. Something about him is unsettling, and it’s enough to make Steve shift in his seat.

“Howdy.” The bartender stops in front of him and looks him up and down, sizing him up before smiling, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “What can I getcha?”

“Pony of whiskey,” Steve says. He pulls his hat off and sets it down on the bar next to him.

“That’s it? Someone like ya walks into my joint, and I’m to expect ya’ll have no more than a pony of whiskey?” The bartender grins, eyes sharp and playful. Before Steve can respond, however, he grabs a bottle and a glass. The bottle hits the bar with a heavy clink, and the man grabs a rag and starts cleaning the glass.

The sound of a chair scraping the floor from across the room distracts Steve momentarily. Two men, both drunk to the point of teetering, glance away as soon as Steve meets their gaze, and he braces himself for any sudden movement.

“Don’t mind them. Dumb as a pile of rocks,” the bartender says, and Steve glances back over at him. “They won’t hurtchya.”

“How do you know?” Steve asks.

“We just don’t get many gunslingers ‘round these parts. Besides, they’re liquored up enough that they wouldn’t make much of a shot.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a gunslinger.”

The man’s eyes drop from the holster on Steve’s chest to the one on his hip. “What does the word matter? I’m no expert, but with a reputation like yers, I’m not sure what else to call you.”

He can tell that the bartender means no ill will, yet he can’t help the flicker of frustration at the oversimplification. “It’s about executing justice. Deadwood isn’t the only place where people’s actions frequently go against the spirit of the law. Besides, I got a strict code I follow.”

“No need to get fuckin’ sanctimonious. Shit.” The bartender pours them both drinks and slides the bottle until it’s to the side, by Steve’s hat, no longer obstructing their line of sight. “Welcome to town, Steve Rogers.” With that, he raises his glass and downs his drink.

Only then does Steve notice that the man has poured him more than he asked for. He smiles and lifts his own. “It’s hardly fair that you know my name, and I’ve yet to learn yours.”

“James, but my friends call me Bucky.”

“Which should I use?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”

- - -

Steve only means to stay in town for a few nights—long enough to rest—but somehow a week passes, and he finds himself dragging his feet.

Even though he keeps a distance, Bucky warms up to him quickly and fills him in on the details of the saloon. His partner, a red-headed woman named Natasha, runs the brothel side of things. She spends the majority of her time in her office upstairs, but on the third night, Steve meets her.

Her eyes are calculating, and when she first grins at Steve, he feels as if she’s baring her teeth. “You try anything with any one of my girls, and we'll see who's a faster shot. I’ve made that promise to at least two dozen men, and—well—as you can see, I’m here, and those sons of bitches are resting somewhere in wooden boxes."

He meets her eyes as he answers. “I’d much rather help you keep your promise than lay a hand on them myself.”

Although she looks appeased, Natasha raises her eyebrows in amusement. “You mistook me for someone who needs your help. Fancy yourself a savior, Rogers?"

“Never said I did.”

“Then we’ll get along fuckin’ fine. I teach my girls how to handle a knife and a pistol, so we don’t need any saviors around here.” With that, she walks away and back up the stairs.

Bucky chuckles as he pours Steve a drink. “Ya’ll warm up to her.” He realizes his words, and for a moment, Bucky’s eyes widen—a small crack in his image. But before Steve can understand what it means, it’s gone, and his expression turns oddly neutral. “If ya stay, of course.”

“We’ll see,” Steve says, and he tries to make sense of the way his stomach clenches.

- - -

A week turns into two, and two turn into a month. With winter coming soon, Steve decides to settle down. There’s no need risking an early storm just to make it to the next town over. When he pays November in full before the first, however, he’s certain that the smile on Bucky’s face is warmer than it’s been before.

They spend the last warm days of autumn before the snowfall exploring the land around town on their horses.

“What’s that?” Steve asks, pointing toward a house in the distance.

“Barton and Wilson—ranchers around these parts. They come into town every now and again. I reckon ya’ve seen ‘em.” With that, he nudges his horse and clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Bucky’s horse turns around. “We should be headin’ back to camp. If I’m not back soon, Nat’ll make a fuss.”

Steve hesitates. He’s spent so long traveling that he’s forgotten to notice the world around him. But here—grass far as the eye can see, alive in the wind—it hits him. He stares, transfixed, and wonders if he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.

“Ya comin’?”

Steve startles and turns, and the breath knocks out of him. Bucky is red, illuminated by the setting sun. In the breeze, his hair billows about him, and for a moment, he looks like something out of the adventure books he read as a kid.

“Steve?”

The tone of concern is enough to jar him out of his trance. Steve swallows, and the knot in his throat goes down with it. “Coming,” he says and makes a move to follow. They ride back in silence, the cold of the coming night settling over them and seeping through their coats.

They dismount outside of the stable, and Bucky hands his horse over to the stable hand. “I’ll be another minute,” he says, and Bucky nods and walks off.

Steve walks his horse into the stables himself. “I take it that you’re staying the winter,” the stable hand says as he fills the horses’ pails with feed.

“There’s not much point in leaving town now, is there?” Outside of the barn, the wind howls. “Besides, it seems winter’s already making an appearance.” He guides his horse into his stall and closes the latch to the gate behind him. No sooner has he stepped back than does he fetch his silver cigarette case from his pocket and light one.

He stands in the stable, sheltered from the whistling wind, and wraps one arm around himself. A feeling he can’t quite place—almost like a tickle—nags at him. Despite his best efforts, it evades him, elusive, and Steve frowns, breathing in and watching the tip burn orange. He lets out the smoke curl out slowly between his lips.

He waits until the cigarette burns to the filter and he tastes ash before stubbing it out under the heel of his foot. With that, he steps back out. The cold punches him in the gut, and he hunches his shoulders forward and braces himself as he walks over to the saloon.

He’s hardly stepped in when he notices an unfamiliar man at the bar. The wide-rimmed, black hat on the bar is sleek and, much like the coat, shows scarcely any signs of wear from the weather. In front of him, Bucky pours a drink.

He can feel himself cross the room—his movements jerky and agitated. When he pulls back the stool, it scrapes loud against the floor, but he doesn’t sit down. The man who looks back at him has sharp, black facial hair and a pointed face. His eyes run once over Steve, and his lips curl up, bemused. “I presume you’re the gunslinger folks been mentioning.”

Steve glances to Bucky, whose careful smile tenses into something more tight-lipped once the stranger’s eyes are no longer on him. He runs a dirty rag over a glass as he nods his head over to two men, crooning by the piano. “Drunk bastards over there,” he says, as if to explain that he had no part in revealing Steve’s identity to the stranger.

“You needn't concern yourself with me. I’m only staying a night or two before heading further West,” the man says and lifts both hands up, palms facing forward.

“Setting out for gold country,” Bucky supplies. Despite his neutral tone, the slight downturn of his lips reveals his scorn, and Steve bites back a chuckle.

“Tony Stark,” the man says, stretching out a hand, and Steve raises his eyebrows, caught off-guard. “I take it you’ve heard of my family.”

“I hail not too far from New York myself.”

“Brooklyn, if I’m not mistaken,” Tony says, and Steve shifts in his seat, readying himself to retrieve his gun from his holster if necessary.

“You’re not mistaken,” Steve says. Behind Tony, Bucky regards him curiously. “Been told my accent’s long gone, though.”

“Then I should admit I wasn’t guessing.” Steve’s hand drops to his side, and Tony quickly continues. “I was traveling by train with my partner when I heard word that Steve Rogers, the famous Brooklyn gunslinger, had made his way around these parts. It isn’t just curiosity that brings me here.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

Steve sits down and motions at Bucky to pour him a drink. “Thanks, Buck.” When Tony says nothing else, Steve asks, “Well, are you going to tell me the reason for your visit, or should I guess?”

“I hoped it might be obvious.”

With that, Steve looks at Bucky again. “Got a clue?” he asks, amused by the agitated frown on Tony’s lips.

“None,” Bucky says, slipping easily into the role as he hands Steve his drink and leans forward, forearm resting against the bar. “What do you make of it?”

“Now, I’m guessing it’s a business proposition he’s after.” With that Steve turns back to face the stranger. “What can I do you for, Mr. Stark?”

“Tony. I don’t care for formalities when— Well, regardless. I’d like to hire you. I’m headed up to Deadwood first, and I’d feel better with a man to keep watch, and, you see, I’ve heard you’re willing to do...” Tony sucks in a breath and hesitates, “... certain jobs with the right pay.” With that, he sets a wad of cash between them.

Heat flares up in him, and Steve clenches his jaw. “Then you heard wrong.”

“If money’s the issue, I assure you I’m open to negotiations, including partnership.”

“It’s not.” Steve keeps his tone steady and downs his drink.

“I’d been told in Bandera you—”

“I’m aware of my business. Circumstances were different, and I didn’t do it for pay.”

“Sure you can’t be ‘suaded?”

“I’m certain.”

“Well, then. I see. I’d hoped we might come to a mutual understanding considering we share a place of origin, but I respect a man who sticks to his morals.” Tony tips his hat toward Steve and pays for his drink before standing. “You have my profound thanks for your discretion.”

“Naturally.”

With that, Tony walks away, pulling his coat around him with a flourish. The doors to the saloon swing shut behind him, and Steve lets out a breath.

“What happened in Bandera, if ya don’t mind me askin’?” Bucky’s voice jars his attention away from the door, and he turns himself front-facing once more.

“The sheriff and his deputy didn’t have much mind for the law, and a few people got hurt on account of it.”

“And did’ya help them see the error o’ their way?”

“Don’t think there’s much to see six feet under.”

Though he raises an eyebrow, Bucky’s expression is hard to discern. Once the moment’s passed, his eyes glance over to the saloon doors, and he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ city slickers,” he says. He regards Steve, and a playful grin spreads across his face. “I suppose I should mind my tongue considering—“ He barks out a laugh. “Brooklyn, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged ya for it.”

Steve just slides his empty glass across the counter and smiles back.

- - -

Before he knows it, the first signs of spring begin to peek through the frost. Steve waits for the inevitable question of his departure with a knot in his stomach he can’t quite explain. It grows with each passing day, yet Bucky doesn’t ask.

Then, one day, when the ground is slick with mud, Bucky turns to him and says, “I’ve been thinkin’ of buildin’ a house for myself.” The comment catches him off-guard. Since he’s known Bucky—which admittedly isn’t long—he hasn’t heard him make a single comment on his living arrangement, though Steve knows he’s been staying at the inn.

“Are you?” Steve asks.

“Been thinkin’,” Bucky repeats.

“What changed?”

“Don’t know. Suppose I’ve been here long enough. Never figured myself the type to settle, but it’s been nearly ten years.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “It’s mighty hard work—ya know.”

Steve stands still, and his heart beats hard against his chest. “I’ve heard.”

Bucky stills as well, and when his gaze meets Steve’s, Steve feels an odd sense of calm. “If it ain’t too much trouble, a helping hand would soothe the mind.”

As the question hovers between them, the knot in Steve’s stomach begins to loosen. “Okay,” is all he manages to get out, but Bucky smiles as he reaches out. When his hand touches Steve’s shoulder, Steve finds himself rooted to the spot. Bucky squeezes lightly.

His touch lingers even after he’s dropped his hand, and Steve wonders why he feels as if the breath has been wrung out of him.

- - -

Steve sets down the hammer and rubs at the bridge of his nose. A pulsing heat creeps up his neck into the back of his head, and he groans, already dreading the inevitable headache that awaits him.

“Jesus—I’ve seen folk high off of laudanum with more wits about them than ya,” Bucky says.

“Haven’t been sleeping,” Steve grumbles. If he’s honest, dreams have eluded him for years. He’s never been able to remember more than a few flashes—the smell of leather or a streak of blue. He can’t recall the last time he stayed in one place for this long, so he chalks it up to restlessness—though it doesn’t feel quite right.

Steve reaches for the hammer again, but Bucky pulls it from his reach. “Mind if we step down? I could use a rest.” The lie could not be more obvious, but Steve relents, still tender from the noise involved in their work and eager for an excuse to quit. They step down the ladder to the ground, and Steve fishes a hand-rolled cigarette out from the case in his duster jacket’s front pocket, followed by a box of matches.

The house is starting to come together—Steve thinks as he glances up at it. It’s more than a frame now, and the first floor is nearly finished, supported by locust posts. He dusts his hands on his pants, distracted as the cigarette dangles from his mouth, and Bucky swipes it. His eyes shimmer—sharp and playful—as he takes a hit from it. He hands it back, grinning as he does.

“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Steve asks.

Before Bucky can say anything, however, a figure approaches and stops in front of the house. He glances from Bucky to Steve, and as Steve looks over, he feels the air knocked out of him. Steve immediately recognizes the greasy black hair and self-satisfied smirk, and though his mustache has begun to speckle with gray from time, he looks chillingly similar.

“This the house ya were mentionin’?” he asks Bucky.

“Same one,” Bucky says.

His eyes move over to Steve, and he hesitates, a look of near-recognition flickering across his face. “Have I seen you before?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t think so,” he quickly says before Bucky can interject. But Bucky’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth. Steve pretends to fumble his cigarette and moves forward to pick it up, stepping hard on the front of Bucky’s boot as he does. “Shit. Sorry, Buck,” he says, keeping his tone steady.

“Ain’t no problem,” Bucky says, and though his expression doesn’t shift, Steve can tell he’s picked up on Steve’s hint, as heavy-handed as it was.

When Steve looks back across him at the interloper, the man glances between them, and when he gets to Steve’s face, he hesitates again. “I’m sure of it. No matter. It’ll come to me,” he says. With a final look, he walks off.

Bucky waits until he’s out of earshot before turning to Steve. “Ya know him?”

“Crossbones Rumlow—yeah, I ran into him and his partner, Pierce, back in Tombstone. We didn’t end on the best of terms.”

“Ah, hell, Steve, what didya do?” Bucky asks and crosses his arms across his chest.

“He ain’t here with his partner for a reason.” Steve pulls off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “When did he come into town?”

“He dropped by the saloon last night. I reckon he’s only in town for a couple o’ nights. Said a word ‘bout passin’ through.”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think it wise I spend much time where he might see me.” The thought that he might not spend time around the saloon or even building the house leaves him hollow. He supposes it has to do with the fact that he has hardly spent a day indoors in years, though—he has to admit—doesn’t seem quite like the start and end of it.

“Might be best,” Bucky says, and although it disappears from one second to the next, Steve sees a look of disappointment flash across his face.

- - -

“Steve fuckin’ Rogers!” Brock’s voice breaks through the fog of his dreams. Within them, Steve looks around for the source of the sound but finds none. “Are you gonna show your cunt face, or are you too much of a coward?”

The follow up is enough to jar him awake, and Steve sits up and reaches for his pistol by his bedside.

As much as he hates to admit it, he knew the confrontation was inevitable once Brock decided to stay in town an extra few days to avoid the worst of mud season. Still, he hates to think how much of town is hearing this.

Steve sticks his head out the window and hardly has time to duck before a shot rings out. It narrowly misses him, and Steve grits his teeth as he lifts his head up again. There is commotion in surrounding rooms—muffled voices and, somewhere further off, a baby crying.

He makes quick work of it and closes one eye as he takes aim, but Brock is nothing but a shadow against the night sky, and Steve’s shot misses him as well, creating a small splash in the mud. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He knows it will take too long to walk downstairs, so he takes in a deep breath and jumps forward.

Despite the broken glass, he grabs onto the ledge of the window as he swings his body out of the frame, and then he drops.

The fall from the second floor isn’t as bad as he anticipates. Though the moonlit world is a blur around him, he hears the sound of Brock’s gun firing and braces himself. Although it doesn’t hit him, the bullet whizzes past his arm with enough speed that he can feel it, mere centimeters from him.

He tucks his legs slightly and braces himself just before he lands. His legs absorb the majority of the impact, but the bounce of it is enough to make his pistol slip from where it’s tucked beneath his arms onto the dirt—thankfully a drier patch of land than most. In front of him, Brock is reloading his double-barreled shotgun, but he growls, near feral, when he sees Steve.

“Sayin’ you don’t know who I am. You ‘fraid of what the truth might entail?” Steve had mostly been hoping to avoid a gunfight and bloodshed, but he knows Brock’s question is rhetorical.

Brock steps forward, and Steve barely has time to put his arms in front of his face before Brock kicks out. His elbows hit his chest, and the impact of his boot is enough to leave him coughing and breathless. Steve loses balance and falls into the mud, but the click of the reloaded shotgun spurs him back into motion.

He slides forward, grabbing his pistol and aiming a shot at Brock. It grazes his ear, blood gushing from it, and Brock hisses. “Son o’ a fuckin’ bitch.” Steve slips in the slick of the mud as he stands and teeters to his feet.

Steve lifts his pistol again just as the front door to the inn slams opens, and Bucky steps out, barely visible in the shadows, rifle in hand. For a split second, both he and Brock glance over. For a moment, all he can see if Bucky, and Steve’s attention wavers.

And then a shot rings out.

Bucky flies backward and falls against the ground, a pool of blood immediately seeping out around him, black in the moonlight.

A ringing sound fills Steve’s ears as he lifts his pistol again and takes aim, fear clutching ice-cold at his chest. But the bullet that hits Brock between the eyes is not his own. He turns, pistol still at the ready. From the distance, he sees two men on horses, riding forward, guns already lowered.

The lowered guns aren’t enough to go off of to guarantee his safety, but he can wait no longer. Steve rushes forward to Bucky. Right below where his left arm meets his shoulder, beneath the gore, is a gaping wound thorough which Steve can see bone protruding.

“Fuck,” he says. It strikes him for the first time since he woke up that he has no jacket on, nothing to press to the wound to stop the bleeding—though he’s unsure if touching it would make it better or worse. He stares, his heart pounding in his ears and his stomach churning. And for the first time in a long time, he feels helpless.

And then Bucky moves, and he groans, though his eyes stay shut.

“Did ya kill ‘im?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Steve knows there’s no time to explain, so he just says, “He’s cold as a wagon tire.”

At the sound of hooves behind him, he turns, pistol drawn, but the two men just walk forward past him to Bucky and crouch down. “Get the Doc,” one of them—a tall Black man with a set of pistols tucked by his waist—says to the other.

The other—broad-shouldered and dressed largely in black with the notable exception of his chaps—nods brusquely and turns to leave.

The first pulls off his coat as he bends down and wraps it around Bucky’s wound as gently as he can. Bucky stirs from his sleep and cries out in pain, and the man lifts his arms. “Shit. You know what to do?”

Steve shakes his head, and he takes a deep breath. The whole world feels unsteady beneath his feet, and his head spins. “No, but I think we ought to press down on it.” He’s seen doctors do it before. But when he reaches out and pushes, though he’s never found himself squeamish before, the squelching sound nearly makes him retch.

Bucky’s out cold now and doesn’t stir, which does nothing to ease the fear swallowing him whole. Before it can, however, he hears footsteps behind him and turns to see two figures approaching them.

“Move outta the way,” the doctor, a man named Stephen, says to him, and Steve stands up as the doctor bends down and places a bag next to him. He checks Bucky’s pulse before peeling the jacket back. He then reaches in the bag, pulls out a tourniquet, and places it around Bucky’s arm.

The look on his face reveals nothing about the graveness of the wound, and Steve’s attention draws away from it to the blood surrounding Bucky. It’s sure to stain the wood in front of the inn—he thinks. He can’t recall the last time he’s seen this much blood from something living.

The thought makes him pale, and perhaps others notice because the man with the pistols—Steve wonders if he’s the one who fired the shot—looks over at him. He appears as though he’s going to speak, but before he can, the doctor does.

“We need to move him.”

“Won’t that make it worse?” the broad-shouldered man asks.

“There’s no joy in me tellin’ you that he’s in grave condition. I’ll need to operate, and I can’t very well do that here.” He regards the three of them and frowns, and Steve swallows thickly, the fog around him enveloping him further.

“Get dressed and meet us at the Doc’s house,” the man with the pistols says. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but the man must anticipate it because he shakes his head and speaks first. “You ain’t gonna be much use to him frozen.”

Only at those words does Steve realize that he’s been standing in his union suit. For the first time since he woke, Steve looks down and feels the bone-deep chill in him. The spring morning is far from warm, and the cotton sticks to him where it’s slick with mud. Still, the thought of leaving Bucky fills him with dread.

“Should things take a turn for the worse…” Steve doesn’t allow himself to finish that thought.

“He ain’t gonna die if I can help it,” the doctor says, meeting Steve’s eyes. His gaze is steady and oddly reassuring. Steve nods and lets out a shaky breath.

“You know where the Doc lives?” the man with the pistols asks. Steve nods. He takes one last look at Bucky and heads back indoors, ignoring the looks of curious townsfolk who have stepped out to see what the commotion is about.

Steve moves rhythmically to his room and cleans himself with a wet rag, trying to ignore the faint buzzing in his ears. His limbs feel heavy, and he can feel the heaviness from the lack of sleep sticking to him like heat in mid-summer.

By the time he finishes, he still has several patches of dirt caked onto him, and he’s certain his hair is a wreck—though he’s never given much mind to it. He’s looked worse for wear during his travels. Frazzled and frantic, Steve dresses quickly and makes his way back outside.

A wave of nausea washes over him upon seeing the dark stain of the blood in front of the inn, but he keeps walking until he sees one of the two men from earlier—the shorter, broad-shouldered one—standing outside of the doctor’s house. When Steve steps forward towards the door, he shakes his head.

“Sam’s in there with him. Doc said amputation was Bucky’s best bet.”

Steve stops in his tracks, and his arm falls limply to his side. “He gonna make it?”

“I ain't been privy to that kind of information, but I reckon he will. He’s one tough son of a bitch.” It takes Steve a moment to realize that the man is holding Sam’s coat, stained in blood. Steve glances at the coat, and when he looks back up, the man is staring at him. “You look a bit green about the gills. You ain’t gonna be ill, will ya?”

Steve shakes his head and crosses his arms across his chest. He isn’t in much of a talking mood, and while he knows he’d normally push through for the sake of manners, he can’t quite find it in himself. Judging by his expression, the man doesn’t take any offense to it.

Before long, the sun begins to rise, and, with it, people start to leave their houses. He catches two friends lost in conversation as they make their way into a shop, and a pang of jealousy runs through him at the thought of normalcy. It doesn’t have time to linger, however, before the door opens and Sam walks out, eyes sunken and shirt stained with blood.

“He’s out cold,” he says and motions them both forward. Steve hardly stops himself from pushing past them all into the doctor’s house, and when he makes it inside, his head starts to swim all over again.

