#.............. we're getting there :]

[astronautmike-dexter]

WIP Wednesday

Not Settle, not Tender Light, but a secret third thing! ok not really a secret, I just haven't named it (currently it's sitting in the docs as 'bloody idk'). For the 'Vegeta bleeding out' prompt that some of us in the VBO server are attempting as a community challenge! Let's go with Untitled Veggie Blood fic for now?

***

It’s peculiar to see her out so late without a sickeningly tart crimson wine, or worse, one of her revolting cigarettes. She’