Bucky looks oddly small and pale against the bed, and Steve bends down next to him as his eyes fall to the bandage around his shoulder where his left arm once was. “How is he?” Steve asks the doctor, though his eyes stay fixed on Bucky.

“He’s poorly.” Gathering that his words are far from reassuring, the doctor adjusts himself and tries again. “Can’t quite say yet, but the fact that he’s made it this far—” Steve looks up just as Stephen cuts off and frowns. “A lot of men wouldn’t be so fortunate in his position. It’s a good sign.”

It can hardly be considered fortunate, Steve thinks, but he bites his tongue. Behind him, he can hear Sam and his friend whispering, but before he can try to listen closer, the door slams open, and Natasha walks in.

“Where is he?” Steve has never seen Natasha with a hair out of place, but now she looks like Medusa—hair strewn and face wild.

“You’re gonna wake him, and right now he needs to rest,” Stephen says, his voice a hushed whisper. He glances anxiously at Bucky as if expecting him to stir, and Steve can’t decide if it’s good or bad that he doesn’t.

Natasha’s eyes fall to the bandages around Bucky’s left shoulder, and her face blanches. “Jesus.” She takes a careful step forward, and the gravity of the situation seems to hit her as she crouches down next to Steve. Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve watches as Natasha’s jaw clenches, and even though nothing about her reveals it—he can sense that whatever she’s mustered to hold herself together is quickly unraveling.

“This place is too damn crowded,” Stephen says. “Give the damn boy some room to breathe.”

Sam and the other man step towards the door, and Steve stands as well, deciding that some cold air will do him well. They make their way back outside, and Steve shoves his hands in his pockets at his lets out a shaky breath.

Silence lingers between them for a moment before the broad-shouldered man turns to him and says, “You must be Steve Rogers.” Steve feels a flash of annoyance, though he’s come used to hearing the comment.

“The gunslinger. Sure.”

“The gunslinger. You hear that, Wilson?” The man shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“Sure do. Mighty presumptuous if you ask me.” Wilson—it feels faintly familiar to Steve, though he can’t quite place it. “I ain’t heard nothing about that,” he continues, addressing Steve. “Barnes talks about you.”

“Clint Barton,” the first man says.

“Sam Wilson,” the other man says.

Suddenly, it clicks. “You two are the ranchers few miles out of town. Bucky’s mentioned you.”

“Mentioned us,” Sam says. “Pretty sure we’ve heard everything Barnes knows ‘bout you, and he just mentions us.” The jesting annoyance in Sam’s voice quickly slips as the reality of the situation hits them again.

“He doesn’t like talking about his life much. Though I suppose I could’ve asked more.” Steve frowns and corrects himself. “Will ask more.” He knows if he stops believing it, even for a second, he’ll fall apart.

They stand for a moment longer before the door opens again and Natasha steps out. “I had to find out from the fuckin’ innkeeper,” she hisses, looking between the three of them. “Came down, saw the bar was empty, and when I went to the inn to check on ‘im—" She cuts herself off and presses her lips together in a thin, angry line, and Steve feels the ball of guilt in his stomach tighten.

Clint places his hand on Natasha’s shoulder and squeezes. “He’ll be alright.” Her eyes meet Clint’s, and without speaking, words pass between them. She nods stiffly and relaxes her shoulders as Clint’s hand drops.

Before the silence settles over them, Steve begins to move back towards the doctor’s house. “I might step in and check to see how he is.”

Stephen is finishing putting away his equipment when Steve enters. He doesn’t look up, though Steve is certain that he must have heard him enter. Silently, he crosses the room to the bed. Only when he kneels does Stephen speak.

“Take the chair from the table. No need to do that.”

Barely a minute has passed when the door opens again. Steve doesn’t need to look to tell that it is Natasha. When he stands up, she speaks. "Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll need to leave in a moment.” She lets out a shaky breath and reaches out, lightly stroking Bucky’s cheek with the back of her hand.

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and he jerks upward—though the movement is cut short as he lets out a grunt of pain. Steve startles, and Natasha gasps as she pulls her hand back.

“Buck—shit—you need to lay down. You lost a lotta blood and—“ Before Steve can continue, Bucky’s eyes fall to his left side, and he stares blankly at the fabric where his arm used to be.

“Well, at least it ain’t my pouring hand,” he says, and then he’s out again, limp against the bed.

The moment stills between them, the sound of Bucky’s voice echoing in Steve’s ears. “Stubborn bastard,” Natasha says, and Steve detects relief in her tone. She reaches forward, carefully adjusting him to a more comfortable position.

- - -

Bucky doesn’t wake again for four more days. The first night, he begins to shake, and his face turns red as the fever hits his body. Stephen tells him not to worry, but Steve can see the concern flicker behind his eyes. Despite Stephen’s protests, Steve spends the night with him and falls asleep in his chair.

By the end of the third day, his fever breaks. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he’s over the worst of it,” Stephen says, and Steve feels his entire body go limp. A heavy blanket of exhaustion wraps around him, and, for the first time since he was woken up by Brock, Steve is able to sleep dreamlessly.

He wakes up late in the morning, and when he sees Natasha, he knows from her smile that Bucky has woken up. With each step he moves quicker until he’s all but running, and when he gets to the house, Stephen is stepping out.

“I just gave him some laudanum, so he’s likely not to be fully present. Still, he’ll be happy to see you,” Stephen murmurs, and Steve’s eyes move from the bags under Stephen’s eyes to the way his jacket is slightly askew.

“Would it be helpful to move him to the inn?” Steve hesitates before adding, “I’ve been helping Bucky build his house, and since—” Steve sucks in some breath between his teeth and clears his throat, not quite sure how to finish the sentence, so he starts again. “I’ve had time on my hands if you need someone to help care for him until he’s on his feet.”

“He’ll have to heal slightly more before we can move him, but yes, that would be helpful. Have a good day.” His face betrays no emotion as he tilts his hat, turns on his heels, and walks into town.

Steve’s hand hovers on the handle to the doctor’s house. His chest tightens, and he tries his best to breathe evenly. The inside of the room seems oddly quiet, and Steve stands in the threshold for a second, his heart beating loud enough that he can hear it as if it’s between his ears.

“Nat?” Bucky asks, though he remains still.

Steve swallows and closes the door behind him as he crosses the room to Bucky’s bed. “’Fraid it’s me.”

Bucky looks at him with a glassy, vacant expression, no doubt from the laudanum. Beneath the delirium, something flickers in his eyes, and when his mouth curls into a smile, Steve feels the weight on his chest lessen. “Hey, ain’t ya that famous gunslinger?” Bucky jokes. He laughs, amused with himself, but the sound quickly morphs into a cough, and the smile disappears as he blanches.

The weight settles again on Steve’s chest, and he finds that oddly he has to wring his hands to stop from reaching out—though he’s not quite sure where the impulse comes from. “How you feeling, Buck?”

“Like shit,” Bucky says, and his eyes glaze over again as he settles into the bed, the drug-induced haze kicking in once more.

“You ain’t really here, are you?” Steve asks him, and Bucky titters.

“I’m somewhere else,” Bucky agrees. Steve grabs a chair, and they sit in silence for a minute. Then, Bucky turns as best as he can to face him and winces from the pain. “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t ya leave?”

“Well, you just about died. I thought it might be rude.” He tries to frame it like a joke, though his stomach twists and knots, but Bucky just shakes his head, his lip jutting out as he tries to concentrate past the pain and the delirium.

“No, why haven’t ya ever left? It’s been over half a year.” Steve feels the ground drop out beneath him, and it must be written on his face because the crease between Bucky’s eyes deepens. “I don’t mean it the way yer takin’ it.”

The words make Steve’s mouth go dry, and he swallows thickly as he asks, his voice barely louder than whisper, “How do you mean it?”

Bucky blinks up at him behind long lashes. His eyes clear, and there’s a brief moment of lucidity. Although he can’t quite read it, something about the look, makes his stomach go cold and knocks the breath out of him. Steve sits still, terrified and exposed, though he’s not quite sure how.

And then it’s gone, and a look of confusion overtakes Bucky’s face. “How do I mean what?”

Some things, Steve assumes, are better left untouched. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the way the cold air fills his lungs. “Never mind,” he says, and he sits with Bucky until he falls asleep.

- - -

Bucky’s fever spikes again for a week once he moves back into the inn, and Steve only leaves his side to wring out the cloth he’s using to cool Bucky’s forehead. Sam, Natasha, and Clint come at various times, and once Bucky’s fever breaks, they convince Steve to step outside and take in some fresh air.

Soon enough, they settle into a routine. It’s comfortable, but Steve can sense there are things Bucky holds back. Occasionally, he wakes up to the sound of labored breathing and grunts of pain. No matter how long the fits last, Bucky never wakes Steve, so Steve pretends he’s sleeping, though he frequently watches Bucky until he falls back asleep. Although he’s certain that Bucky catches him once or twice, he never says anything, and the following morning, neither brings it up.

Bucky adapts quickly. He knows his limitations, but he finds ways to adjust, and he’s a quick learner. “Thanks for not trying to insist I need help when I don’t,” Bucky says to him one day, and Steve shrugs.

“I trust you’ll ask if you need it. You’re plenty capable.”

When Bucky goes back to work, Steve quietly continues working on Bucky’s house. He finds the physicality of it distracting. It’s a way to keep his drifting thoughts in check—each stray thought is his reminder that he isn’t putting enough of himself into it. He channels himself into each plank of wood until sweat drips from his brows, and his muscles ache. Until he feels if he pushes any further, he’ll come undone.

Still, his mind wanders.

“This is what ya’ve been doin’ during the day?” Steve jumps and looks down to see Bucky staring up at him, a curious frown on his lips.

“I was restless,” Steve says, and it isn’t a lie, though it doesn’t feel honest either.

Bucky must pick up on something because he tilts his head to the right and presses his lips together as he stares at Steve, contemplative. “Something tells me there’s no use tryin’ to pull the truth out of ya.”

“I was telling the truth.” Bucky’s lips quirk upward, and he gives Steve a thoroughly unconvinced, if not slightly bemused look.

“The full truth.” Bucky regards him for a moment longer, but before the defensive complaint slips from Steve’s lips, he motions for Steve to come down.

Steve takes Bucky’s sudden disinterest or change of spirit as a win and swings himself over the second story ledge. The momentary distraction, however, is enough to divert his attention from his landing, and Steve braces a second too late. His knees bend as he lands, but his balance slips, and he slides forward.

Steve stands back up, feet sliding in the slick of the mud as he tries to steady himself. When he finally looks up to see Bucky, Bucky is frozen, a fleeting look of recognition across his face.

“What?” Steve asks, wiping his knees in an attempt to knock the mud off of them.

Bucky blinks twice, and the expression disappears behind a composed smile once more. “Hmm?”

His voice is convincingly oblivious, and Steve hesitates before trusting his gut and answering, “There was something in your face. You — Well, I don’t know what it was, but you can’t tell me there wasn’t.”

Bucky’s mouth twists. Although he looks visibly agitated, when Steve doesn’t drop his gaze, Bucky concedes. “Ya know how I’ve been havin’ some trouble rememberin’ the details from that night when I got shot? Well, the way ya landed just there felt familiar. That’s all.” Bucky sounds persuasive, but his eyes look just past Steve in a way that makes his stomach knot.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to be any clearer.” His eyes darken, and Steve can feel Bucky slipping away, closing off.

“I mean, what about it made you remember?” He reaches out his arm and squeezes Bucky’s right shoulder. Bucky’s eyes meet his, and Steve’s mind wanders, just for a moment—just long enough to recall his dream. The smell of leather or a streak of blue. The air knocks out of him, and his hand falters and slips.

“Ya can’t ask me for my full truth when ya won’t give me yours,” Bucky mumbles.

“If you tell me yours, I’ll confide in you as well.” The answer slips past his lips. Each instant sends him falling into the next, unable to stop unraveling whatever is transpiring between them.

And then Bucky’s eyes soften, and his shoulders drop, and he’s there—no barriers left. “Ya were on the ground, drenched in mud, pointin’ your pistol right at Brock, and then ya heard the door. And when ya looked at me, it wasn’t like ya were searchin’ for a sound. Ya looked at me. Ya saw me. And it was as if, for a moment, ya forgot—” Bucky pauses, as if expecting Steve to interrupt or disagree. When Steve doesn’t, Bucky’s frown deepens, and he gathers himself before continuing. “As if ya forgot what ya were there for or that there was even a pistol in yer hands.”

Steve’s heart pounds against his chest, and he nods, hypnotized by the rhythm between them, the steady back and forth that feels as if it’s propelling him forward towards something which he hasn’t quite been able to name. He’s not entirely sure of what he’s agreeing to, but he trusts his instinct once more. “I’ve been working like this because if I pause even just to drink water, I won’t be able to stop myself from thinking about—"

“Everything alright?” Both he and Bucky jump at Sam’s voice, and they shift their attention to where Sam sits on his horse, several paces away.

Bucky glances at him, and their eyes meet, but the rhythm has been broken, and the moment is gone. It’s not Bucky whose barriers go back up; it’s his. But Steve can’t understand it, let alone stop it. Something important he can’t quite name slips just out of his grasp, and the lump in his throat returns.

“I promise you I don’t need saving most times, Sam,” Steve jibes, and he puts his attention back into getting the mud off his pants. From the way Sam laughs, Steve knows that he’s shaken any lingering suspicions.

When Steve finally dares to look up at Bucky, he is staring vacantly at the ground, and Steve can’t help but feel like he’s let something bigger than himself go. With Sam here, it’s too late to question his decision. He moves his attention away from Bucky and slips an easy smile onto his face as he falls back into conversation with Sam.

- - -

Steve is grateful that he and Bucky no longer share a room. Still, he knows that Bucky will knock on his door come morning, so he leaves just before the crack of dawn to the stables and rides his horse out past town.

He hasn’t had much of a chance to do so since mud season. Other than a few treks with Bucky, there haven’t been many reasons to leave town. The ground has dried enough that he can speed his horse up to a gallop, and he steadies his balance.

When the wind starts to hit his face, he feels a tickle of something he hasn’t felt since he first settled in town, just shy of a year ago. The sky looks endless around him—open like it might swallow him whole. Steve lets out a whoop and breathes in, and for the first time in months, the air doesn’t stop filling his lungs halfway through. Instead, he keeps breathing in until he can no longer bear the ache in his chest, and the air knocks out of him in one loud whoosh. When his eyes start burning, Steve can’t place whether it’s from the wind or something else, akin to relief, and he’s not sure he wants to.

On his way back into town, he passes by Bucky’s house, just as he left it yesterday. For the first time, the thought of leaving town and moving forward feels concrete.

- - -

It becomes easier to avoid Bucky with time. He alternates his routes and learns to stagger when he gets home and when he leaves.

One morning, he wakes up too late. It’s a narrow margin but a meaningful one. Steve has finished getting dressed and is readying himself to leave when there’s a knock at the door. He stills, rooted to the spot.

“Steve, ya in there?” Steve clasps his hand over his mouth and breathes shallowly, as if his exhale might give him away. The stillness of the room seems to carry outside, and though he doesn’t hear it, Steve has nearly convinced himself that Bucky has left when Bucky speaks again.

“I don’t know why, but I just thought maybe I hadn’t missed ya today. Maybe ya hadn’t managed to slip past ‘n’…” Bucky sighs loudly through the door. “If yer there, can you open up?”

The words make his chest ache, but he still doesn’t move. He’s never considered himself one to cower, so Steve tells himself it’s something else, though he can’t quite shake the particular way he feels. “Well, I guess never mind.” With that, he listens to Bucky walk away, each click of his boots signifying a step that puts more distance between Steve and any uncovered truths. Disappointment curdles in his stomach, and he’s left with a sour taste he can’t quite shake.

His body feels heavy, and his thoughts shatter and scatter until Steve is left numb and overwhelmed. It takes him a few moments to gather himself, and when he does, he breathes in and out, counting in his head until his body relaxes, and he can move once more.

Steve has been spending more time at Clint and Sam’s ranch in the last few months. Sam’s presence in particular has kept him tethered in a way he hasn’t expected. Occasionally, he catches them at their home. Sam brews them coffee, and they sit in a comfortable silence until one or the other remembers something to say. And on it goes until it repeats. More typically, however, Steve finds them working and joins in tasks where more force is needed than skill—leveling the ground or repairing the ditches.

In those moments, the town far away enough that it isn’t even a speck on the horizon, Steve’s mind stills. He can focus on the present, and every wandering thought dissipates.

He gets on his horse now, eager to clear his mind, and gallops until Clint and Sam’s house comes into view. When he finally slows, his face throbs, stinging from the sharp cold of the wind. Steve presses the back of one hand to his cheek and scowls at how cold it is to the touch.

Neither Clint nor Sam is home, which is no surprise. Spring has slowly begun to melt into summer, which means they’re busier than they have been. Today, however, Steve finds Sam by the fence, repairing a few holes.

“Need a hand?” He crouches beside him and offers a tense smile when Sam turns to look at him.

“Wouldn’t mind one,” Sam says. “I can show you how.”

They work for a while, neither saying much. It’s an easy enough task for Steve to get the hang of it quickly, and he loses himself in its repetitiveness. He works until his throat is dry and his shoulders are sore, and when he finally lifts his head up, he’s surprised to see that it’s later in the day than he expected. The sun will be setting in the next few hours, so Steve straightens his back and dusts off his pants.

“Want to eat?” Sam asks, and Steve nods his head. “Ain’t gonna be nothing fancy, so don’t go expecting much.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Sam makes camp bread and finishes a stew Clint had started to prepare. Clint eats fast, eager to get everything done before the sun sets, and soon only Steve and Sam are left, finishing their meals.

“You have to talk, talk.” Sam’s perceptive, Steve’s noticed, and it doesn’t surprise him that he can tell something is weighing on Steve’s mind.

Steve takes a deep breath and then speaks. “I’ve been thinking of leaving town.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing, so Steve continues. “Not immediately, course. I reckon it’ll be another month or two. Was planning on helping Bucky finish his house, but after that, I don’t see much reason to stay. I’ve had to pull in my horns lately too.”

Sam nods his head and sighs. “Bucky know?”

The question catches Steve off-guard, and despite his better judgment, he feels himself bristle. “Why d’you ask?”

“You gonna take French leave?”

“Hell, Sam. Of course, I’ll tell him before I go. Just haven’t yet. Now why d’you ask?”

Sam shrugs. “No particular reason—I suppose.” He finishes the last piece of bread and stands up. “Bucky tells me you’ve been avoiding him.” The words make him run cold, and Steve stands up as well, but before he has time to announce that he intends on leaving, Sam quickly adds, “Now, trust me. I don’t plan on interfering with whatever’s going on, but what with you two at odds and you leaving town, I wanted to make sure the two weren’t related.”

Despite the fact that his clothes are stuck to him from a long day’s work, Steve feels suddenly exposed. But when he opens his mouth, his mind is racing faster than he can put together thoughts. “They’re not,” he grumbles, his voice terser than he intends on it being.

Steve finds it unclear whether Sam is convinced, but before he can discern one way or another, the moment passes. “I gotta head back,” Sam says, nodding his head towards the pastures.

“Thanks for the meal,” Steve says.

“Well, figured the least I can do is feed you considering you helped me with half the fence.” Sam claps a hand on Steve’s back. “It’ll be odd not to see your mug ‘round these parts if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Don’t mind at all. It’ll be strange not seeing you as well.” A sour feeling floods his mouth, but Steve’s smile doesn’t falter. They regard each other for a moment longer before making their way out of the house. He waves at Sam before mounting his horse.

As he rides, Steve focuses his attention on the sky in front of him—orange, with purple hue around the clouds. He’s so focused on avoiding his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice the redheaded woman sitting on her mare near the outskirts of town until he hears a voice.

“Howdy. Mind pointin’ me in the direction of the saloon?”

Steve jerks his head to take a look at her. Her wide-brimmed hat casts a shadow across her face, partially obscuring it from view, but even still, Steve makes out her calm, cautious gaze. Steve clicks his tongue and slows his horse down to a halt.

The saloon means seeing Bucky, and Sam’s question rings in his ears. “Sure can,” he says. After all, if his leaving has nothing to do with Bucky—and Steve tells himself it doesn’t—then there isn’t any reason for Bucky not to know.

“Appreciate it.” She tips her hat at him, and Steve leads the way.

“What brings you into town?” Steve asks. “Heading West?”

“Came from California, actually. I’m just passin’ through.”

“Been a while since I’ve been to California.” She’s easy to talk to, and the conversation gives Steve something to distract himself from the thought of the impending saloon.

She lets out a low hum, seemingly surprised that Steve is familiar. “Whereabouts?”

“San Francisco, a few years back.” A memory flickers through his head, and Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “You could say I had a—uh—disagreement with Denis Kearney that didn’t exactly leave me eager to return.”

“That sonofabitch doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” The woman spits at the dirt, and Steve laughs, finding himself charmed by her lack of restraint.

“I take it you’re familiar with San Francisco, then.”

“Been there nearly ten years.”

“We must have overlapped, then.”

They make their way to the stables, and Steve hands both their horses off to the stable hand before leading them in the direction of the saloon. The woman looks wide-eyed at the town, and after a minute, she says, “Place sure has changed a lot since I was last here.”

The words take a second to sink in, and by the time they do, they’re at the door of the saloon. “You’ve been here before?” Steve asks, and they step in. His eyes immediately dart over to Bucky, and he braces himself.

But Bucky bursts into a grin. It’s the most relief Steve’s felt in weeks until he shouts from across the room, “Wanda?”

The woman next to him—Wanda, Steve supposes—grins, nearly feral, and does a half-jog across the room, her spurs ringing loud with each heavy step. “James fuckin’ Barnes.” She lets out a hoot just before they meet, and her hands make their way to either side of Bucky’s face, cupping it before she leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth.

As the ground drops beneath him, the truth pries it way out and rears its ugly head, and Steve knows there’s no denying that he’s in love with Bucky. The revelation, so carefully stepped around and pushed back, swallows him whole, and Steve’s hand reaches for a chair as he steadies himself.

And then Wanda steps back, and Steve gathers himself enough to focus in on their words, still raised in volume despite their proximity. “Why the hell didn’t ya tell me you were coming into town?”

“And have you find an excuse not t’be here when I arrive?” Wanda scoffs, and Bucky chuckles as he clasps a hand on her shoulder.

“Well, ya found yer way here. Just as sharp of a sense of direction as ever—I see.”

“Actually, Rogers over there showed me on over. You know you got a famous gunslinger in town?” Somewhere behind everything else swirling in his chest, Steve is aware that Wanda recognized him. He hardly has time to push a smile back on his face before Wanda glances over and winks.

“Think I heard somethin�� ‘bout that,” Bucky says.

Then, his eyes are on Steve, and Steve can feel himself coming undone again. The chatter of the other customers, the piano, even Wanda all fade away as Bucky’s eyes linger on his, distant as the first day Steve walked into the saloon. Steve’s fingers curl around the back of the chair, as he tries to plead wordlessly for Bucky to see him like he saw him a few weeks ago when Sam interrupted.

But Bucky looks away. He shepherds Wanda to the bar and steps around to the other side as he pours them each a drink.

Once he feels confident that his knees won’t buckle beneath him, Steve unfurls his fingers from around the chair and walks out.

- - -

Three weeks go by, and Steve begins to think that Wanda’s assessment that she’s passing through might not be entirely true.

Although there’s little in Bucky’s outward appearance to suggest a shift, something about the way he speaks to Steve feels cold. No one remarks on it, and he has almost convinced he’s imagined it when he catches Natasha looking curiously between the two of them one afternoon.

It doesn’t help that the truth looms over him. Now that he’s named it, it clings onto him with a vice-like grip, tighter with each passing day. Steve can hardly stand the way Bucky’s eyes pass over him when they talk or the fact that he never acknowledges Steve until the conversation turns in a way that he has to.

Even more infuriating is Bucky’s ability to make sure that they are never left alone in a room. The harder Steve tries to approach him, the more elusive Bucky comes. So, one night, Steve waits until Bucky has come back from the saloon and knocks on the door to his room. Faintly, Steve hears the sound of footsteps.

Then, Bucky opens the door, and he stops, his hand slipping from the handle. “Steve?” Bucky’s lips part, and he lets out a breathless oh. His guard down, he looks at Steve, raw and petrified. For the first time, Steve notices the bags under Bucky’s eyes, and he reaches out a hand until it grazes against Bucky’s. Bucky’s Adam’s bobs as he swallows thickly, and Steve’s eyes fall, fixed to it, as he wonders how it would feel beneath his lips.

The sound of springs creaking jars them both out of it, and Bucky jerks away his hand and turns his head. Wanda comes into view behind him, sprawled out on Bucky’s bed under the covers, fast asleep.

“Oh, I see,” Steve warbles—his voice hoarse.

Bucky looks back and starts shaking his head, but Steve can feel his guards slipping. He turns on his heel and walks to his room, shutting the door behind him before collapsing against it. He half-expects to hear Bucky follow him and hates the second wave of disappointment he feels when there’s no knock at his door.

Unable to stop himself, he steps forward swings his fist down against the table, pain blossoming as a crack runs through the wood. Steve gasps and curses under his breath. It hurts to tighten and loosen his fist enough to make his eyes water, but he’s broken enough bones to know he’s mostly fine.

- - -

After that, Steve returns to finish the house. He sets his back into it, wanting to get it done before summer returns full force. Bucky stops by several times, but the conversations fizzle as their eyes dart past each other. Each time he feels as if Bucky is going to say something, the moment passes.

“What happened to yer hand?” Bucky asks, motioning at the bruises around his fingers. Steve flushes, not eager to relive the humiliation from that night and thankful that from this angle, Bucky can’t see his face.

“Nothing. Messed up.”

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t say anything, and though he can’t see him, Steve gets the odd sense that Bucky is debating calling him out on his lie.

Hammering fills the silence between them, and Steve is about to look back to see if Bucky’s left when he speaks again. “Wanda’s leavin’ town soon.”

“Is she?” Steve asks, though he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. All that’s left are the finishing touches—no more than another two to three weeks of work, but with that realization comes a heavy sense of dread.

Bucky shoves a hand in his pocket and chews on the inside of his lip. “It’d mean a lot if ya came.”

Steve stills, and when he looks over, Bucky stares at him with the sort of pleading eyes Steve doesn’t know how to say no to. His shoulders fold as he nods his head. “Give Wanda word I’ll be there.”

“I mean, it’d mean a lot to me.”

Steve knows what Bucky meant, but said aloud, it still makes his chest twinge. Bucky’s face is somehow both inscrutable and open, as if inviting Steve to jump to conclusions. He hates the way it makes his resolution crumple, but he’s powerless to stop it. “I’ll be there,” Steve repeats, his voice softer.

- - -

Steve makes up an excuse and slips out the back door of the saloon an hour into sitting at the bar with Bucky and Wanda. He can hardly stand to be around the two of them. Every conversation turns into a story of their past, and after the charm of picturing the Bucky from those tales wears off, all he’s left with is the feeling that his presence isn’t exactly necessary—that the conversation will continue with or without him. Natasha, Sam, and Clint drop by as well, and they must feel similarly because before too long they leave, an excuse ready at the tips of their tongues.

The alley behind the saloon is dim and has always smelled off, but the fact that it’s empty is all Steve cares about. He moves in as far as he can go—no more than a few steps—and leans his back against the wall.

A window upstairs in the brothel must be open because Steve can hear moans from some woman—loud, staccato, and most certainly not real. He glances up at the open shutters and snorts as he pulls his cigarette case out of his duster jacket pocket.

The first drag washes over him, and Steve feels his nerves start to steady just as the door opens. Bucky steps outside and lets it close behind him properly before turning to face Steve. They stare at each other a moment.

Then, Steve takes another drag and looks away, trying to quell the building resentment in the pit of his stomach. It takes a concentrated effort not to snap at Bucky and make some comment about how I thought my absence wouldn’t make a notable difference—you know—considering.

He doesn’t. He tilts his head away from Bucky and lets out a steady stream of smoke, watching as a gust of wind hits him, curving it at a near ninety-degree angle the moment it leaves his lips. “Who’s running the bar if you’re here?” Steve asks.

“Wanda. I trust her to handle herself.”

“I’m sure she can.” Despite meaning it, the words come out with a sharp edge that surprises even Steve. Bucky looks at him, and Steve braces himself for Bucky to object.

But Bucky doesn’t. “Heard yer leavin’ town,” he says instead, lips quirking upward as he gives Steve a look caught between bemused and exasperated.

“Sam tell you that?” Steve clenches his jaw.

“Nah. If he gave ya his word that he wouldn’t tell me, Sam would never do it. He did tell Clint, however, who said somethin’ a few weeks back.”

Steve scoffs. “Wasted no time letting you know.”

“Yer the one who didn’t tell me ya were going to leave.”

The hurt seeps through Bucky’s words, though when Steve looks over, Bucky’s face is hidden behind his hair. Steve sighs and turns his body just slightly so that he’s facing Bucky.

“I should’ve brought it up. I just needed time to figure out what I wanted.”

“And what ya wanted was to get far away from here without me knowin’.” Bucky states it like a fact, not a question, and Steve frowns as he lifts his cigarette up to his lips.

He hasn’t been this physically close to Bucky in months outside of that night in front of Bucky’s room. The memory twists in him, and he breathes in and touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth, cutting through the smoke as it moves down his throat and into his lungs. His chest expands until his lungs burn, and he twists the cigarette between his fingers. It’s enough to install some fleeting sense of calm in him.

“I knew if I told you, I would never would’ve left,” Steve corrects. In front of him, Bucky’s shoulders straighten slightly, and he slowly turns to look at Steve.

“But Clint said when ya finished my house…” He sucks in a breath and lets the sentence linger before adding, “And yer practically done.”

“It ain’t have nothin’ to do with whether or not I finish the house.” There’s more he wants to say, but the words get caught. Then, Bucky’s eyes meet his, and he’s grounded to the spot, certain that the truth is etched on his face, there for anyone to discover.

Bucky wets his lips, and his hand trembles as he speaks. “What were ya going to tell me the other month? That day Sam interrupted.”

Steve has avoided Bucky for precisely this moment, this question, but he refuses to bite his tongue again. “I didn’t know it at the time—suppose I didn’t want to. You were talking, and it was like every word out of your mouth—” Steve cuts himself off and tries again. “You were right. The door opened, and I saw you, and for a second, there wasn’t a gunfight, ‘n’ Brock didn’t exist. It was just you.”

Silence hovers between them, and Bucky says nothing. He stares forward blankly in front of him, past Steve.

“Say something,” Steve begs. But Bucky doesn’t. He turns instead and reaches his hand out. It feels like a gesture to let him down easy, and Steve steps back and bristles, suddenly aware of how he must sound. “Never mind. You don’t need to humor me with some soft sawder. Spare me the lies, Buck.”

Bucky frowns, and his eyes darken. “Ya can call me plenty things, but I ain’t no fuckin’ liar, Steve.” He prods Steve in the shoulder with his index finger, hard enough that it bounces back off of it.

The words wash over him, and Steve stares, suddenly wordless himself. He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the heel of his boot. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ that I see ya too. Since ya walked through the damn doors a year ago. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“What about Wanda?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. “It ain’t what ya’ve been thinkin’. Her husband died. Consumption. That’s why she’s here. She can’t stand to be alone.”

“But she kissed you when she came, and that night—” Steve furrows his brow, trying to piece together what Bucky’s saying. His heart won’t stop pounding against his chest, though he can’t shake the fear that the rug will still be pulled out from under him.

“That’s just how she is. If ya were her friend, she woulda kissed ya too. And ‘bout that night, she drank ‘til she was full as a tick. She wasn’t in a state to spend the night by herself, so I let ‘er sleep in my bed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything until now?”

“Why didn’t ya?” The look in his eyes is reflected right back at him in Bucky’s. Steve’s heart jumps to his throat. There’s no use denying the truth or avoiding it. Steve’s not sure that there ever was.

“‘Cause I was scared I was wrong, and I couldn’t face it if I was. I used to rely on my good judgment, but lately...”

They stare at each other, the truth laid out between them, and then Steve leans forward. His right hand reaches up, cupping Bucky’s face as he presses their lips together. Bucky lets out a muffled sound of surprise, and their noses bump up against each other. Steve's fingers slip to Bucky's neck. He runs his fingers up just slightly into Bucky's hair; it's enough to knock his hat askew.

Steve opens his eyes—though he doesn't entirely remember shutting them—and Bucky's eyes are on him, trusting yet searching. He pulls away, just an inch away from Bucky's face, and asks, "Should I stop?"

"Don't you dare," Bucky whispers. From here, Steve can see how flushed Bucky’s face is, and for a moment he soaks in the sight in front of him—Bucky’s shoulders rising rapidly, dazed and distracted enough that he slips half an inch down against the wall.

Then, Steve closes the gap again, tightening his fingers on the back of Bucky’s neck, eliciting a soft whimper. It's messy and desperate, but Steve can't help but want more. The heat between them feels unyielding—intoxicating even. Bucky's hand falls to Steve's side, and he grips it, catching himself as Steve runs his tongue across Bucky's lower lip, coaxing his mouth open.

Bucky’s nails dig into him, sharp and painful, and Steve tangles his fingers into Bucky's hair before tugging lightly. It’s barely a reprimand, but it’s enough, and Bucky’s fingers loosen, though he continues to stare at Steve hungrily.

The world spins around him, and Steve reaches out with his other hand, pinning it to the wall behind Bucky to steady them both. He feels intoxicated, and each noise out of Bucky's mouth makes his knees nearly buckle beneath him.

Around them, the whole town drops away until it’s just him and Bucky, and Steve wonders how anything ever existed before this.

Then, Bucky rolls his hips forward. It’s unconscious—Steve’s certain of it—but tethers Steve back on Earth, cutting through this haze. Bucky is hard.

Heat rises in Steve’s cheeks until he's sure they're pink and flushed, but Bucky is too far gone to notice. He stares for a second longer, taking in the way Bucky's pupils are blown and his eyes glazed over. Then, Steve drops the hand pressed against the wall and brushes it against Bucky's cock. Even against through the fabric, it feels hot against his hand.

Bucky jerks, teetering off-balance until he catches himself. His breath hitches, and Steve rolls Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth before pulling back just enough to speak. “Can I?”

Bucky tugs his head up and down before letting his head fall backwards. It hits the wall with a soft thunk, though Bucky hardly seems to notice. He eyes flutter shut, and he rolls his hips forward, eager for more contact.

It takes him a moment to get the buttons undone and push past layers, but soon enough, he finds what he’s after. Steve’s fingers close around Bucky’s cock, and he swipes his thumb experimentally over the head. Bucky jerks, and he reaches to the front of Steve’s shirt, his fist tightening around the fabric.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Bucky breathes, and the air that comes out tickles Steve’s cheek.

If this were a different time, Steve thinks he might draw it out. He wants to see how far he can take it before Bucky relents and begs; the thought is dizzying. But now they’re in an alley, and Bucky’s body is far from familiar. Teasing—Steve thinks—can come once he knows how to draw Bucky to the edge without pushing him over.

Now, Steve just wants to feel.

He wraps his hand back around Bucky’s cock and strokes once, earning him another moan. He tries again, twisting his wrist as he does, and marvels at the way Bucky slips further down against the wall.

His lips fall to Bucky’s neck as he sets a rhythm. He starts at his collar and kisses his way up until he finds a spot on Bucky’s neck that makes him whimper. Steve grazes his teeth against it before sucking lightly, and Bucky keens.

Before long, Bucky begins to roll his hips forward, frantically trying to match Steve’s pace, and Steve kisses him hard. When Bucky starts to tremble and sweat drips across Steve’s fingers on Bucky’s nape and down into the collar of his shirt, Steve knows Bucky’s close. He tightens his grip and loosens it before twisting his wrist again and speeding up.

Bucky can hardly hold himself up by the time he comes. Steve shifts his hand down from Bucky’s neck to around his waist and pins him against the wall. He comes with a shout, muffled against Steve’s lips, and Steve works him until Bucky is shaking, raw and oversensitive.

Only then does he pull his hand out, careful not to get anything on Bucky’s clothes. He brings his fingers to his lips and tastes, and Bucky watches him through half-lidded eyes. Bucky tastes hot and bitter. He swirls his tongue around his fingers and pulls them out with a pop.

“You all right?” Bucky’s head falls forward into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, and he nods before taking deep, heaving breaths. They stand there for a minute like that, Steve supporting the majority of Bucky’s weight as he settles back into the present. Now that Bucky has come, he’s aware of his own arousal more than ever, and he positions his hips back slightly.

Nonetheless, Bucky notices. He shifts his weight eventually and stands up straight as his hand falls from Steve’s side. The bulge in Steve’s pants is unmistakable, and Bucky reaches a hand forward. When he starts to drop to his knees, it takes a concentrated amount of effort for Steve to shake his head and put a hand against Bucky’s shoulder to stop him. “Not now.”

“But ya—” Steve presses a finger to Bucky’s lips, and Bucky stills.

“Later. Shouldn’t you be getting back to Wanda before she worries?”

It’s the right decision, but Steve can tell that Bucky hates him for it. His eyes narrow, and he clenches his jaw as he tries to come up with an excuse, but Steve’s stern look dissuades him. At last, his shoulders drop in defeat.

“I suppose I should see to it that she ain’t by herself in there.” Bucky pouts, bordering on petulant, and Steve chuckles.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Buck. You can knock on my door when you get back, and we’ll make up for lost time.”

His words do exactly what Steve hopes they will, and Bucky swallows thickly as his eyes cloud over anew.

- - -

Steve takes a step back and looks at the house. “We ought to take a look at the inside,” he says, eager to show off his handiwork.

“Steve, I’ve seen it every day this past week. I think I know what it looks like by now.” When Steve scowls, Bucky relents and waves both of his hands—including the prosthetic the doctor made for him—up defensively in front of him. “Alright, but if this is just to impress me, ya should know ya already did that a long while back.”

Steve’s still not used to the compliments. If the past month has taught him anything, it’s that Bucky is brimming with them and always ready to dish them out, if only to see Steve flush. It’s indulgent and over-the-top, but he loves the way Bucky’s lips curl into a self-satisfied grin each time.

They step in and shut the door behind them. The inside of the house still needs to be cleaned up. There’s sawdust to be swept out, and the windows are still covered in fingerprints from when he installed them. But it’s beautiful—at least Steve thinks so. The stairs took longer than he thought to build, but it’s concrete, real, and bigger than himself in a way that makes Steve feel proud.

“So, what do you think?” Steve asks. “I reckon it’ll look better once you move in, but—"

“It’s the best house I’ve laid my eyes on.” Bucky leans in and presses a kiss to Steve’s jaw. “I mean it truly.” The words are enough to make him relax, and Steve nods once before reaching out and running a hand absentmindedly up and down Bucky’s back.

They stand like that, taking in the house in front of them, and—like that—it hits him. They haven’t talked about Steve leaving since Bucky first asked him about it. It’s been present in the unspoken gaps in their conversations and passing glances, but neither has been able to work up the courage to say anything, afraid it’ll make it more concrete.

Until now—that is.

“You know where yer headin’?” Bucky asks, his voice strained.

Steve’s hand drops, and he shakes his head. “Haven’t given it much thought.”

The air between them feels thick in a way that Steve knows has nothing to do with the summer heat. Next to him, Bucky lets out a loud sigh. “I get the impression that this house is larger than I can fill just on my own.”

Steve blinks slowly, trying to ground himself. “Oh? Who are you thinking of asking to live with you?” It’s a stupid question, and he knows it. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to lean into the hope swelling in his chest.

“A long time ago, I asked why ya didn’t like bein’ called a gunslinger. Ya told me what you did was different. It had more t’do with executin’ justice than anything else.” Bucky speaks slowly and carefully, and his eyes don’t waver from Steve’s.

Steve recalls the conversation and nods in agreement. “What does that have to do with your house?”

“There’s just as much a need for justice here as anywhere else.” Despite his even tone, Bucky’s words sound like a plea. “This town could use a sheriff, and somethin’ tells me you’d make a mighty fine one.”

Steve’s ears ring as the words settle. The thought of stillness has always terrified him before, yet now he feels oddly calm, as if he’s known all along that he’s planned on staying, and the only thing he’s been waiting for is for Bucky to ask. Steve lets out a shaky breath until he can push no more air out of his lungs. “You think?”

“I can assure you so. Hooples around town fixin' for some trouble could use a lesson in justice.”

Steve steps forward and wraps a hand around the front of Bucky’s shirt, tugging him forward until their lips meet. The house—their house—falls away until the only thing that’s left is Bucky. When he pulls back, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“I expect the bigger room, or else I’ll be sore-disappointed,” Steve teases.

“Already listin’ demands.” Bucky clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth in mock-disapproval. “But I suppose—if ya ain’t opposed to sharin’, ya can have it.”

“I accept your offer, Mr. Barnes,” Steve says, and he kisses him once more.

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

High Tide || Season 1 Finale Chatzy

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The beach PARTIES: @wardinasrani  @carbrakes-and-stakes @inconvenientsimonstrocity @hackysackace SUMMARY: Ritual at the beach

“Hey Bill.”

Bill Took looked from counting money behind the General Store’s cash register. He absently glanced across the counter to meet the unblinking stare of Sam Rainsbottom. A long silence passed as Bill waited for his teenage clerk to offer up some inane lacrosse trivia or give some hyperactive opinion of how ‘lit’ something was. But Sam just stood there absolutely still, only the slightless rise and fall of the short boy’s chest letting Bill know that he wasn’t having a staring contest with a statue.

“Um...yeah Sam?”

“They're calling me,” Sam said in a dull monotone. “I must go.”

“Sure Sammy, I can clock you out. Who is…” It was then that Bill bill noticed the bloody boxcutter on the store’s floor and shifted enough to see the designs cut into Sam’s palms, welling up like eyes crying red tears. “Oh my god, wait Sam! What..”

But Sam Rainsbottom was already out the door, each step matching a rhythm that sang through his veins. The chant filled Sam’s ears and rushed along his spine like ice, drowning out the words of friends and relatives that attempted to stop the boy, features transfixed in mounting concern. Sam apologized with a drugged smile and insisted in a soft far away voice that the stars Vanth and Orcus stood ready at the gate, and the great vaults of Amansinaya echoed with the cries of those who’d been born adrift from time. He mustn’t keep them waiting.

The cloud’s had congealed into the red-stained amber of evening by the time Sam’s slow steady steps carried him over Jericho Hill and through a small patch of woodlands suddenly devoid of bugs or birdsong. The wordless melody guided him past Dark Score Lake and beyond the habor’s docks where Sam’s father was probably anchoring his fishing boat for the night.

The waters of the ocean seemed to stretch out like a vast sacrificial slab, churning with strange whirls and ripples despite there being no wind. Hooded figures cavorted in a festival of antediluvian worship on the shore. Sounds of fire, lightless caverns, lightning turning sand into glass came from the congregations’ lips, bathing Sam’s ears in alien psalms that played havoc with his neurochemistry and instilled the air with a pressure that felt like the moon had drawn too close to the Earth.

Sam’s tennis shoes crunched on the sand as he approached the beach.

Simon didn’t normally find himself at the beach, especially after the last couple weeks he had. First the wolves, then the full moon and its… horrors, the past week with whatever illness he seemed to have contracted, the vision at the Morgue... All of it was worrying, almost so much so that he nearly didn’t even notice as he was walking to his car that he… wasn’t actually walking to his car, abandoning the things he had bought uh... Somewhere as he instead walked in the general direction of the ocean. He didn’t have a chance to go home as he was initially trying to head to his car with food for his dog nor did he have a choice for what he WANTED to do - there was a thought in his head, a new set of sounds that he couldn’t understand that felt like a string of ink being woven through his neurons, getting mixed up with the wires already crossed from his being a wolf and he wanted to stop walking but he couldn’t. He walked, feeling almost like a zombie that aimlessly shuffled though he did his best to make it look like he DID know where he was going and why and he didn’t let the facade drop until he found himself with a small collective of other people, two men and… Alain? What was he doing here? He glanced down and saw the things that he presumed one of the men had drawn, and though it didn’t look immediately recognisable to him, he deduced that it was magic of some kind. Another ritual? He noted the rock in the center and, not entirely sure what to do or why he was here other than some otherworldly compulsion, he rubbed an arm with his hand awkwardly and stood there, quiet and waiting for… HOPEFULLY some form of explanation, wondering if any of this had to do with the vision he saw from the supernatural eyeball that stuck to his hand.

Years of practice, hours of preparation, and yet Darwin's forehead was damp with sweat as he traced the lines of the Circle in the sand. It wasn't ideal, he'd have to make sure the waves wouldn't erase all his hard work, but the ritual had to happen at the beach. That's where everyone would be summoned, and where they'd stop the madness that's been plaguing the town. Or die trying, but Darwin tried not to dwell on that.

People started gathering, and Darwin finally decided to show himself. He walked toward the others, hands raised in an offer of peace. His movements were slow, calculated, and he used the shadows to mask his nervousness. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “Good evening. You might be wondering why you've been called here, or by whom.” He paused dramatically and turned to point at the area he'd prepared a little farther down the beach. A big rock had been placed at the center of the circle, forming a rudimental yet effective altar, and on it he placed his tools: a dagger, a bowl, and a small wooden box that somehow seemed to shake every now and then as if something inside was tossing and turning. “We're here to put an end to a great menace that could very well wipe this town out. We all have a role to play today, and it is imperative that we do it well, or we might be doomed. We'll only get one chance, so I expect everyone to follow my instructions carefully.”

Again, he paused. How did you explain to a bunch of strangers that you were a demon expert about to summon a monster in front of them and force them to fight each other in the hopes of channeling some mystical force and banishing a creature that they might not even have seen? Darwin pinched his nose and sighed. Tonight would be harder than expected. He let his eyes focus on each of the others, studying them, trying to figure out who everyone was supposed to be. “I know none of you have any reason to trust me... So trust yourselves. You all came here following an impulse, deep inside you know we must act now. I promise... And those of you well-versed in the supernatural know that's not a word that should be used lightly... I promise that everything I'll ask of you will be for the good of everyone. Now... One of you should be able to change their form. Now would be the time to do so. Their natural enemy should encourage them.”

The hunter still had patches of grey ash in his hair as he approached the sea shore. This was not his plan for the night, but he had left the cemetery with no complaints, crossed the road ignoring the sound of honks and ended up stepping on wet sand, toward the group of people who he knew he had to join. His true purpose was to be here, with these people, with that kid who worked at the store next to his garage, this guy with the really excellent barber, and Simon ? What the hell was Simon doing here? The last time the two had been near water, Alain had ended up in jail. Yep, he did not like how this was going.

The promise made by Barber guy did not convince him, but he was right about everything he had said. Something had brought them here, something bigger than them all, certainly. Completely ignoring whatever rules he had on discretion, the hunter drew his sword out and turned toward Simon. There was something in the way Simon had reacted to the news of a shifter being present that did not sit well with the hunter. Pointing his sword in his direction, Alain stepped forward. The look on his face was neither grim nor menacing yet, but the threat was very present. He spoke calmly, although his tone and attitude would change, should he not listen. “Simon, I have no idea what is going on, but, I think this guy is right?” He would not have been able to explain why, but the man was right. He had to be.

And so it was that Sam Rainsbottom found himself on a beach with a bunch of Metallica Fans, a guy who believed the lake was possessed by demons, a guy who looked as confused as Sam himself, and a last guy who apparently was a preacher trying to get the other guy change and accept Jesus into his heart...or be stabbed?

“W-woah woah,” the teenager said, trying to interpose himself between Alain and Simon. The chanting and growing sense of dread had taken Sam’s nerves to a feather pitch. But though Sam was visibly shaking in the face of horrors he didn’t understand and the lacrosse championships were about as “violent” as he was up for. However he wasn’t going to let some guy get stabbed because of this creepy lake jesus religious stuff.

“Stop!” It suddenly occurred to Sam that he was interposing his attractive yet very soft and slashable body in front of a dude with a sword. ...Regrets? Yes. “I don’t know what’s going on, but don’t hurt him!”

So in one moment, Simon had no idea what he was doing but in the next, the man with the fantastic facial hair had given a succinct, yet understandable explanation for why they were gathered - well, understandable as it could’ve been given that he was correct about this being a ritual. The part he was a little more concerned with, however, was how the man with the facial hair mentioned that one of them should be a shifter. He wasn’t referring to… Simon, was he? Maybe he was talking about the younger man… he didn’t peg Alain as a shifter either and he obviously wasn’t talking about himself. “Y-yeah, about that last part--” He didn’t get to finish his sentence when Alain suddenly pointed a… sword at him. Alain owned a sword? “Hey!” He held his hands up, taking a step away from Alain. “Alain, it’s… me? Simon?” He asked uncertainly. He wanted to mention that he was not, in fact, a shifter; just a normal person with other people and this was all some massive misunderstanding. Even if he was, he didn’t CHOOSE to shift - that was something only born wolves could do, right? Then the youth jumped in front of him and while he didn’t necessarily feel protected, it was slightly comforting to see someone so noble as to take a sword for him, if only for a couple seconds until the sword pierced through him and into Simon himself. “Uh… I think you have the wrong guy,” Simon mentioned, looking over at the ritual-performer despite something inside him knowing that something was wrong. Well, wrong-er.

“No, no, no!” Darwin blurted out, shaking his head. “First the shifter will change, then blood will be drawn, you're doing this all wrong!” Amateurs. He had to remind himself that these people didn't know what Darwin knew, and admittedly his explanation had been vague. At least they seemed the heroic, self-sacrificing types, that bode well for the ritual. With an exasperated sigh he took another couple of steps backward, moving closer to the circle. “Very well, let me be more clear. One of you is a shifter, one is a hunter, one is a human. And then there's me, I'm the magical one. And the sharpest dresser, clearly.” That last bit wasn't necessarily true, but it helped him: while the dark clothes, the many mystical symbols hanging from his neck and the eyeliner only made him look like one of the bad guys they gave him confidence, and he needed to project the aura of a man perfectly in control if he wanted to inspire trust. “Now, I don't care who's who. And if you're worried about your identity being discovered, there are spells we can do to make people forget. We're here as allies, not enemies. But,” he paused dramatically, his eyes focusing on each of the others. “Balance must be restored. Hunters hunt, and shifters shift, that's how it's always been, and how it must be tonight.” Of course, he kept it to himself the role the human would have to play. Somehow he figured it would be best to save certain revelations for the very last moment. “We don't have much time. The cultists might find us. So, you, with the sword...” He focused his attention on Alain. “I assume you're the hunter here. If a change won't happen in the next moments, it is your duty to make it happen. By force, if necessary.” Darwin took another long pause, this one clouded with genuine fear. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he opened his arms. “You can even attack me if it'll make the shifter change. Just... Not the face, please.”

Alain’s attention went back toward sharp beard, who looked exasperated, at best. Alain, who was far from impressed by the man’s accusations, did not comment, and instead listened, lowering his sword. It wasn’t like he had anything to fear from grocery boy and Simon. Yet. If anything, he was more worried about the man who claimed he was a magician. He reminded him of Felix in some aspects, and that was not really a good sign for the hunter. “So this is about bringing balance back to the force? Dude, that’s the plot of Star Wars.” If he shook his head with disapprovement, he did not leave. He would have left, maybe he should have left, but he had this feeling he couldn’t quite catch, that kept him here, with this group of seemingly normal people. He had to play his part, and if whatever this guy said was true, then maybe they would finally stop getting fish rain, eyeballs everywhere, endless nights, and other types of horrors. He was not the kind to get his hopes up, as he could not afford being disappointed again. And so he listened, and looked at Simon from over the kid’s shoulder. “Simon, you have to shift. You need to shift,” they did not have time to lose. Cultists were everywhere and they would find them if they did not get this over with, and that’s what brought him to get his free hand on Sam’s shoulder, pushing him aside as easily as if he were a toddler. “I don’t know why you’re here, kid, but let’s make sure you don’t get hurt.” And if Simon turned, then Alain would keep on making sure of that. “Now Simon, don’t make me do things I don’t want to do, and turn.”

Black waves lapped at the shore. Sam’s lived near the ocean all his life and been running around his father’s fishing boat since he’d been old enough to walk. Each wave usually had gradations of color that reflected the hues of the sky, topped by white froth as the tiniest particles of water reacted with friction against the air. Sometimes algae deepened  it with green or undercurrents dredged up bioluminescent creatures that made the sea look a starry tapestry unto itself.

But now the waves were just a cold stygian void, broken only by beach debris of eyes whose neve cords tangled together on the sand like some perverse nightmare version of kelp.

Sam Rainbottom did not believe in magic, demons, aliens, werewolves, superhumans, or wizards. Even God, karma, and the angels seemed like wishful thinking in a world where so many were hungry and hurting for seemingly no reason.

But as he looked at the grim travesty that afflicted nature and say cavorting cultists beseeching the chthonic depths of the sea and outest reaches of space with sounds no human tongue could utter, something instinctive in Sam knew that something was wrong. Not wrong in the sense that this preacher guy was going to stab this other guy, or weird as in whatever sexy Gandalf over there was talking about. There was a more profound wrongness in the air right now that Sam felt in his bones, but didn’t have the words to explain or deny.

Sam wasn’t thrilled about being pushed by sword-preacher guy, but had been manhandled so easily that even Sam was stupid enough try his luck on that front.

“S-so uh...what d-do you need me to do,” he asked Sexy Gandalf, glancing nervously at the clusters of hooded figures by the shore whose chanting was rising in sonorous urgency. Sam wasn’t really sure why he was actively volunteering for whatever Satanic ritual was going down here, save that Sexy Gandalf seemed to be the sole point of certainty in a world going increasingly mad.

Wait wait wait WHAT? What was going on right now, where did Simon make the wrong turn and how did he get off the ride? He still held his hands up in surrender and looked at the strange cast of characters he was around. “I don’t know what you’re thinking is going to happen,” Simon didn’t address anyone in particular but his quiet voice was taking a tone to it - fear, most likely. He didn’t think they knew what was going to happen because HE didn’t; up to this point, he had no memory of when he’d transform and was forced to put the pieces of the night together going by clues he was left the morning after. He wanted to protest that he wasn’t a shifter insomuch as an ‘involuntary curse-bearer'; when he thought ‘shifter’, he thought of someone like Nora who could control her form or even a Born wolf like Salva or Ariana. Simon not only didn’t have control, he didn’t have memory of those times. “I, uh… I can’t,” He decided to conclude lamely. “I have no idea what I’m doing or how I’m… doing.” This was awkward. He hated talking about himself and what he... Could or couldn’t do. “You sure you can’t find any actual shifters?” He was pushing the problem off and he wanted to help, almost more than anything at the moment given the evident peril but he had ACTUALLY no idea of how to help.

“I haven't seen Star Wars, but I can only assume it ripped off from other ancient stories, because this is the plot of many rituals older than the written word itself.” Darwin replied to the Hunter, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Comparing magic to some ridiculous sci-fi flick. Tsk. At the very least the Hunter seemed willing to go through with things, as was the human.

Darwin turned to the kid and put his arm around him, doing his best to sound reassuring and comforting. Not a role that fit him, but he tried. “Young man, you're going to have the biggest part in this. Aside from mine, obviously, I'm the main character in this play.” A wink, playful, meant to ease the tension and to buy some time. How could it break to him the news that he was going to be a sacrifice? Darwin hoped it wouldn't be fatal, they needed the human to survive, but with the cultists so close, a demon about to be freed and a shifter that was obviously as green as the lettuce he had earlier... Things were looking grim. He hid his concerns behind a practiced smile. “You, my dear, are going to make this whole ritual possible. Without you,” without your blood he mentally corrected himself, “We wouldn't be able to do what needs to be done. You'll make it vulnerable.” Darwin didn't elaborate on the 'it', deciding to turn to the shifter instead.

The very reluctant shifter. “You don't seem to grasp the situation here. Hear the chantings? That's a bunch of cultists. You know all the eyes? In the sky, in the sink, in people's flesh...” To further make his point, Darwin raised his palm, showing the empty eyelid still there, sleeping quietly in the center of his hand. “They're working to bring forth something even worse. The magic we'll perform here will stop them, will stop everything. But we need you to transform.” With every word he took a step closer to the shifter. The instructions were clear, the hunter was supposed to force the change. But things weren't going according to plan, he needed to improvise. Of all the hunters and shifters he could get, he had to be stuck with the peaceful ones... He had to push them, somehow. With a sudden movement, he raised a fist toward the Shifter's face. Darwin closed his own eyes as he swung his fist, hoping that an old-fashioned brawl would get the Hunter and the Shifter into the proper mood.

The hunter looked at the self proclaimed leader, who sure had a lot of wrong opinions, with all the disdain he could summon. He must have been the spitting image of his father right now, and his disdain grew bigger, but for himself this time. His wrinkled nose still there, Alain watched as Darwin wrapped an arm around the kid.

If there was something Darwin could do, it might be to make sure that Sam was kept from harm’s way. However, something the magician said brought another frown to his face. What could he possibly mean by this? Was Sam in danger? A bigger danger than this situation, being near those cultists, was? Pinching at the bridge of his nose, Alain gave Mr.Talkative a look. “And what part exactly does he play?” Although, instead of an answer, all he got was Darwin raising his hand on his friend.

He had to react, fastly, and that’s exactly what he did although, now that Darwin’s fist was out of the way, they still had to find a way to make Simon shift. Force him to shift. If he was close to dying, he would have no other choice, no matter how good a person he was. “I’m sorry, bud,” with no warning, he wrapped his hand around Simon’s throat, and started squeezing the life out of him. With his hand on him, whatever happened next, he would at least have some sort of control over the situation, right? Unless…

This whole situation seemed like a bunch of bad ideas rolled into one grandiose bad idea. Everything the snappy dresser said made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand up all over again. The more he talked, the more Simon was being put under the impression that this was another one of those blood rituals. GRANTED, the last time he participated in one, they only needed a couple drops so surely that might be the case here, right? But then the man turned to him and he tensed up instinctively. The cultists, the unnatural eye the man flashed on his palm, the recollection that there was possibly a supernatural eldritch squid in the lake and the sun being reduced to a giant eyeball… the werewolf took a step back for every step the supposed spellcaster took towards him to maintain that distance but stopped when the other man did. There was a soft exhale, maybe it was-- Aaaand it wasn’t over. While he didn’t flinch necessarily, Simon’s reaction time already prepared him for getting decked in the face but the impact never came, instead blocked by Alain’s hand. What was wrong with these people? If they could just talk things out, this could be solved, right? “Look, I’m sorry but I can’t just--” He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence when Alain went from blocking the mustachioed man's incoming punch to starting to strangle him. He was caught off-guard by it and at first, for just a split second thought that it was a ploy but he quickly realised that it wasn’t as superhuman strength dug fingers into his neck, rapidly blocking off his circulation. Without thinking, his hands went up to Alain’s, scrabbling at it to get him to let go but he felt like he was in the lockjaw of a crocodile. “Alain--” He gasped, managing to figure out what was happening in those few seconds and if he was permitted to remember this, he would be sure not to blame Alain in any way for his decision. It made perfect sense; neither of them knew what would spark a forced transformation and the thoughts refused to cross Simon’s mind. He was killing him, that much he could feel. The human kept struggling fruitlessly, trying with every fiber to regain control of the situation because in the bottom of his gut, this was not going to go how it was planned anyway. At this point, he could only hope for forgiveness for what he was about to do. “I’m-- sorry…” Then it began; unimaginable pain coursing through his body, ripping over and under and in between every cell of his being. Grunts morphed into yelling that one usually heard on a battlefield accompanied with a missing limb before the shock took them. The hands that grappled Alain’s sharpened, lengthened and mutated where the claws started to dig into the skin. Clothes were ripped as though they were made of paper mache as fur sprouted like grass in tufts; this was no partial transformation, not this time. The yells turned into snarls and growls as Simon was twisted around and subsequently unfurled like a blooming flower, a writhing mass of sharp bits and angled limbs, gangly and wiry. Though the process might’ve seemed like it took several hours, it was over in a matter of minutes; where the man stood before was now a lithe, deep brown beast with piercing blue eyes and a long, scraggly tail that hung behind him, swaying faintly and breathing heavily through its nose as if it just ran a marathon. And it was fast. Eyes dancing over Alain’s features for a few seconds, then the spellcaster’s, a thin snout took to the air briefly before it dropped onto its long front legs and turned sharply to find Sam. Weak link. First prey. It leapt for the human, hearing only the call to destroy something, someone.

Like most human residents of White Crest, Sam lived in a state of a pathological denial. On some level it was a defensive tactic that the mind employed to shelter itself from grim truths best left unknown. Since colonial antiquity, Sam’s ancestors had been born and raised on land that teetered on the liminal horizon between Earth and Non-Euclidean dimensions whose alien realites defied hominid understanding. The only way for a powerless mortal to cope was to censor their own perceptions. The blindfold had been handed down generations and placed over a child Sam’s eyes by parental admissions whenever he mentioned things half-seen in the night.

But now, as a man contorted and seemed to split open before him, there were no more safe lies that Sam could tell himself. There was no sanitized logical explanation for the cracking of bones as they forcefully elongated or the serpentine slithering of muscle cords beneath the skin as organs and fibers reshaped themselves in seconds. The familiar form of human being was punctured by claws and fangs before distending until a sickening skull-crunch followed a man’s visage vanishing into something elongated and lupine. This was impossible..wrong. Sam must be dreaming, crazy, or high maybe. But when that feral sapphire gaze met his own, the young man knew in his blood that he was fully lucid.

Sam’s pale blue eyes widened with the terror of revelation, as if rose-tinted glass had been finally shattered to let in true light for the first time.

The teenager staggered a few steps back as the hulking russet-furred predator charged at him, stumbling on the slick occipital nerve seaweed as his pale lips mouthed soundless words of panic.  

Darwin didn't fight back when the Hunter pushed him away from the shifter. That sort of quick reaction, when blood boils hot and instincts take over, that's exactly the sort of reaction he was hoping for. He didn't bother answering the other men's questions, he just hurried back to the circle. The sound of bones shifting and rearranging was disgusting, but to Darwin's ears it was music: it meant the transformation was underway. He checked the circle on the sand, still intact despite the waves lapping at it. This would work.

In the few seconds they had before the transformation was complete, Darwin shouted “The shifter needs to draw blood from the human! I know it's horrible, but it's what must happen.” Again, he regretted being the bearer of such bad news, but he had no time to reassure the group: he opened the box and picked up what looked like a glowing orb covered in runes. That was a family heirloom, or the closest to it Darwin had: a powerful artefact he'd stolen from the Asrani and had used to trap the demon with Nell's help. Without warning, Darwin grabbed the dagger and used it to stab the orb. The blade dug easily into what looked like stone, cutting it as if it was flesh, and demonic energy started flowing from it. It fell on the lines in the sand, and expanded, filling the circle and making it glow with an eerie light that mirrored the moon's. Darwin started chanting, ancient words of power he had committed to memory, and the light shone brighter, blinding even, as something started to take form in the center of the circle as the creature was being released by its magical bounds.

“In a moment, a demon will rise from this.” Again, Darwin made sure to raise his voice, making it loud enough to be heard over the growls and fighting. “It'll attack us. I need its blood. And the human’s blood. And time to perform another ritual. And no one must die!” Channeling his own energy into the circle to give the demon form was already draining him, truthfully Darwin wasn't sure they were going to make it, but he had to act confident. The creature in the circle was almost solid, drawing his magic and using it to feed its own appearance, and Darwin felt he could move his focus from the summoning to the fight behind him. He turned to watch the wolf, the hunter and the human. “Remember, I need blood, not death!” Reeeally helpful, Darwin.

The leap was the quick part but the Wolf was soon inches from Sam’s face, drained of colour and frozen with shock. He was on the ground, not as exciting for the kill. The wolf loomed over him, dark umber fur brushing against Sam’s pale skin as its nose took in the terrified scent of the boy, his face, his hair, his neck. As it absorbed the stench of its prey, pitch-black claws held Sam’s arms, digging into the soft flesh as though they were made of melting ice cream. It drew back its head, the mangy fur on its thin neck bristling with a snarl that rumbled in its throat and it pulled its claws out sharply, leaving eight deep, dark gashes on his arms, four for each. The smell of blood flowed through his senses and it panted with a cruel desire. With another deep, guttural growl it reached forward again to put a paw on Sam’s stomach when suddenly it yelped and recoiled, feeling something pierce its hide on its hind leg and it whipped around to see Alain with his sword puncturing its skin, deep and sure as it sliced past part of the bone and leaving it notched. The blood dripping from its claws, it abandoned its previous quarry and instead turned to regard the slayer, keeping low to the ground with a limp immediately noticeable.

Demon. Blood. No dying. Ritual. Motherfucking magic nonsense.

Simon did not leave Alain any chance to protest or actually do what he wanted to do. Punch Darwin in the face. This pretentious fuck. He couldn’t stop the wolf from lashing out at Sam. Far from the hunter the idea of killing his friend, but some silver would have been nice to have. He did not really think this through, and while he was not entirely sure that this would work, clearly he could still do some damage with his sword, and stop Simon from hurting the poor kid. And so, as the wolf lifted his paw to strike again, the hunter bolted forward. The sword went easily through the flesh. He barely had time to breathe out in relief, for the beast was turning toward him (which he expected), menacing as ever. He had no other choice but to keep the damn thing away from Darwin and Sam, and so, readjusting the weight of his sword in his hand, Alain stepped back, luring Simon away from the two. Although the more he stepped back, the more he got close to the cultists. Perhaps this would end up being a two birds one stone situation. If he was being honest, facing a werewolf was not something he often had the chance of doing (to say the least) and improvisation being what it was, the hunter could not help but have a bad feeling about this. He had no idea, whatsoever, of how he was going to get out of this situation. If anything else failed, perhaps he would have to go for his usual methods, but losing Simon would truly be heartbreaking, and he wondered, what if, if someone died, none of this would even work?

One of the few tangential benefits of overwhelming confusion and terror is that your brain is so chock full of white noise that pain has to wait its turn. Sam looked down at his arms, palms bearing dried cuts from a boxcutter in the shape of eye-like sigils and now cruelly symmetrical slashes that welled up in scarlet. The athlete had lived a rough and tumble life with plenty of hard knocks and pain during practice, but the gulf between that and what he was experiencing now was so wide that Sam felt like he was being swallowed.

He had tunnel vision, eyes rimmed with wet red and darkness as the huge beast and man with a blade gracefully danced like deadly shadows at the edge of his consciousness, their movements like flickering flames as everything else threatened to be swallowed in smoke. For a time Sam heard only the steady crash of ocean waves and the ragged sound of his increasingly shallow breaths.

But something in Sam fought against the descent from shock into unconsciousness. When rational thought failed, instinct took the wheel, and a stubborn neanderthal part of Sam didn’t give a damn about things making sense so long as he lived. The teenager’s breathing steadied, perhaps having his coaches to thank for years of being hollered at as he powered through the enervating weakness brought on by blood loss and overstimulation. He staggered back to his feet and made his way over to Darwin, the memory of being needed there managing to cut through the dark fog in his head.

Darwin watched the fight, secretly grateful that he was a few feet away from that monstrosity. He had no qualms against werewolves, but seeing the wild beast going on a rampage only fueled his convictions: demons were better. You could reason with demons, bargain for your life. There was no talking to that bundle of muscle, fur and fangs, and seeing it in action he realized the Hunter would be too busy dealing with it to help Darwin with patching the human up.

The human was soon becoming Darwin's favorite person: even with deep gashes on his arms, he still made his way toward Darwin and the circle, and for that Darwin was grateful. He stepped closer to the wounded human and helped him walk where he needed him, right at the edge of the still glowing circle. “You're doing wonderful, just a few more steps, a few drops of blood and then it'll be over.” Darwin paused and quickly added “In the good way, not that you'll die. I won't let it happen.” As he spoke Darwin moved Sam's arms gently, so that they were right above the circle, and then... “I'm sorry, kid.” With only that as a warning, Darwin squeezed one of Sam's arms, watching as the blood dripped onto the circle where the demon's blood still awaited with an ominous glow. “With this sacrifice, thou art free,” he murmured, fueling those words with his own magic.

The moment Sam's blood touched the magical energy on the sand, it quickly spread, painting the lines of the Circle a deep, rich red, glowing with the demon's life force. The human's blood mixed with it, swirling and bubbling as it anchored the demon to this world, and the glowing figure in the center of the circle grew more concrete. The light solidified in a humanoid shape, wearing a dark suit that would be more fitted in a fashion show rather than here, on a beach, next to a rampaging werewolf. The creature's head, though, was far from human: instead of a face, a giant round mouth filled with curved teeth, the sort that would leave their victim no chance to free themselves.

The demon hesitated, bringing his hands to his own throat, and Darwin let out a sigh of relief: the magic was working: Sam's blood not only anchored the demon to this dimension, it also made it breathe. The logistics of it were lost on Darwin, he wasn't a scientist, but seeing the demon gasp for air let him know one thing: it could be drowned. And so...

“Hunter, wolf! Over here, drown the Dator! In the water! When the moon is at its peak!” Which was right about now, and would probably only last a few more minutes. They had to act fast. Of course, wolves were not known for being able to follow specific instructions, and the hunter was probably too busy to really listen to Darwin, so he had to come up with a new plan, quick. He considered using mental magic on the werewolf, something that normally he hated: he'd sworn he wouldn't use his powers to bend someone else's will, he was better than his family, but did he have a choice here? He focused, and tried to tune his magic to the wolf, sending it images of the demon, hoping it would make the wolf focus its attention on a new target, but as soon as he started channeling his energy, the Dator Vitae sensed Darwin's magic and turned its head toward him. Still struggling for air, the creature jumped forward, and Darwin wasn't quick enough to dodge: the demon tackled him to the ground, and the two started struggling on the sand. “Little help, here!” Darwin grunted, doing his best to keep the demon's mouth away from him.

He could hear Darwin shouting from afar, although what disturbed him the most was what he could see in the darkness. What the fuck was this monstrosity? Thoughts of beheading and burning it crossed his head, and this sounded like a much more pleasant option than Darwin’s. “Fuck no, I don’t wanna spend the next week hiding my hands and legs,” he cursed in French, and then started cursing at Darwin, and his whole family while he was at it. Alain knew what would happen if he put his hands in the water. He had ended up swimming in it just two weeks ago, and what followed had not been pleasant. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the ink did not fade, and he had to wait, and wait, and wait.

Alain, however, knew that he did not have a choice, and instead of keeping on dancing around Simon with his sword still in hand, the hunter darted on the wet sand toward Darwin, Sam, and the demon. In the long term, he doubted that he could outrun a werewolf, but what mattered now was to keep Darwin alive. It turned out that his habit of wounding legs was really a good habit to have.  Taking advantage of his short advance, the hunter kicked into the demon’s side, sending it flying a few meters away, head falling into the water. Heh. Maybe they wouldn’t have to walk into the water, after all. “Don’t thank me,” he shot a sarcastic smile at the all too proud magician, who had lost a bit of his glow now. Walking past him, the hunter kicked against the demon who was trying to get up, shaking his head. Glancing over at Simon in worry, Alain pressed his foot to the demon’s back.

The Wolf kept its bright blue eyes on Alain, seeing the glisten of its own blood on the blade he held up and pointed at it but not acknowledging that the blood was its own. Sam's gore filled its senses but now Alain was the prey and it circled with the hunter in a staring contest, eyes boring through the slayer, waiting for an opportunity to lunge, a spot of weakness, a move to counteract. Other voices were heard but ignored, other sounds tilted an ear but the man with the sword was the target.

Then it shook its head briefly but fervently, as if hearing an acute noise that punctured its concentration, images of something it couldn't understand but didn't inherently fear flashing before its eyes and in its head. The images were short enough not to fully register but in those few moments of distraction, Alain had made a move. Teeth bared and dripping saliva, the Wolf started to give chase and staggered with the first bound as its leg gave out before it had a chance to send adrenaline through its system to keep it going, sending the beast skidding along the ground. Once it righted itself, steeling its muscles, the second push was enough and the Wolf pursued, seeing Alain occupied with something. Perfect. It leapt at Alain, mouth gaping and claws out like a cat about to catch a bird.

Sam had responded to the appearance of a lamprey faced monster from the tribute of his own blood at first with dumb incomprehension. However when the creature had summarily attacked Darwin, Sam had immediately attempted to football tackle the Demon. Sam’s body was quickly losing blood, life, and strength. Nonetheless he fought against the creeping feeling of numbness in his limbs and tried to wrestle the strange suited thing off Darwin, teeth gritted in a blind determination to make the madness stop. Unfortunately Sam’s strength was purely mortal and wouldn’t have likely budged a Demon even if Sam’d was bodily sound and four feet taller.

The fact that the dude with the sword then interrupted Sam’s fierce mortal struggle to simply punt the lamprey monster into the water and do a Captain Morgan pose on it might have been a bit emasculating if Sam had the mental space to think about anything other than pain and the enormous wolf-thing making another charge.

“Dude heads up!”

Darwin was thankful to the human: even with his wounds still fresh he tried. Granted, he only managed to get the Dator Vitae more upset and to bleed all over Darwin's clothes, but that was secondary to the fact his intervention kept the demon from latching its face to Darwin's body and sucking him dry of magic. When Alain arrived and kicked the creature away, Darwin crawled back, trying to put a few more feet between himself and the fight.

“I'll thank you all once this is over,” he replied to Alain, voice tinted with a hint of frustration: his part had been done, and now that brawns were what truly mattered he felt useless. The Wolf's growling drew Darwin's attention to the giant shifter charging at them, and he panicked. The wolf seemed out of control, and headed toward Alain. He doubted the hunter would be able to handle both a Dator and a werewolf, so Darwin gathered the few magical energy he had left and focused again on the wolf, trying to create a mental connection between himself and the creature.

Despite being a skilled magician, and having studied mental magic for years, it was difficult: a shifter's mind was always slippery. Ever changing, and working on instinct more than rational thoughts, it gave Darwin very little to work with... There would be no communication with the wolf, at least not with words. Instead, Darwin pictured the Dator Vitae, and sent that image to the wolf, along with visions of raw, succulent meat, the smell of a grill and the woodlands, and hoped that would be enough to lure the wolf into attacking the demon instead of Alain. Still on the ground, out of breath and almost magicked out, there was nothing more he could do, and he lacked the human's stamina (or maybe it was willpower, the human truly seemed to be a remarkable individual) to push his own limits. Not to mention, he needed to save his strength to conclude the ritual once the demon had been drowned.

The Dator Vitae, for its part, refused to just stay down quietly. Using its supernatural strength, it struggled against Alain's foot, grabbing it with both hands and pulling, trying to make the hunter lose his footing and drag him into the water instead. In the distance, the chanting grew louder and louder… There was a good chance the cultists were approaching. Darwin could only hope Bertrand had somehow managed to lure them away from the ritual and would be able to distract them long enough.

“Putain de…” Alain frowned and did what he should have done seconds ago. Chopping off both the Dator’s arms, he turned toward the whole coming right at him. Good luck getting yourself up with no arms, the hunter thought to himself, although he didn’t really have time to check whether this thing could regrow limbs fast, as he now had to worry about Simon, who was leaping at him. A glimpse to the left and he saw Darwin and Sam looking somewhat safe. While he doubted that the human would help (and he did not blame him for it, or expected him to), Darwin sounded both like someone he would detest, and like someone capable, who knew what he was doing. Maybe it was the comment about Star Wars being a rip off, but the hunter had a bad feeling about the magician.

He tried to grab the wolf’s front legs, but the claws dug into his arms as he did so, and his foot slipped from the demon’s back. Alain really hoped that having cut off the arms would play its part into keeping this thing drowning. Right now, this was not really his priority anyway, razor sharp teeth were inching closer to his face the more the claws dug into his arms, forcing him to give more room to the wolf. “Bordel de coui- Simon, tu fais chier,” there were more curses in French as the hunter struggled to get the damn beast off of him. “A little help here,” he called out. Alain had not noticed it yet, too focused on Simon, but the chanting of the robed cultists had gotten louder and louder, as they were getting closer.

Everything seemed to be going in a blur yet standing still in time and the Wolf was no exception, in one area for a moment then advancing on Alain in the next, static yet in motion. It struggled with the hunter, snapping wildly at his face as its claws pierced the skin on his arms, being held at just enough of a distance though it pushed with strength that certainly belonged to it and not the human it was forced to share a body with. As it lunged and growled and drooled, however, its mind was filled with something else, something familiar yet distant and it recalled the images it suddenly saw, having been from minutes before. The combination of the images coupled with the new stench of whatever was coming from the armless thing in the water overrode the wolf’s instincts; Alain wasn’t the target anymore. The sensation was roughly akin to seeing another predator threatening to take away its prey. The wolf, with no trace of care, tore its claws out of the hunter’s arms and twisted in a fluid motion until its bright blue eyes fell upon the demon. Threat, thief, enemy of what was the wolf’s. With a barking snarl, the wolf dropped onto all fours again and dug its claws into the ground to get an extra burst of thrust as it aimed for the armless creature in the water, sharp night vision seeing that it LOOKED like water but it was pitch black. It didn’t need to focus on the water though, it only had eyes for the creature and it landed on the demon with the many rows of teeth, taking its paws to the snappy suit it was wearing and clenching its teeth into the shoulder of the other as the two rolled into the water, falling beneath the surface and becoming invisible in the murky black depths save for bubbles and splashes of activity from a stray limb.

Sam sat exhausted on the bloodsoaked sand watching as both wolf and lamprey creature vanished beneath black waves. It was easy then, as blood poured over his arms, to imagine that this wasn’t anything more than a dream. The pain was real though, climbing up his spine and guts. He coughed in thick shuddering gasps. Wide blue eyes drifted from Alain to Darwin, but nothing about their bloodstained appearances and bearing offered up any alternative explanation to Sam’s mind.

They’d murdered a wolf that’d split open from a dude, and a fish thing in a suit that’d been lubricated with blood out of a rock.

“This isn’t...that doesn’t.” The sky, sand, and sea began to spin like a gyroscope, switching places with each other. The world somersaulted and Sam felt like he tumbled off its axis. Damp sand and slick eyeballs pressed against his cheek as Sam slumped down on the shore and the world went dark.

The Dator Vitae had let out a terrible screech when its arms had been severed, but it didn't lose any of its fighting spirit, and only the weight of the werewolf kept it from lounging. Instead of attached to the spine of the hunter who'd hurt it, the Vitae found itself tackled by a wolf. Unable to fight back, it was dragged underwater, the black liquid filling its mouth. There was some sort of magic in the water, the demon could feel it, but it wasn't a magic it could feed on. Instead of strengthening it, it made it weaker. Its movements were sluggish as it tried fruitlessly to struggle against the beast keeping it underwater. The Dator's legs kicked, its teeth scratched, but the wolf was just too strong, and without its arms the demon couldn't get the upper hand, nor could it get free. And eventually, once the water was all it could taste, see and feel... The Dator Vitae stopped struggling.

“Good boy, keep it down!” Darwin mumbled to himself as he watched the wolf disappear under the pitch black water of the ocean. As the one who'd summoned the demon, he could somewhat sense its energy, and he smiled in feeling the way it faded with each passing second. He tentatively stood up and took a couple of steps toward the hunter, keeping a safe distance. “I think... Only a few more moments, and then it'll be over.” He sounded far more exhausted than panicked, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes of his concern. Gone was the façade of the confident magician, he was too tired, too drained to keep it up. He looked up and sighed. “Right on time... A few more minutes and it would've been too late.” As tired as he was, Darwin couldn’t keep a small smile off his face: the ritual had been completed, he could feel it. He gathered the last of his magical energy to send out a quick signal. A small flash in the sky above them, so that Nell would know they made it.

“Now we just need to find a way to calm the wolf and get out before the cultists arri” Darwin's voice was cut off by a sudden thump, and he turned to watch the human faint, his fall softened by the sand. “New plan. He needs a doctor, he lost a lot of blood.” Darwin silently vowed to keep watch on Sam's unconscious body once this was over, they owed it to him. Slowly, he reached the human, and did his best to lift him up, ready to carry him away, on his own if he had to. “Hey, Hunter...” Darwin frowned. They all worked together, risked their lives together, and he didn't know how else to call him. “We can’t do anything for the wolf, but he’s gonna be fine. He’s a wolf. And the cultists… They deserve an angry wolf.”

[kyleknight]

Apples and Cloves

October Writing Challenge Day 3 project: midnight verse (that nickle au I wrote last year) content: kyle knight/nick jonas, december’s tragedy au warnings: none, it’s just soft nickle :3 an: I have so many nickle aus now but this one is still one of my absolute favorites. I love it so much.

Every time Kyle calls Nick, he gets butterflies in his chest. The good kind of butterflies— the ones that flit around his heart with nerves and excitement and glee upon hearing Nick’s soft “hey Kyle” greeting. 

It’s been over a month since… since Halloween. Since everything happened with Midnight and despite all that, Nick still asked to date Kyle. Things have been good, but a bit crazy. A lot has happened all at once. Alexis became Brandon’s official replacement, Kyle wrote a ton of new songs, and Steve paid for a few days of studio time so they could speed-record the album. It’s good. Kyle is really proud of it.

Today, the band, plus Awsten and Jawn, are in the middle of filming a video for Soap Bubbles and Birthday Wishes. Right now, they’re taking a brief break for lunch. Asher and Scott left a few minutes ago to pick up tacos and burritos from Taco Wiz. Alexis and Otto are messing with the mannequin that Awsten acquired for the video shoot. Awsten and Jawn are on Awsten’s laptop, fussing with what they’ve filmed so far. 

Kyle has moved himself outside of the house they’re using. He sips at a thermos of apple cider— lukewarm now— and waits for the call to connect. Nick is in London right now, but he sent Kyle his schedule in case Kyle wanted to call. Kyle did the time zone conversions three times to make sure he wouldn’t be calling at a bad time.

Nick answers. The screen fills with his beautiful face, and Kyle’s butterflies expand in his chest. He’s so beautiful, Kyle forgets to say hi for a second.

“You look good today, Kyle,” Nick says. 

He looks good? He’s just wearing what he always wears. Plus a little bit of makeup for the camera. Kyle flounders at the compliment. “Thanks. Uh, you look really good too. How was the interview?”

Nick shrugs. It looks like he’s in a hotel room, so Kyle must have gotten the timing just right. “Not all that great. Old people talking down to us, not asking anything new. You know, same as every other interview. How’s the video coming?”

Kyle smiles and settles more comfortably against the porch of the house. “Probably not as exciting as any of your video shoots. It’s kind of funny, I guess. Awsten borrowed this mannequin from one of his classmates and we’re using it like its… well, okay, it’s actually going to end up being a really weird video. But I guess it’ll be memorable?”

Nick laughs at that. “What are you doing with the mannequin? Didn’t you say the song was a love song?”

“Yeah,” Kyle bites at his lip and looks to the side. “Uh…” How is he supposed to tell Nick that it’s a crushing type of long distance love song he wrote after one of their hours-long phone calls? “You’ll hear it soon, I promise. You still want to wait until we officially release the CD?”

Nick nods seriously. “It’s only another three weeks, right? I’ve got my preorder all set.”

“You preordered it?” Kyle says. “I said I was going to mail you one early!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nick says. “I want to support you. Tell me more about the mannequin. You aren’t going to kiss it, are you? Cause I might get jealous.”

Kyle covers his face with one hand. “No… although Awsten tried to get me to do that. It’s like… ugh. Okay, so we all have these parts where it’s like we’re on little dates with it. Spending time with it. It’s so weird. Thank god we’re also going to film us playing. I think Jawn wants those clips for the chorus. I don’t know, they’re going to work on editing it once we’re done today.”

“Hmm,” Nick says. “Kyle, I can’t believe this is my life now. A mannequin gets to be your boyfriend for the day and he might even kiss you. I have to say, I’m really feeling jealous.”

“He won’t kiss me,” Kyle says, suddenly feeling bold. “You’re the only one who gets to kiss me. You know you’ve got my heart. Just you.”

Oh god that was so cheesy. Also probably too much. They’ve only really known each other for a little over a month, after all. Kyle groans and hides his face again. “Fuck, just forget that, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Nick says. “I’m glad. Glad you like me more than this mysterious mannequin.”

Kyle takes another drink from his thermos just for the sake of not spitting out even more embarrassing statements. The taste of apples and cloves is nice, and would be nicer if it was still warm. It would be nicer still if he was sharing it with Nick. Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing he needs to not blurt out without thinking. 

Nick lets out a soft sigh. “I miss you. I want to try and visit before you go on tour, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away from everything for long enough.”

Kyle holds the phone closer to his face. “It’s okay. You’ll be in LA on the 21st when we’re playing there. That’s only about a month and a half away.”

Nick’s face also comes closer to his screen, so that Kyle has a close up of his eyes and forehead and hair. “That’s too far away.”

It does feel like it’s too far away. But Kyle knows the next three weeks are going to be packed with the album release party planning, the tour preparation, making sure Asher’s van isn’t going to give out on them mid-tour, and rehearsing the songs. Alexis is a guitar goddess, and she’s working on learning lead for all of their songs, so they’ve been putting in as much extra practice as they can to help her out. It’s amazing how December’s Tragedy feels far more complete with her than it ever did with Brandon. 

Kyle offers Nick a smile. “After that, we’ll have your tour. We’ll get to see each other every day. I still can’t believe that’s happening.”

“It’s still too far away,” Nick says. “I want to see you right now. I want to be in Dove and push that sexy mannequin aside so I can kiss you instead.”

Kyle’s face heats up. Nick is probably going to flip when he hears the lyrics of Soap Bubbles and Birthday Wishes. 

“I wish I could be in London with you right now,” he says. “Did you do anything fun after the interview?”

“Not really,” Nick says. “Joe and Kevin aren’t the best company, and I was hoping my boyfriend would call me. London would be way nicer if I had you here with me.”

Kyle can’t help the probably-goofy-looking smile that spreads across his face. Unfortunately, Asher’s van pulls up to the house at that moment. Asher steps out first, squinting at Kyle. 

“Hey,” they yell. “You wanna help carry this shit in?”

“Uh,” Kyle glances down at the screen. “Nick, I’m sorry, I’ll call you back in a minute—”

“No, it’s okay, you do your thing,” Nick says. “Have fun! I’ll be excited to see the video when it’s posted. I’ll retweet it.”

“Thank you,” Kyle says. “Uh. Have a fun time in London. Talk to you later.”

He feels bad ending the call, but he doesn’t have long to feel that way. Scott puts a heavy bag of Taco Wiz goodness into his arms and walks back towards the van. Kyle inhales the unbeatable smell of cilantro, jalapeños, and taco seasoning and moans a little bit. He carefully moves the bag to one hand so he can put his phone in his hoodie pocket and pick up his thermos.

“We just got all the two-dollar menu stuff,” Asher says as they walk past Kyle into the house. “So you can fight with Otto and Awsten over the chicken burritos. The refried bean supreme ones are mine.”

“Fine with me,” Kyle says. 

Everyone starts clamoring when they realize the food has arrived. Kyle puts the bag down and manages to snatch one chicken burrito before Otto and Alexis claim the others. Awsten complains and threatens to make all of them make out with the mannequin. Otto then shows Awsten how he and Alexis have managed to remove the mannequin’s head, which is nowhere to be seen. 

Kyle sits down with his burrito and opens his phone to look at his phone background. The picture of him and Nick. In a month and a half, he’ll have the chance to take another one. It really does feel too far away. 

As they start eating, someone starts playing Soap Bubbles and Birthday Wishes again. 

Cause all I want is kisses, Soap bubbles and birthday wishes, Sleeping in and hanging out and wishing on the stars. Yeah, all I want is with you When all I do is miss you, So I'll close my eyes and blow out the candles one more time tonight.

[duefaith-a]

          // @doctordonovan​ sent,  ❝  dance with me. for science. ❞

          There’s something he can’t quite put a finger on in the way his gaze drifts, almost warily, over the once familiar gym. More than ever, he feels the contrast between who he was and who he is, the yawning gap between familiarity and unfamiliarity, between comfort and unease. Cam’s become so accustomed to trouble that he subconsciously searches for it, even here at the high school where he passed his teenage years. Beyond this, his newest change in occupation has made conversations all the more difficult — he has nothing but lies to offer to account for his past year and a half, and he glosses all too eagerly over the nature of his previous injury to those who ask. An awkwardness lingers over all, a steadfast reminder of how much has changed, how none of them standing here are quite the people they were.

          It’s only belatedly, as the gentle pressure of her hand upon his arm drags him back to the present moment and his immediate surroundings, that he realizes he must have been frowning. Her request draws a look, eyebrows half-raised in question.

          ❛ What makes you think I can dance? ❜    he demands. It’s an empty protest for all he continues,    ❛ Besides, I might have almost failed Physics my junior year, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how science works. ❜    But there he lets resistance end, for it’s as much reflex and grumpy sense of humor as as anything; his heart’s not in it. Smile tugs at the corner of his lip, and he frees his arm from her grasp that he might place down his glass and take her hand in is.

[ericsonclan]

A Crown of Gold

Summary: Clementine is left alone in the greenhouse and decides to make a flower crown for Louis.

Read on A03:

Clementine sat on the floor of the greenhouse peeling vegetables for dinner. A pile of Jerusalem artichokes lay at her feet. Ruby had mentioned the other names for the plant as they were digging the roots up: earth apple, sunroot, sunchoke… it was interesting how the same plant could have so many different titles, especially when the part they were eating simply looked like a particularly lumpy potato. The flowers that bloomed on the surface revealed the true source of the sun-based names. Their bright yellow petals and orange cores reminded her a little of the sunflowers her mother grew in the backyard. She quite liked them. It was a shame they had to uproot them in order to eat.

“Everything going alright in here?” Ruby asked as she dragged a tub of vegetable peels that had been composting outside back into the room. “Nothing happened while I was gone?” “

No, Ruby, nothing happened in the three minutes you were gone,” Clementine hoped her tone hadn’t been too sharp. She knew Ruby was just looking out for her, but after weeks of mandated bedrest with constant visitors and everyone hovering about her when she stepped outside, Clementine had appreciated the few minutes of peace and quiet. She couldn’t be afforded privacy for long though: not when her freshly healed stump meant a wandering walker could overpower her if they ever crossed paths.

Ruby’s eyebrows dropped as she offered a sympathetic smile. The annoyance had bled through Clem’s words after all. “Oh, Sug, I know you’re antsy. It’s no fun being cooped up when all ya want to do is roam around freely. But I promise you this isn’t what every day will look like. Eventually we’ll have you back up on your feet and raring to go,”

Clementine sighed. “I know, Ruby. And it’s not like I don’t enjoy spending time with you, it’s just… this is a big change for me. For all of us,”

They both looked down at her bandaged stump. The pain was still there, hovering beyond the limb almost as if it was only injured, not missing. Ruby called it phantom limb pain. After a few days, Clementine had stopped bothering to mention it. She was already on a regimen of the strongest medicine they had. There wasn’t much else that could be done.

Ruby tutted. “To think that I’m letting you sit on this dirty floor when I shoulda marched you right out to the picnic benches and brought the tubers to you…”

“Ruby, it’s fine. I wanted it this way,” Inside here, she didn’t have to worry about running into any of the other kids and making small talk. She didn’t have to keep one eye out for A.J. to plaster on a smile as soon as he skipped over to her side. It wasn’t that company wasn’t pleasant; she just needed a few minutes to herself where she could sit with her stump and not wonder what those around her were thinking.

Ruby looked unconvinced at Clementine’s words, but let her be. She pulled on her gardening gloves and began separating the compost and spreading it throughout the planters. It hadn’t even been a month since they’d reclaimed the greenhouse and already Ruby had breathed enough life into it for them to be harvesting and replanting their crops. She and Clementine settled into a peaceful silence as they resumed their work. Once the bin was empty, Ruby looked toward the door, worry etched on her face.

“I’m not going to break if you leave me alone for ten minutes, Ruby,”

“I know that… Louis would have my hide though if he found you in here alone,”

“Louis? C’mon Ruby, he’s a teddy bear! Besides, dusk’s not coming for another half hour at least. You’ve got time,”

“Well… alright. I’m steppin’ out for just a few minutes to fetch some more false Solomon’s seal I saw growing by the dormitories. Don’t move, y’hear?”

“Mhm,” Clementine mumbled noncommittally. Not like she had the energy to escape this room anyway. She’d probably go to sleep as soon as dinner was done. The door clapped shut behind Ruby as she stepped out and Clementine was left on her own.

Now what? She’d already finished peeling all the Jerusalem artichokes. There were still things to be done about the greenhouse, but Clementine wasn’t well-versed enough to take the lead without fearing she would mess up Ruby’s hard work. Should she just sit in silence till Ruby came back? It wasn’t the worst idea in the world. Clementine rested her head against the planter behind her, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath. It smelled nice in here: earthy, like how the world was after a fresh rain. It was nice to just sit back and take it in.

She felt something poking her leg and opened her eyes to find one of the sunchoke stems had fallen nearby her. Clementine picked it up, twirling the stem around through her fingers. The flowers reminded her of a home long abandoned, but they also made her think of her new home here, the warmth and love she’d been given. They especially reminded her of one freckle-faced boy in particular and the mischievous smile he always threw her way. Clementine smiled to herself, tracing her finger along the outside of each individual petal.

This thing that she and Louis had was so new, yet so intense. Perhaps if they’d been living lives in the old normal ways things would have progressed more slowly. But every second of every day was a gift when death loomed around every corner. There wasn’t time to waste on pleasantries in the midst of utter chaos. To think that only a few weeks ago she hadn’t even met Louis… now here she was smiling like a fool because a flower reminded her of him.

She wanted to do something for Louis, something to thank him for all he’d done for her. How he’d carried her through the night, frantically trying to get her home as her blood seeped into the seams of his trench coat. How he’d kept watch at her bedside, unwilling to sleep until he saw her eyes open again. How he’d helped with the bloody bandages, the crutches, the nights when she couldn’t stop crying because of the pain that simply would not cease. Theirs was such a young relationship, but it had already been tested and tried with stakes far greater than most would willingly take on.

Clementine took another sunchoke in her hands, examining it carefully. The stems were thick, but if she was careful she bet she could slice through them successfully, just enough to interlock another stem without breaking the chain. She hadn’t made a flower crown since kindergarten. She wanted to try though, to give Louis some small gift to show her affection. Maybe it was a silly thought, but that certainly wouldn’t stop her. So she set forth on her task, pulling out her pocketknife and digging into the first stem.

The waning light coming through the greenhouse windows let Clementine trace the passage of time as she worked on her flower crown. Some stems broke, too frail to retain the needed shape. Others had flowers with mangled or missing petals. She wouldn’t have that. Clementine wanted perfection. As the crown began to take shape, Clementine tested it out on herself. It was a good fit, but would that hold true for Louis? How big did those dreadlocks make his head? She would simply have to give it her best shot. With a determined huff, Clementine got back to work.

By the time Clementine was about finished, the light outside was shifting from rich orange tones to the cool blue of night. She hadn’t really noticed, so absorbed in the task at hand. Some scuffling noises from outside captured her attention though.

“What the fuck, Ruby? You left her alone in there?”

“I didn’t mean to! I was only gonna be gone for a second. Then Molly broke out from her paddock and A.J. and I had to corral her back inside. I sent Willy to go sit with her, but then he got roped into some dinner prep by Omar-”

“I don’t want excuses! The greenhouse has been overrun before. What were you thinking leaving her in there instead of helping her sit out on the benches? Clem? Clem?” Louis busted through the greenhouse door, his brow furrowed. He immediately locked eyes with Clementine, crouching down and wrapping her in a tight hug. “Oh, thank god!”

Ruby popped up behind him, looking worried. “Thank goodness! Clem, I am so sorry! I swear I thought Willy was heading over to be with you over twenty minutes ago!”

“Don’t worry about it, Ruby. Nothing happened. The time alone was actually nice,” Clementine offered Ruby a reassuring smile. “I’m OK, really,”

Louis pulled away to examine her more closely, a hand cupping her face as he took in her every feature. “You’re sure? You don’t have any pain? When are you due for more medicine?”

“Not until bedtime. I’m alright, Louis, I swear,” She looked toward Ruby. 

“Seriously, I don’t need anything. You can go if you’re needed elsewhere,”

“OK… I’m gonna help Omar with dinner. But if anything and I mean anything happens and you need me, you just holler, OK? I won’t be far,”

“Thank you, Ruby,”

“Ruby,” Louis started, turning round slightly. “About what I said..”

Ruby lifted her hand to silence him. “Don’t think about it. You were right to be worried. I’dve been the same way in your boots. I’ll see y’all at dinner,” The door clacked shut behind Ruby again and the greenhouse fell silent.

Louis returned to his examination of Clementine. “I swear, I never should have let Aasim talk me into hunting today,” he muttered as he fiddled with a stray piece of her hair. “To think that on the first day I go out something like this happens-”

“Louis, seriously, stop. Everything is fine. There’s no point freaking out about something that didn’t even happen,” Clementine ran a hand along the lapel of his coat, straightening it. “Where’s that smile I love so much?”

The words clearly threw Louis off guard. He blushed, lowering his eyes before cautiously lifting them, a small smile playing across his lips.

“That’s it,” Clementine leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I made something for you,”

His eyes brightened. “Really? What?”

“It’s not much, but…” Clementine raised the flower crown between them. “I thought it would suit you,”

Louis gazed at the crown in wonder, his fingers following the braided pattern Clementine had weaved. “Holy shit, you made this?”

“Mhm. The flowers were left over from harvesting the Jerusalem artichokes and when I saw them, well, they made me think of you. May I?”

Louis nodded, inclining his head so she could place the crown on his head. 

“How do I look?” His face was shining with newfound excitement. “Damn, I wish there was a mirror in here,”

He looked beautiful. The way the softness of the yellow petals interplayed with the coarseness of his dreadlocks… there was something majestic there. Clementine smiled. “You look gorgeous,”

This time it was Louis’ turn to lean forward for a kiss. As their lips met, Clementine felt her heart pounding in the exhilaration of the moment. She wanted to stay here like this with Louis in this pure, distilled moment of happiness. A moment where nothing mattered but-

“Clem!” Willy burst through the door, eyes wide. “Do you have those Jerusalem artichokes? Omar needs them? Sorry I forgot about you earlier by the way,” His eyes fell on Louis’ flower crown. “What’s that?”

“This is a flower crown that Clementine made lovingly for me,” Louis answered pointing at his head. “And this was also a beautiful moment that we were sharing between ourselves before you so rudely-”

“Can’t talk! Omar needs these potatoes!” Willy exclaimed, leaping forward and seizing the bowl beside Clementine’s feet. “Thanks, guys!” And with that he was gone.

Louis and Clementine shared a look before chuckling to themselves.

“Well, on that note,” Louis stood up, grabbing the crutches that were resting by the door. “Ready to head out?”

She’d rather stay here with him, but Clementine’s stomach betrayed her, letting out a pronounced growl.

“That answers my question then,” Louis laughed, kneeling to pick Clementine up and set her on her feet. “Shall we, my lady?”

“But of course,” Clementine quipped, making her way out of the greenhouse. The crutches made her underarms ache and her stump had begun to dully throb. “Let’s get this over with, then it’s off to bed for me,”

“Off to bed for us, you mean,” Louis smiled at her, the flower crown slipping further down on one side. “Don’t worry. I won’t keep you up. I just want a few minutes seeing as we’ve been separated the entire day,”

“Who am I to say no to my flower prince?” Clementine paused to adjust the crown. “It really does suit you,”

“I’ll treasure it forever,”

“Better put it in some water then,”

“Once you’re asleep,” Louis strode forward. “I want you to be able to appreciate it in its full grandeur for as long as possible before I take it off,”

Clementine giggled. “Alright then,”

“I’m totally making one for you tomorrow,” Louis circled back around to her. “That way we’ll match,”

“Sounds fun,”

“I’ll teach A.J. to make one too,”

“He’d love that,” They paused in their walk to the tables. Louis leaned forward, barely a fraction of an inch away from Clementine’s lips.

“Guys, dinner’s getting cold!” Aasim called. “Hurry up!”

Louis rolled his eyes as he pulled away from her. “Well, Aasim will not be getting a flower crown tomorrow after that move,”

Clementine chuckled. “He’ll be heartbroken,”

“That’s the price he pays for ruining a perfectly good kiss,”

“Guys, c’mon!”

“Coming!” Louis shouted back in annoyance. “Your flower crown privileges for the next month are about to be revoked, buddy!”

“What does that even mean?”

“Oh, you know what it means!”

As Louis strode forward, Clementine followed easily behind him. Her smile refused to go away, and that was thanks to everyone around her. That and a certain golden crown.

[c-atm]

Jambudweek Sleep/Contact: Astral connection

Connie stretched as she walked into her room, ready for bed. Today was an almost perfect birthday. The smile on her face was as glowing as it was when she got to Little Homeworld.

She still remembered seeing Amethyst and Lion appear outside her room, urging her to come with them to Little Homeworld for something big and all hands need to be on deck, Connie was out the house and on lion within a minute; sword strapped, ready to fight.

So imagine her surprise when they slid out of lion's portal Into a party, celebrating her. Hearing both the residents of Beach city and Little Homeworld wish her a happy birthday. Receiving gifts from everyone and getting hugs and praise  by the entirety of the crystal gems...Well almost.

Steven wasn't there. Haven't been around for quite awhile now.  Ten months since anyone heard from him. No text, voicemail...Nothing. 

Her smile fell a bit when she thought of him. Was he well? Was he hurt? Did he find what he was looking for? Did he miss them? Did he miss her? Did he know it was her birthday? Why didn't he take her with him? Were they still Jam Buds?

"Stop Connie. Enough of those thoughts." Connie shook her head as she got ready to sleep, trying to keep her good vibes. With a sigh, she laid in her bed eyes close as she gave a silently prayed for Steven's return as she did every night. It wasn't long til she was fast asleep.

 "Connie...Connie.."

Connie groaned as she heard someone calling her name.  Feeling someone caressing her cheek with their rugged palm, the touch held a large measure of familiarity, enough to make her snuggle into it. 

"Hey..Birthday Berry."

Her eyes opened instantaneously at the name. She looked up to a starlit sky, and a familiar  smiling face. She reached up shakingly, touching his slightly whiskered face. 

"This..This is a dream right? You're not really with me right now."

"I mean... Astral projection so.."

She could feel her eyes mist up as he chuckled. Sitting up on his lap, she cupped his cheeks taking in his appearance clearly. 

His hair was longer than before, in  thick curls reaching his mid back. His eyes held a bit of roughness mixed with his natural gentleness in them. He had a couple scars on his cheek and above his left eye. He had a tan, his skin almost the color of beach sand. His face as a whole was more defined, but still retained that Steven-y stature.

"Steven…" 

She grasped his red and black star shirt as glaring deeply into his eyes.

"You left without telling anyone, anything.."

"Well, I told dad."

"A week after you left! The only communication ANY of us got!"

"I..I 'm sorry...I had to go…"

"Did you have to leave that? Couldn't you have said goodbye...To me at least?"

"I'm sorry, Connie.. I'm so sorry, but I had to do it."

"You left us..left me..You promise we'll face everything together and you left me again...I would've left with you."

"I know..I considered  it...but that would've been selfish of me."

she remained silent for a moment before she broke down, sobbing on his chest. She allowed herself to be held by him as she berated him for leaving without so much as a word, for hurting everyone when he did. Steven took it all as he rubbed her back and kissed her crown, whispering apologies.

It would be a few minutes before she settled  down into his hold allowing herself to bask in the warmth of her best friend, holding him closer afraid he'll disappear again.

"I miss you so much, Biscuit."

Steven deepened his hold around her. "I miss you too, Berry. Think about you and everyone, everyday."

"Where are you now? Close by?" 

Steven sighed sadly at the hope in her voice 

"Sorry, but no. Still far away. Some small inn in South America, I think . "

"Explains the tan…" She looked up at him with shy puffy eyes. "It looks good on you."

"That seems to be the consensus around here as well."

Connie arched an eyebrow  as she sat up out of his hug. Her arms folded across her middle. "Oh, really? You've gotten popular with girls now?"

Steven rubbed his head sheepishly. "I mean, not really popular..Just had some girls stare at me and approached me ever so often."

"Uh-huh. " Connie sighed as she looked him up and down. He was still a big guy, but he had put on some muscle. She found her cheeks burning a bit when she drank in his appearance as a whole.

" I guess I can understand where they're coming from."

Steven her a teasing chuckle. "You're not jealous now, are you?"

Connie looked away with a side pout.  "Oh be quiet…"

"You've gotten prettier, since last time I saw you."

Connie tried to hold her anger, but broke at one glance of his boyish smile. She found it hard to look at him so she kept her face turned, but looked through  the corner of her eye.

"You think so?

Steven nodded feeling a small heat come to his own face. He took in her nape length side bang hair. Her bright black eyes, her full lips, her pointed nose, and deep glossy brown skin. 

His blush intensified when he realized she was in her sleepwear which consisted of one of his old blue and yellow shirts, and thigh length sweatpants. Both which hugged her frame gently, but still gave him an idea about how much she grew in his absence.

"Steven. ..You're staring."

Steven faked a cough before turning away from Connie,who giggled.

"Sorry.. Just..Appreciating how much you have grown."

"Oh, and exactly what are you 'appreciating', you vagabond." Connie smirked as she leaned forward with an impishly seductive glint in her eyes.

"Connie.."

"Well…"

"You're serious "

"I wanna know."

Steven didn't say anything before pulling her in close and resting his head right her breast, his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Everything…"

"You don't play fair, Steven." Connie held him close, her left arm around his shoulders, her right hand holding the back of his head as she kissed his very tip top." I should be hitting you, kicking your butt all across the astral plane."

Her grip tightened  as she continued. " But All I want for you is to come home..come back to us..to me.."

"Nini-"

Connie shook her head. "I won't ask you to though..No matter how much I want to. Don't think it'll do any good."

"If you asked, with the way you're hugging me right now, there's a high chance I would return quickly."

She giggled as she began to stroke his head. "I won't. Seems like this journey of yours, is doing you good...Just try to keep me updated for now on..I worry about you."

 He looked up at her a somewhat pleased look in his eye. "I can do that."

"Thank you, Biscuit."

Connie very reluctantly removed herself from Steven hold, but still held on to his hands.

"Truly, thank you, for visiting tonight. Seeing that you're doing well..That you're safe...How handsome you've become. I couldn't ask for anything more..It's the best gift I could have received. You officially made this my best birthday."

Steven blushed a bit teary eyed." Aw, shucks Ni'...That's sweet of you, but I didn't just come visit you empty handed...You don't have to get up early right?"

"Nooo. Why?"

Steven smirked as he pointed to the west. Connie looked towards where he was pointing and realized a few things. 

One, they were on a hill.

Two, there was an outdoor stage below them.

Three, There was one seat, a throne actually,  facing the stage...that had her name on it.

Connie arched an eyebrow as she turned towards her Biscuit.

"You throwing me a concert?"

Steven lifted her up in a cradle, catching  her pleasantly of guard.

"I'm throwing you a concert."

Connie yelped and laughed as Steven leaped from their hill and glided down towards the concert area. He landed gently and placed her on her feet, when they realized, he was taller than ker by a quarter head. Dual flame cheeks appeared in their faces.

"Oh, wow..Gotta tilt up a bit to meet your eyes."

"Yeah..You do.."

The two stared for a moment before chuckling. He guided her into her seat giving her hand a small kiss before jumping onto the stage himself.  With a snap of his fingers duplicates of him appeared each with a different instrument; A bass, a guitar, a drum set and a keyboard. With a flick of the wrist, a mic appeared in his hand. He gave his band a nod before they started playing an upbeat, high energy tune. 

Steven took a deep breath before he let use a husky deeper crisper voice than she ever heard as he sang a rendition of 'Gold'.

  Dream of anything;

I'll make it all come true

Everything you need

Is all I'll have for you

I'm forever

Always by your side

Whenever you need a friend

I'm never far behind

  Connie couldn't help the excitement running through her spine,or the swelling of her heart as he performed. It had been too long since she saw her Steven, this energetic, this happy and free. Not to mention his voice now shook her in all the right ways. She always thought his singing voice was sweet to listen to and was one of the things she always found attractive..but now she found herself parched from listening. 

Steven put on a show indeed. From upbeat songs like 'Gold' To slower ones like 'Fly me to the moon' he made sure that she never left his sight more than needed. Every verse, chorus, melody and bridge was dedicated to her alone, and he wanted to convey that. He wanted her to realize that she was still in his heart. All in all the concert was a hit.

It was after two hours on stage that Steven stepped off the stage mic abandoned. A bit sweaty, a bit haggard, but accomplished. Connie shivered at his appearance, a very good one. 

The band started to play a memorable tune, one that made Connie teared up, smiling as she did.

"Steven, really."

Steven nodded, giving her a smile. Holding his hand out to her, which she gladly took. The two began swaying gently to the beat as Steven began to sing

  " The stars are out, 

the band's on the scene

I'm here with my sweet Connie

Come on and share this dream with me"

  Connie didn't miss a beat as she began to sing her head meeting Stevens chest, as she interlock her hand with Steven's.

  "in space, on land or the deep sea,

anyway place is fine, if it's you and me

Come on and share this dream with me."

  Steven cheeks were turned pink at the silky soft tone coming from his Berry as she continued to sing.

  "I won't stop till it's done, a dream crafted with all the joy, we can think ooo~oof."

  Steven gave her a cheeky grin before twirling  her away a bit, still holding on to her hand.

  " I'll keep it fun, fueling this dream with our love!"

He twirled her back to him, she laughed throughout the whole thing, as she found  herself caught in a hug. She eagerly returned it as their voices harmonized.

  " Our hearts and minds, in harmonious unity 

don't matter the scene, as long as you're with me

Now and forever, share this dream with me."

  The two reunited jam buds gazed at each other, matching smiles on their faces. The band was gone, this was the last song. Steven stroked her  hair as she snuggled deeper into him, gripping his back.

"Need to get back to my head"

"I know. I won't stop you, but can I ask for  one thing."

Steven looked down and nodded "Whatever  you need Birthday Berry."

"Dip down"

Steven did as she requested and was surprised when she covered his eyes and felt her kiss his lips. Not so much that he didn't kiss her back.  Connie's hand went from his eyes to his cheek as the kiss deepened and tears fell from both of them. They broke the kiss chuckling as they stroked each other's tears away.

"I don't want to leave you again."

"I know, I know..but I'll keep you updated.. when I can. We'll do this again. I promise. "

"I'm gonna hold you to that.You promise to keep me updated..so please text me or something when you get the chance."

Steven nodded as he gave one more chaste kiss. It was the last thing she felt before she woke up.

Connie woke up with a groan as her cell phone alarm rang at six a.m.

"The hell..it's early on a Saturday."  She turned off the phone alarm as she laid back thinking about her dream .Smiling at the memory  of her dream before shaking her head, ready to write it off as just that. When she got a message on her phone.

Opening her phone, her heartbeat speed up as she started to laugh through tears.

Hope you have a good one today, Dream Jam bud. Next time, I'll tell you about my travels and I can't say when but...I will return to you guys, one day. I love you, Dream berry.

From  ID: Biscuit.

Connie hugged the phone close to her heart. It was all real..Everything actually happened. 

What a perfect way to ring in being 19 years old.

[emospritelet]

Sparks Verse Festive Prompt: “That’s a tradition I’d never heard of”.

Sparks is a Dark Castle Rumbelle fic which followed on from Midwinter’s Kiss. Belle and Rumple adopted a baby dragon, and now have a baby of their own on the way. This prompt is number 13 on the festive fic prompt list

[AO3]

Lounging on a couch in the library, glass of brandy in hand, Rumplestiltskin reflected on how bringing Belle to the Dark Castle had changed his life for the better, in every way. He eyed her, curled at the other end of the couch with a book on her lap, a fine woollen shawl that he had made himself around her shoulders and her dark curls tumbling over it, shining in the light of the many candles that adorned the room. His eyes ran over her hungrily, smooth pale cheeks and pink lips, her lashes fluttering as she blinked. Beautiful. My wife is so beautiful. 

Belle looked up, as though she could feel his gaze, and sent him a warm smile, her blue eyes shining. Yes, she was beautiful. She was also intelligent, brave, loving, and far too good for the likes of him. He wasn’t sure what he had ever done in his long, dark life to deserve Belle’s love and companionship, but he was determined to at least attempt to be worthy of her. Especially now that there was a child on the way.

It was less than twenty-four hours since they had found out they were to be parents, and he was trying very hard not to let his anxiety and over-protectiveness take hold. He had already given Belle a potion to ensure good health for both her and the child growing inside her, and had set stronger wards to alert him to any visitors to the Dark Castle. Not that he expected any on Midwinter’s Eve, but desperate souls were rarely respectful of privacy, in his experience.

Ember had picked up on his mood, and appeared to have appointed herself Belle’s personal guard, to which Rumple had absolutely no objection. A dragon, even a baby one, was a formidable opponent to all save the most accomplished magic users. Ember was curled on the floor beside the couch, her snout resting on the tail curled around her, wings furled close to her back. As Rumple took a sip of his brandy, Ember started at something and raised her head, nostrils flaring and wings twitching. After a moment of looking around, ears pricked, she settled back down again, and Belle yawned and closed her book with a sigh.

“Midwinter’s Eve,” she said. “The holiday has been quieter than last year.”

Her smile was mischievous, and he grinned as he remembered their trip to Arendelle, and their first declarations of love. Not to mention the fact that they had gone on to consummate that love. Repeatedly. He wondered if he would ever be welcomed back in Arendelle. Not if Princess Anna had anything to do with it, he suspected.

“Being alone with you has many advantages,” he said, and she giggled, blushing a little.

“Well, at least you let me decorate the tree again,” she said playfully, and he grunted.

“Surprised Ember hasn’t set it on fire.”

“She has good control now,” said Belle reprovingly. “There hasn’t been an unfortunate fire incident since she accidentally burned that chicken I was cooking.”

“She turned it into charcoal,” he said.

“She was just excited,” said Belle. “And don’t pretend to be so grumpy. You know you love her just as much as I do.”

Ember raised her head, ears twitching, and Rumple winked at her.

“I suppose,” he sighed, and she huffed in satisfaction, letting out twin jets of smoke from her nostrils.

Belle sighed contentedly, looking around the room.

“It really does look nice in here,” she said. “So cosy with all the candles.”

“Lighting things on fire is a Midwinter tradition,” he said. “It does chase away the darkness a little.”

“Hmm.” Belle looked amused. “And we know how you like that.”

He met her smile with one of his own, feeling his heart swell with love for her. Belle’s blush deepened, and he wondered if she was thinking about their bed, and the silk nightgown he liked to take off her each night. She laid her book aside, still blushing.

“I might make some tea before we turn in,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“I’m enjoying this,” he said, holding up his brandy glass. “But if you’re going to the kitchens anyway, I wouldn’t say no to a couple of those delicious spiced biscuits you made.”

Belle beamed at him, and laid her book aside, getting to her feet and settling her shawl around her shoulders. She petted Ember on the head, and leaned in to kiss Rumple gently on the mouth. Her lips were soft and smooth, her scent divine, and he wanted more. He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, tugging her onto his lap, and Belle giggled a little as she pulled back.

“In front of Ember, really?” she teased, and he grunted.

“The little voyeur has barged into the bedroom often enough,” he said sourly. “I doubt she’s put off by kisses.”

“Hmm.” Belle looked amused, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. “Before too long we’ll have a curious child interrupting our alone-time.”

Rumple smiled, the reminder that he was to be a father again sending a pulse of joy through him.

“I don’t mind that.”

“You say that now,” she said. “There’ll be no more intimate moments on the table in the Great Hall, you know.”

The memory made him grin, and he kissed her nose.

“Well, I’m a patient man,” he said softly. “I can wait until bedtime.”

Belle giggled, kissing him again, and jumped in his lap as there was a loud snort from Ember. Rumple grumbled under his breath, but let her scramble to her feet.

“She heard me say you were going to the kitchens,” he said. “No doubt she’s hoping for a scrap of something.”

“I’ll bring something up for both of you,” promised Belle.

She trotted off downstairs, and Ember got to her feet, claws clicking on the floorboards.

“Stay here,” ordered Rumple. “Mama doesn’t need you getting under her feet when she’s carrying hot tea. She’s only gone to the kitchens, it’s quite safe.”

Ember gave him a sober, amber-eyed stare, and sat down again. She was clearly anxious, though, and after several minutes she trotted over to the door of the library, wings flicking back and forth in agitation. Rumple sighed to himself, putting down his brandy glass.

“Oh, very well,” he said. “But at least wait at the top of the stairs so you don’t trip her.”

Ember was gone with a swish of her tail, and at that moment Rumple felt a pulse of magic, a sense that someone had not only triggered the wards he put up to give him warning of visitors at the castle gates, but had torn their way through into the heart of his home without asking his permission to enter. It was a breach of magical etiquette of the highest order, and he leapt to his feet, lip curling in a snarl. Who dares to barge into the Dark Castle as though they’re kicking down my front door? I’ll make them sorry they were ever born!

x

Belle hummed as she spooned tea into the pot and set out cups and saucers on a tray. Despite Rumple saying he would stick with brandy, she had never known him turn down a cup of tea when she made it, so she thought she may as well take him a cup alongside her own. She wrapped a cloth around the handle of the copper kettle, pouring boiling water into the pot and setting the lid back on before picking up the tray. She almost reached the stairs that led to the library before she realised she had forgotten the spiced cookies. Mouth flattening in vexation, she turned into the Great Hall and set the tray on the long table there, intending to go back to the kitchen.

“Where’s Rumplestiltskin?”

An unfamiliar female voice made her yelp in surprise and almost drop the tray. She managed to set it down, turning around to face a red-haired, green-skinned woman in a tight, dark green dress and a tall black hat who had stalked into the hall like she owned the place. She was much taller than Belle, which admittedly wasn’t hard, and was looking down her nose with a supercilious twist to her mouth.

“Well?” she said impatiently. 

“Who are you?” asked Belle, frowning at her tone. “How did you get in here? Don’t you know it’s Midwinter’s Eve?”

“Well, it’s traditional to call on old friends at this time of year, isn’t it?” said the woman, in a simpering tone that grated on Belle’s nerves. “Tell the Dark One he has a visitor.”

Belle sighed, rolling her eyes. 

“Is it important?” she asked thinly.

“Do you think I’d be here if it wasn’t?” demanded the woman, pale eyes flashing. “How dare you speak to me in that tone, you upstart wench! Where’s Rumplestiltskin? I presume you’re his maid?”

Belle put her hands on her hips, raising her chin.

“No,” she said coldly. “I’m his wife.”

The woman’s face twisted, ugly with sudden rage, and she stepped forward, grasping Belle’s chin hard enough to hurt and looking her over.

“His wife?” she snapped. “But - you have no magic! You’re not special! Why on earth would he want a - an ordinary little scrap of a girl like you?”

“Let me go!”

A plume of familiar red smoke burst outward as Rumple appeared by her side, and the woman was blasted back from Belle, tumbling over and over with a shriek and a swirl of dark skirts. There was a rattle of claws against stone in the hallway outside, and Ember raced into the room, wings spread to make her as large as she could get, letting out a grating squeal of rage. The woman’s eyes flew wide in shock, and she rolled to the side as Ember blew a jet of flame towards her. 

“Ember!” said Belle sharply, before she could roast the intruder alive.

Ember huffed smoke through her nostrils with a disdainful snort, scampering over to leap onto the table and laying her head on Belle’s shoulder with a low growl of warning at the woman. Belle sank back against the table, shaking a little as Rumple strode in front of her, fists clenching. She could feel the fury coming off him in waves

“Lay your filthy hands on my wife again and you will lose those hands!” he snarled. “And your stupid head for good measure! What the hell do you think you’re doing, Zelena? Breaking through a sorcerer’s wards is the height of rudeness!”

The woman—Zelena—got to her feet, shaking with anger as she tried to brush herself off in as nonchalant a fashion as she could manage. Belle noticed with some satisfaction that her hat was squashed, the crown bent out of shape.

“Social rules are for losers, Rumple,” she said witheringly. “I made an entrance grand enough to suit my status and show you my power. You wanted a queen as your apprentice? How about the ruler of an entire world? The ruler of Oz, at your service.”

She spread her arms, bowing her head, as though she expected his admiration, and Rumple snorted.

“As tacky and lacking in substance as ever,” he said. “I have no interest in teaching you anything, other than how to use the door.”

Ember snarled something that sounded like agreement, and Zelena turned her gaze on Belle.

“So,” she said disdainfully. “You got married. Whoever would have thought it? The all-powerful Dark One, undone by a slip of a girl.”

“Out!” snapped Rumple, pointing at the door. “Before I turn you into a snail and drop you in the salt barrel!”

“Oh, fine!” she sighed, tossing her red curls. Her hat fell off, making Belle’s mouth twitch, and she snatched it up and crammed it back on her head. “I suppose our deal can wait until after the Midwinter Feast. No doubt you and your - wife - have important plans.”

“Copious amounts of love-making, since you asked,” said Belle, and the woman’s nostrils flared as Rumple appeared to choke on something.

“I’ll come back when we can talk more freely, then,” she said. “You disappoint me, Rumple. I had no idea you’d settle for such a - powerless little fool.”

Belle felt herself swell with indignation, and Ember picked up on her anger, letting out a low, grating growl.

“Ember,” said Rumple calmly. “Set the nice lady’s head on fire, there’s a dear.”

Zelena’s eyes widened in horror, and she turned to run as Ember launched herself gleefully from the table, wings flapping as she inhaled deeply. Belle clapped a hand to her mouth as a gout of fire shot across the room, catching Zelena’s hat and making it go up like a tinderbox. A loud shriek and the scent of burning hair wafted back to them before she disappeared in a cloud of green smoke, and Ember thumped to the floor, snorting loudly and shaking out her wings.

“Well,” said Rumple, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “I see the Midwinter tradition of lighting things on fire continues!”

“Lighting people on fire?” said Belle dryly. “That’s a tradition I’d never heard of.”

“Well, I’m happy to turn it into a regular thing if she ever comes back,” he said carelessly, turning to slide his hands around her waist. “Are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

“No.”

Belle slid her hands up his chest, stroking over the brocade waistcoat before sliding into his hair and making him groan. He bent his head to nuzzle her nose with his, and she kissed him gently.

“I’m lucky to have such fierce protectors,” she said, and glanced to the side where Ember was watching them curiously. Rumple kissed her again.

“I’m going to make the wards impenetrable,” he said decidedly. “No deals at Midwinter. They can all bugger off as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to spend the next two days with my beautiful wife.”

Belle beamed up at him.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, and his eyes gleamed.

“Copious amounts of love-making, eh?” he murmured, and her grin widened.

“Let’s have tea first.”

[mystic-kitten-writer]

Limerence [M] ︳23

Pairing: Zuko x OC

AU: Adult-Verse

Genre: Romance, mainly fluff with smut, and if you squint hard enough - you’ll find some angst.

Rating: SFW

Words: 6900+

Notes: Thanks for the love I got revolving the smut last week, a lot of people enjoyed it which makes me happy and I see myself writing it more often in the future! Thanks for reading everyone, and enjoy <3

Masterlist ︳22 [M] ︳24

❤ Buy me a coffee? ❤

Limerence: (English/n.) the state of being infatuated with another person.

The moment their eyes locked they knew - the flames within him twisted while the water within her turned. It was a connection, a connection that would lead to love, adventure, and drama.

Agathokakological

(Greek/adj.) composed of both good and evil.

~ Ying Yue Jiang ~

            “Zuko stop it~!” I cried out between endless fits of giggles, trying my hardest to shove his overbearing frame off me. But my cries of protests fell upon deaf ears, as he snuggled his head deeper into my neck, butterfly kisses placed all over my skin. The setting sun cast a heavenly hue over his body; his black hair flaming as shades of reds and yellows bounced off him.

            His locks fell over my face, in turn causing me to pout, his lush hair getting caught between my lips. “Z-Zuko, get off!” I laughed, but my arms were too tired at this point to bother trying to shove him off. The way his chuckles mixed with my giggles, like a fairy-tale harmony. His laughter reminded me of Kiyi’s, innocent and carefree – music.

            My arms fell to my side, resting against the fluffy blankets of the bed. I wasn’t expecting on being caught taking an evening nap, let alone be awoken by the one and only Zuko. But getting woken up by snuggles wasn’t necessarily a terrible way to wake up and instead fed into my ever-growing wanting to spend every moment with Zuko – my ultimate vice.

            Zuko’s head rose, running his hand through his hair, and pushing it back. The vanilla smile that painted his face as he looked over me, his free hand carefully stroking my face. A smile of my own slowly starting to emerge as I looked up at him with appreciation, but it was then I noticed – his eyes.

            His amber coloured eyes were muted, dull in comparison to his usual lively and illuminating twinkle that always managed to shine through. Was he tired? No – this is something else. His thoughts ran rampant, clouding his perspective as he watched over me. He was anxious, worried about tonight – nervous about my walk with Kayto.

            A soft sigh escaped me, my hands instinctively cupping his face as I traced my thumbs over his lips, “I’ll be fine Zuko, Toph will be with me…I won’t be alone.” I muttered, my eyes half-lidded, as I spoke. Zuko huffed, his forehead hitting mine as he held my hands close to his lips. “There has to be another way…”

            I knew what he meant by that – referring to the plan Sokka had thought of during our time in the hot springs. So much for relaxing in the hot springs last night…

            The plan was sweet and simple.

            Zuko postponed the meetings with the Earth Nation for this evening. I go on a walk with Kayto, forcing him out of said meetings, which leaves the gang a short window of time to get the Earth King alone and make him sign the damn documents. Toph will stay back to watch over Kayto and I, should Kayto try anything funny. A fool-proof plan for the most part. But the look of uncertain in Zuko’s eyes was apparent; his lips turned upside down.

            The detestation and distaste Zuko held against Kayto was next level, and I couldn’t help but be caught off guard as even Aang didn’t seem too fond of Kayto either – the only person I knew who couldn’t hate another human being for the life of him. My eyes shifted back to the window, watching the way the sun was starting to hide behind the outer edge of the mountain range. “We should probably get going…the gang are probably on their way now.”

            Zuko sighed, “Please…be careful.”

            “I promise. Now let’s get those papers signed, alright?” I beamed, placing a quick peck upon his lips as Zuko sat up. As Zuko’s head bobbed upwards, I couldn’t help but let a small giggle. His hair was a giant mess; his usual pin straight hair creased from wearing it in a bun all day.

            Oh, Zuko – the only man I knew who could be both adorable and seductive at the same time.

            I rolled my eyes hearing Zuko whine underneath me, walking with his knees bent as I placed the last pin in his hair, “You’re hurting me, woman!” He hissed, and in response, I purposely tugged at his hair a bit more than needed. Another growl vented from him, and I couldn’t help but giggle, “Are you always such a crybaby?”

            “Kind of hard not to complain when you’re fucking pulling my hair out of my head!” I patted his head, signalling to stand up normal as we walked down the hallway, grinning as I heard him mutter curses under his breath. For someone ‘tough’ he sure knew how to complain. I bumped my hip against him, watching him roll his eyes but regardless wrap his arm around me.

            Zuko faced me, flicking my forehead with a playful scowl on his face, “I swear next time I’ll pull your hair and see how it feels.”

            “Oh, you wouldn’t dare hurt me – I’m too adorable.” I playfully spoke, sticking my tongue out towards him. “Try me.” He whistled, leaning in swiftly and light-heartedly, biting my ear, “Zuko~!” I shrieked, amused at the way he tried to ‘attack’ me, acting like an absolute child at the moment. During my fit of laughter, my eyes looked forward, my steps slowing as I gently pushed him away, “Zuko…” I gasped.

            A set of grand doors were in front of us - the grand meeting hall. But it wasn’t the doors that caught my attention, no, it was the gang. They were huddled together, whispering harshly to each other, frowns on their faces. Somethings wrong.

            “What’s wrong…” Zuko muttered, his expression no longer playful as he gazed at me. Suki and Aang made eye contact with me; their brows pinched together as they looked over at Zuko and I. “Look.” I spoke, gesturing in front of us. In an instance, Zuko’s eyes narrowed, a small huff escaping him as he scratched his neck.

            “They look upset…” I muttered under my breath, my fingers twirling with each other as I studied their faces. Not even Sokka was smiling. Zuko sighed, “Maybe they got some good news?”

            “Oh yeah, when I get good news I frown like that too.”

            “Well, aren’t you an optimist…” Zuko grumbled.

            Suki’s hand rose, waving at us slowly. “Let’s find out what’s up,” Zuko muttered under his breath before we eagerly rushed forward. I smiled softly, waving at them as I looked around. It was just us here; we’re early, the King isn’t here yet.

            “What’s wrong?” Zuko blurted, not bothering to say hi. Aang cautiously looked over at Sokka, “Uh…”

            I raised a brow, what’s going on with them? They all looked at one another, neither one wanting to speak first. Sokka nudged Aang, giving him wide eyes, signalling for him to say something, “Umm, so-uh” Aang blubbered. Not a single logical word escaping him. Zuko groaned, losing his patience, “What’s that’s suppose to mean?” Zuko groused.

            “I’ll say it because no one here has the fucking balls too.” Toph shouted, stomping her feet onto the ground with crossed arms, “Princess is going on her walk alone with Kayto. The Earth King requested me to sit in the meeting with Suki.” My eyes widen; Zuko is going to-

            “Out of the fucking question.”

            Toph groaned to herself, her bangs swaying upwards as she let out an exhausted sigh. This was not how we expected the plan to go. “Well we don’t have much choice you royal pain in the ass – they’re on their way now.”

            “We do have a choice, and it’s we abort the plan. We agreed that you’d watch over Yue just in case.” Zuko shot back, pinching his nose in irritation. Aang anxiously tossed his staff between his hands, as Suki and Sokka gazed at each other, trying to think of a possible solution.

            “Princess can handle herself Zuko – we all know that. I say we go forward.”

            “I’m not taking the chance Toph.”

            “Shit Zuko – Princess can handle herself you damn bone head!” Toph shouted. I pouted as I watched the way Zuko and Toph bickered. Both of their faces red as they quarrelled. “Maybe we can send a Kyoshi warrior with Yue…?” Aang suggested, but Suki shook her head, “It’ll look like we’re plotting against Kayto. I can’t risk that.”

            I anxiously bit my lip, their words going over my head as they argued. With Toph gone, that would leave me alone with Kayto. Toph was supposed to be my safety net should anything fishy happen, but with her gone I would have no backup plan…

            Damnit, why can’t things work in our favour for once?

            I huffed; I can’t let this opportunity slid. This may be the only chance we get to sign those papers. If I don’t do this-

            I placed my hands over Zuko’s arms, cutting off their conversation as I let my fingers intertwine with his. The gang held their breath, and with a soft sigh, I looked at Zuko. He grasped my hands, his warmth giving me an immediate sense of comfort and safety. Zuko already held a frown on his face; he knew what I was going to say.

            “I can do this.”

            “Love-” Zuko warned.

            “Do you trust me?”

            “If anything happens, we’ll be stuck in the damn meeting, nowhere close to you…”

            “Trust me,” I whispered harshly. The look on his face, the way he bit his tongue before he finally released a substantial sigh. Zuko pressed his forehead against mine, worry written on his face, “…You haven’t started training yet; you aren’t even fully healed…”

            Toph puffed once more, cutting off Zuko as she groaned stridently once again, “She’ll be fine, Princess can kick ass. If I remember right, she did have you stuck behind an ice wall and carried a damn waterfall on her back.”

            I couldn’t stop the sheepish grin that painted my face as I looked at Zuko, his eyes rolling as he grumbled underneath his breath. He pulled away, glaring, but he seemed relaxed, not as anxious as before. He needed to hear me say it - say that’ll be okay and I can do this.

            “How long do you think we have?” Aang muttered as his gaze fell upon me. His face appeared neutral, but the way he gripped his staff, arms tense. “Probably an hour,” Suki spoke.

            “Will an hour be enough? What if it isn’t? We’d be putting Yue at risk for no reason.” Sokka shook his head, “It’ll work. The Earth King is on our side, and with Kayto gone, this is our chance.”

            “We may have longer if Princess works her magic. An hour or more.”

            My fingers anxiously tapped against Zuko’s, distracting myself from the tense atmosphere for the moment. There was something magical about his touch as my pulse slowed down. I was nervous - so damn nervous. I had to make sure I held Kayto’s attention for at least an hour, longer if possible. If I let him leave early…then I messed up the whole plan…

            “They’re coming,” Toph whispered harshly; everyone held their breaths.

            The moment of truth.

            “I mean it. If he lays a single hand on you-” Zuko warned under his breath, the grip on my hand tight as he gazed at me with dread. But Sokka snorting under his breath caught everyone’s attention, “Oh, but you didn’t have a problem laying a hand on Yue last night...”

            Everyone was quiet until Suki and Toph let out a snort, which in turn caused me to giggle. Talk about holding grudges. The pout on Sokka’s face as he snuffed away with his arms crossed, still butthurt about the little ‘topless’ incident in the hot springs last night.

            Zuko flushed, bashfully looking away as he kissed his teeth, “Get over it, we’re dating for fucks sakes.”

            “That’s my innocent sister; you’re corrupting!”

            “I wouldn’t use the word innocent…” Zuko grumbled under his breath. It was my turn to blush, sheepishly slapping his arm as I glared a Zuko. Sokka covered his face with his hands, screaming into them, “I swear- If you touch her, I’ll kill you both!” Toph snorted, “I wanna see that happen…”

            “Are we seriously having this conversation again, right now!?” Suki rustled, slapping Sokka’s arm and causing him to whine. Suki rolled her eyes before mischievously looking at Zuko and me, “Don’t worry about it you lovebirds, you can get as nasty as you want after we get these papers signed.”

            Zuko groaned as Suki sent a playful wink our way. He pinched his nose in irritation once more, mumbling a faint ‘fuck me.’

            I swear Zuko is going to implode any second-

            “Ah, good evening!”

            We all looked upwards, a group of nobles wearing extravagant green robes standing in front of us. The King bore a great smile, bowing at us all with delight. He indeed was a happy man, always wearing a cheerful smile on his face; we all nodded.

            “I apologize once again for delaying today’s meeting till now. A few, unforeseen circumstances, had arisen that had to be dealt with immediately.” Zuko spoke, the Earth King nodded, “I understand, unfortunately, life doesn’t always bend to our favour.”

            It was then out of the corner of my eye I spotted him. My heart beat rapidly, the overwhelming feeling of regret as I realized what I signed up for. No going back now. With a final squeeze, Zuko looked down at me; this is it.

            Unwillingly, I could feel Zuko loosen his grip on my hand, his warmth disappearing as my hand slipped from his. With a flick of my hair, I skipped forward, forcing the perkiest smile possible on my face, “Kayto! Are you ready for our walk?” I sang.

            Kayto smiled before it shifted to a frown, “It would be an honour, but unfortunately, I have to attend this meeting, the times have changed.”

            I pouted, keenly looking at him as I purposely let my hands fall upon Kayto’s arms, squeezing as I spoke, “But I’ve been looking forward to our walk all day!” I whined. Puffing up my cheeks as I tried to look endearing. Kayto’s look softened, a look of regret as he cradled my arms with his – he’s buying it.

            I looked over my shoulder, gazing at the Earth King with an innocent smile, “Is it too much for me to ask to borrow Kayto for the evening? I’m afraid I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to enjoy the company of Kayto due to my busy schedule.” My heart squeezed, seeing Zuko’s lips pressed thin as he watched the way I threw myself at Kayto, but he kept quiet.

            The Earth King hesitantly gazed over at us, “Well…”

            “As much as I would like to enjoy a walk with you, it’s an important meeting...” Kayto reluctantly spoke. And with a bold gesture, he caressed my face. My eyes widen, taken aback by his sudden gesture of affection, and I swore I heard Zuko hiss under his breath. “More important than our walk?” I argued, and Kayto chuckled, “It would seem so.”

            Shit. I need to convince him.

            “That’s disappointing to hear, Kayto. Imperial Consort Ying Yue has been patiently waiting for this walk, you promised her after all, and there’s nothing I hate more than empty promises and an upset Consort.” Zuko spoke, his tone harsh. I anxiously bit my lips, knowing how hard it was for Zuko to push Kayto to me. I’m sorry.

            “Fire Lord Zuko is right; it would be ennoble of you to not hold true to a promise. Enjoy the night Kayto; I’ll be fine.” The Earth King spoke, I beamed. Thank you, Zuko. My arm easily laced with Kayto, pulling him close. It was strange; his touch wasn’t anything like Zuko’s. It felt cold, unloved, and just not Zuko.

            And while Kayto made it quite clear that he was interested in me, I could see Kayto clench his jaw, eyes narrowed, “You’re right, I would hate to disappoint you Fire Lord Zuko. I promise I’ll treat her well this evening. An evening she won’t forget.” The blaze in Zuko’s eyes, knuckles white as he stared down at Kayto - loathing.

            “Let’s get started, shall we?” Aang butted in, smiling radiantly as he placed his hand over Zuko’s shoulder, trying to soothe the flames that were starting to roar.

            “I agree, Avatar Aang; let’s get this meeting started.” Zuko spat, turning on his heel. The gang gazed over me, their eyes round and with trembling lips as they, one-by-one, walked into the meeting. Sokka was the last, his hand resting on the door, “Yue.” He spoke.

            I smiled, acting ignorant, “Yes?”

            “…Walk along the pond; Suki told me it was beautiful. I bet Kayto would love to see it.” I nodded, water. He wants me by water – just in case.

            “I think I will – thanks for the idea!” I chirped, and Sokka nodded. “Enjoy.”

            The door slammed shut, an eerie silence as we stood amongst each other — no one in the hallway beside us.

            One hour.

            Let's do this.

            “Ready?” I hummed. Kayto grasped my hand, like how a snake strangles their prey, his emerald eyes staring down at me with a sly smirk, “After you, little flower.”

            The walk to the gardens was soundless; not a single word spoken as my arms linked with Kayto, his hand still holding mine. As servants and guards gazed at us briefly, they all held the same look - a look of uncertainty. But I bore a smile, trying to soothe them. It was evident that this didn’t look nor feel right, but it didn’t matter. I’ll do anything for Zuko, even this.

            Kayto’s silence was off-putting- not a single pass or flirtatious comment during the whole walk. It was like he was…thinking.

            The guards opened the garden doors, the sun casting a red haze on us. “Ah, we’re here!” I chirped, gazing over at Kayto with a charming smile. He chuckled at my reaction, watching the way my eyes promptly lit up as the soft breeze tickled our skin. Listening to Sokka’s wise advice, I lead us to one of the ponds that wrapped around the gardens. Already I could hear the gentle trickling of water.

            “You’re a nature lover?”

            “I guess you can say that…” I mumbled as I looked over the flowers and bushes that lined the small flowing body of water. I had to admit, while the company was unpleasant, nothing could change the fact that the gardens were stunning. But it also reminded me how badly I wanted to go on a walk with Zuko. It was funny how despite being at the kingdom for how long, we never walked, just him and me, in the gardens.

            “I guess I can’t be too surprised. A gorgeous garden to compliment such a stunning flower as yourself.” Kayto hummed, his thumb gently rubbing my hand as he spoke. I smiled softly, ahh – now there is the flirty Kayto I knew. “I imagine the gardens in the Earth Nation Kingdom are just as stunning?”

            “More so, we have much more land to expand the gardens. I would love to explore the gardens with you one day…” I shyly looked away at his gaze, knowing very well what intentions he meant under such a simple statement. We walked along the path, the flowing water on one side, beautiful rocks and flowers on the other — one hour.

            “So what made my little flower decide to go on this evening walk with me?” I shrugged my shoulders, acting innocent as I begrudgingly leaned into his arm, “What do you mean? I wanted to go on this walk.” I spoke, my voice slightly wavering. Kayto chuckled, shaking his head slightly, his raven hair moving with every shake, “Ahh, don’t mistake my good looks for stupidity petal. It won’t end well for you if you do.”

            My feet stopped.

            Kayto turned his body to face me, a menacing smile on his face as he raised a brow, “So – let’s drop the small talk, shall we?”

            It was insanity – how his soft features looked frightening as we stood alone in the gardens — no guard in sight, not even a servant. The way his thin lips pulled upwards, a devilish grin painted his face as he batted his eyelashes mockingly to me. It was then I felt it, his finger gently tracing my jaw, his face inches from mine, “When I met you, I thought you were nothing more but an orchid – a delicate little thing. But I was wrong. You’re more like a rose – beautiful, but secretly, you have thorns, thorns you mask with innocence. You may have Zuko fooled, but I know. Oh, little bud, I know-”

            His mouth brushed against my ear, a soft chuckle escaping him before his grasp on my chin tighten, causing me to wince. “I know - your dirty. Little. Secret.” He hissed through his teeth. My body stiffen, my hands starting to rise, feeling the water behind me. And as if he knew, Kayto’s hands dropped, tightly gripping my hands with his own. His fingers dug into my hands, so roughly my eyes watered, “Now that we cleared the air, let’s continue the walk, shall we?”

            My throat felt dry, unable to stifle out a word as he pulled away from me, his intimidating grin completely wiped away as he smiled at me. He was an actor – so well adept at hiding the repulsive creature he was. His hands untangled from mine, blood rushing to my fingers once again, “Now-now-now, what’s wrong flower? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kayto cooed, caressing my face as if he cared.

            I stepped back, pushing his hand away from me with a scowl, “Don’t touch me.” I hissed.

            Kayto grinned, “Oh, so now the thorns finally come out. I love it when they fight back, act all tough, only for them to beg.”

            “I have no secrets Kayto. I don’t know what you think you have against me, but it’s all lies.”

            Kayto tapped his chin with his long boney fingers, taunting as he shook his head, “Oh little flower. When will the lies stop? How about I help you, like telling you why you agreed to come on this walk with me.”

            “I told you it was because I wanted to.”

            “That disfigured idiot would never let you go on a walk with me unless it was advantageous. You think your little friends are so clever, separating me from the King so you can get your papers signed.”

            My eyes widen – he already figured it out. The shock on my face was apparent, as Kayto sniggered, “But the joke’s on you, I couldn’t care less if you get it signed. I was only doing a favour to some fellow comrades by convincing the King not to sign. Get it signed, see if I care, it’ll only upset them but not me.” Comrades? Wait a minute…that must mean, “…You’re not loyal to the King…”

            “Not by a long shot. He’s simply a tool.” Kayto chuckled. A tool? How can he view someone, a person, as just a tool? A means to an end?

            “What do you want Kayto?” I spoke carefully, keeping a watchful eye to his every move. He was an enemy to the Earth Nation – and no one had a clue. How did a man like him get away with this for so long? The criminals, some man named Yakone - the King spoke about this the other night at the party, Zuko and him huffing about how they couldn’t catch them. Is this why? Is it because Kayto was always keeping them aware, a snitch in the kingdom? Oh gosh – a snitch in the kingdom.

            He can’t be the snitch we’re looking for; the waterfall was before he arrived…unless. He may know who the snitch is.

            Kayto just laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he looked at me, entertained, “What’s wrong little flower, your mind seems to be buzzing away.” I could feel the grass under my feet; I was right at the edge of the path. This whole time I was unknowingly walking backwards. I need to get out of here; this has become something more significant. So much more extensive than any of us expected.

            “You know, when you said you were a nature lover, I wasn’t all too surprised. He is too.” My eyes narrowed, he? “Who are you talking about?”

            “Ah, so it’s true. You really don’t have a clue.” I frowned, my eyes trying to scan our surroundings. We were a good few minutes away from the nearest entrance back to the palace. It was late; no one took walks at this time; everyone would be heading back. “Ready to head back already? We just started this walk. We have so much more to talk about, so much more to do.” He purred.

            Then I felt it.

            His fingers flicked upwards, so fast that I didn’t notice till it was too late. I gasped, my feet sinking into the ground, my body rocking as I struggled to find my balance. I can’t move, my feet-

            I fell on my knees, wincing as the sharp rocks that decorated the path jammed through my dress. My hands fell palms down onto the ground to soften the blow. My head shot upwards, instinctively my hands raising, but he was faster. He stomped onto the ground, pushing forward, and within a flash, my right hand got caught by a sharp protruding mass from the ground. I hissed, tugging my arm helplessly, trying to free it from the rock.

            I was stuck.

            My feet were rooted; my right arm caught.

            I tucked my left arm to my chest – the only limb he didn’t trap.

            A burst of dark laughter caught my attention, watching the way he slowly walked towards me. “Ah, much better. I must say, I never thought you would be on your knees so soon. They were right; you really are nothing more but a royal bed warmer.”

            A royal bed warmer, I grimaced at the nickname, where have I heard that before? I snuck my left hand behind me, making sure his glance never wandered from my eyes. I could feel it.

            The water behind me.

            My fingers slowly curved into my palm, the water slithered so agonizingly slow up the hill, through every blade of grass. I can’t make a sound. I can’t let him know; I need a bit more time-

            “Who is it?” I blurted. Kayto titled his head to the side, seemingly confused by my words. “The snitch.”

            Kayto’s eyes widen, “The snitch? You know-”

            “There’s a snitch here, in the Fire Nation. But you already know that, don’t you?” Kayto grinned, walking over to me. His hands ran through my hair, letting the strands cascade through his fingers with ease as he hummed, “You’re right, there is a snitch. But I have nothing to do with that.”

            “You’re lying.” I spat, but Kayto just shook his head, his hand running through my hair once again, “There’s one thing I am not, and that is a liar. The whole trip here, I never once lied, but you on the other hand only spoke with lies. So while you view me as filth, whose really the immoral person here? The one who never said anything but the truth, or the one on her knees speaking only in lies?”

            I bit my tongue, because outlandishly – he was right. The look in his eyes, never once wavering as he spoke. He was telling the truth, “You really don’t know who it is?” I whispered. Kayto smiled bitterly, “Sorry flower, all I can say is you’re right, there is a snitch. But that is none of my business and nor do I care. But I can tell you this.” To my surprise, he crouched down, his green eyes at my level as he let his hands move from my hair to my face. His fingers delicately traced my jaw, before he stopped at my scar, the same injury he saw at the party.

            “I’m not the person you should fear, oh no, if anything, I’m your guardian spirit. You should fear my comrades. They’re the ones who left you with that disgusting scar, and they’re the ones you should worry about.”

            “What do they want?” Kayto shrugged, sighing as if bored, “Don’t know, don’t care. Like I said before, it’s none of my business. Although he’ll be quite upset with me if he knows I hurt you in any way, quite protective of you…” My brows pinched together, again with this ‘he.’ But my mind was once again preoccupied, I could feel it, the water starting to pool behind me, Kayto still oblivious to it. Just a few more seconds-

            “Who is this man you keep bringing up?”

            “A Bloodbender, but I bet you know tons about that, don’t you flower?” Kayto whispered, a sadistic smirk on his face. A Bloodbender? I pushed the thought away; that’s the least of my concerns. Kayto’s noticed how little attention I gave, causing him to grip my jaw hard, “You’re not exactly in the position to be zoning out petal.”

            “You’re wrong.”

            “Wrong?” Kayto muttered, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

            I swung my left hand upwards, the water rising high above me as Kayto stayed crouched, mouth wide. My arm hurdled towards him with a fist, the water freezing instantaneously. Ice formed, piercing shards soaring towards him in a single motion.

            He fell back, swinging his arms in a pathetic attempt to protect himself, the ground underneath us shifting to form a shield. A distraction, that’s all I needed right now. The tension from my feet was gone and the mini encasement my right arm was stuck in crumbled. With a huff, I pulled back, dust flying everywhere as ice shattered as it hit the shield of rock that Kayto had built.

            I jumped to my feet, swinging my arms back, the ice shards stopping it’s assault and floating back to me in a single movement. I could hear Kayto groan, the shield he built crumbling down as he covered his face with the sleeve of his robe. The dust started to settle around us, and Kayto hissed, “I should’ve known.”

            “Known what?” I challenged, my arms raised and feet firmly planted on the ground. Kayto was quick; I could figure that much. But Kayto shook his head, lifting himself off his knees as he stood, “That you’d be as crafty as him. Clearly, I underestimated you.”

            “Who is this HE?” I fumed, my patience wearing thin as he mentioned him once again. Who was this man? Why does he keep comparing me to him? “That’s the least of your worries flower.”

            And with that, he stomped.

            My eyes widen, watching the way his feet hit the ground, earth shooting upwards as he rapidly punched, sending thin discs of rock my way. Shit – I outstretched my arms, swinging forward and then back in a single swing. The ice around me swiftly laid along my body, forming a protective barrier. The earth launched towards me at full speed as I raised my arms, dirt flying as it shattered upon contact with my ice. I need to get close.

            Rock after rock he shot, his mini tower of dirt he built slowly disappearing after each throw as I tried to weave between each one helplessly. I was slow, not nearly as quick as I was before, but that’s what three years of not bending does to you.

            I huffed, another rock coming my way, to fast for me to dodge. I planted my feet, raising my arms as I felt the impact of the rock hitting the ice, grunting. The way Kayto moved, his punches fast, light on his feet – it was different, unlike any other Earthbender I’ve seen. He shot another rock my way, and I lunged forward, only to swing my right arm. The ice along my arm shifted, long and thin, mimicking that of a blade.

            Kayto moved from his spot, just barely dodging my jab as stands of long black hair flew in the breeze, “You’re fast little flower.” Kayto chuckled, before swinging his foot at my feet. I huffed, slamming my arm on the ground, his foot making contact with my limb. The ice spread onto his leg; I caught him.

            He swore under his breath, unable to pull back. I tugged, causing Katyo to lose his balance. He fell on his back, and I dove forward, swinging my right arm towards him once again. Kayto’s arms crossed in front of him, my blade caught between the earth he summoned between us, “I never thought you were one to favour hand-to-hand combat.” Kayto hissed, as I struggled to push the ice through the rock. The top of the blade started to pierce through, just scarcely touching his chest, just a bit more-

            “But I guess I can’t be too surprised, being the daughter of a general after all.” My eyes widen, how does he-

            Kayto hard-pressed forward, catching me off guard as he thrust upwards, his knee jabbing into my stomach. I cried out, my breath escaping me as he tossed me to the side like a rag doll. I huffed as the stupid pebbles that lined the path dug into my skin and ripped my dress. My hands instantly gripping my stomach. Kayto jumped up, “You want hand-to-hand, fine. But you’re going to regret it flower.”

            “Fuck you.” I groaned as Kayto pressed forward, crawling away from his attack as I scrambled to get on my feet. My feet dug into the dirt, trying to withstand his punches, he was stronger than me. Each attack of his causing me to wince as my ice started to crack under his rock-covered blows. The way he effortlessly punched and evaded, despite the armour that covered his arms like my ice, it was mind-blowing. I need to end this soon, I’m still too weak, not healed enough-

            My breathing felt winded, once again sidestepping to another one of his lunges, “What’s wrong flower – is someone tired?” Kayto tutted, boxing his fists yet again. I grounded my feet, kicking his knee. A groaned escaped him, wincing and I shoved forward. He stumbled backwards, as I tangled my leg with his, freezing him to the spot – now.

            My arms swung up into the sky with fists, ice starting to form into tiny daggers. Kayto eyes widen in shock, too close of a distance to protect himself from the shards that hovered above him. I pounced, swinging my arms as the ice flew towards him, unleashing all of my energy as the ice sped towards him. Kayto crossed his arms in front of him, a desperate attempt to protect himself. I won, he’s dead meat.

            I stopped.

            The ice just barely grazed his skin, Kayto still underneath me as he anticipated certain death. “You’re not worth it,” I muttered. My ice melted as I pulled away, only then noticing that the sun was almost completely gone, I did it — more than an hour.

            “You’re not the real threat. You’re just a puppet…” I spoke. Kayto eyes widen, looking at me with shock before a grin broke out. Kayto was just a decoy; this whole New Nation stuff was all just a giant distraction. A distraction from another, more, sinister plan – a plan that Kayto was not a part of. “You’re smart little flower, more so than anyone realizes.” Kayto softly whispered.

            “What-what are you getting out of this? You don’t know who the snitch is, you don’t care about the new Nation. So what benefits do you get out of this?” I asked. Kayto just dusted off his robes, shrugging as if we weren’t in a clash seconds ago, “As I said earlier little flower, I was doing a favour. I have everything I want and more.” I didn’t bother staying around any longer. I did what I had to do, take up Kayto’s time.

            I turned on my heel, ready to run to the nearest entrance to get to Zuko but Kayto’s voice stopped me. “Ying Yue.”

            He said my name: no flower or petal, or even little bud.

            I didn’t bother looking over my shoulder, standing still. “They’re dangerous. They’ve killed hundreds; they discriminate against no one. I don’t know what they want, but I do know you’re the key…it’s all about blood.”

            My fists tighten, looking at the dirt underneath my feet, “…Thank you.”

            I changed out of my dress, brushing my hair as I slipped into one of Zuko’s old shirts. It was late, the moon peeking out as I anxiously sat at my vanity, waiting for Zuko’s arrival. And it was then I could hear the guards speaking, the door handle jiggle. Zuko. I bolted, throwing the brush to side as the doors finally opened.

            Zuko strolled in, the doors closing behind him as our eyes met. Impatiently, I eyed him, trying to read his body language, trying to gauge what the outcome was. His lips moved, a faint smile shining through, “We did it. It’s signed.”

            I threw my arms around his neck, they did it. I laughed merrily as Zuko squeezed me, “I’m so happy.” I muttered into his chest, hearing Zuko chuckle with happiness as he held me close, “It was because of you, if you didn’t take Kayto out for that walk-” I tensed, so caught up in the moment the events that just transpired slipped out of my mind.

            Within seconds Zuko pulled back, feeling the way my body went rigid, eyes narrowed with apprehension, “How was it? The walk.” Zuko muttered, watching the way I pressed my lips together. “Zuko. We need to talk.” Right away he looked over me with guilt, “Did he hurt you, I swear I’ll kill-”

            “Zuko, he’s not a good man.”

            “I already knew that-”

            “No Zuko, he’s a traitor. He’s working behind the Earth King.” Zuko’s eyes widen, his hands grasping his head as I spoke, trying to let the words I blurted settle. “I said to distract him, not fucking dissect the man to pieces. How did you find out?” Zuko hissed, rubbing his chin as he paced back and forth in the room.

            I sighed, falling onto the bed as I played with the hem of my shirt, spilling out every single word that transpired between us, conveniently leaving out any details of our mini battle. Zuko groaned, hissing under his breath as he clenched his jaw, “He’s a fucking genius.”

            “What?”

            “I can’t do anything.” I frowned, shaking my head as I watched the way Zuko fought with himself, “What do you mean, can’t you warn the Earth King?”

            “No, I don’t have proof. Just word of mouth. That’s why Kayto told you because he knew. If I say anything, accuse a noble of treason, that’s just asking for another hundred-year war.” I sighed, covering my face with my hands. That cunning bastard.

            I huffed as I crossed my arms, “Fine, it’s not like he’s a threat anyways…” I muttered under my breath. Zuko looked at me, confused, “What do you mean…”

            “Kayto’s not the issue; he’s nothing more but a stupid puppet,” I grumbled. It was pointless, this whole discussion. Nothing was going to arise from it. I didn’t know what his comrades wanted, and Kayto was at the end of the day, the definition of a lousy villain who just wanted an easy way to money, power, and sex. Kayto’s words echoed in my head, ‘a royal bed warmer’ – why does it sound so familiar? Someone called me that before…who?

            Zuko grasped my face, sighing softly as he towered in front of me, “So that’s all? He didn’t mention who these other people were? What they wanted?” I shook my head, letting myself crash against his hip as I hugged him. “I guess…we’re still at point zero. Still in the dark.” Zuko muttered, placing a soft kiss on my head as his hands rubbed my back. “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

            “No, I’m sorry, you should’ve never been on that walk in the first place.”

            I huffed once again, a sigh escaping me as I took in his warmth. My eyes closing, “Zuko…”

            “Yes, love?”

            “I want cuddles before bed…” Zuko chuckled, running his fingers through my hair as I looked up at him with a pout, “You’ll get some and more.”

            “Promise?”

            “Promise.”

Copyright © 2019 Mystic-Kitten, inc. all rights reserved. No reposting, modifying, or translations of any kind allowed. Thank you for your cooperation.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Avatar characters portrayed in this story besides Ying Yue Jiang, Lia, Kima, and any future creations.

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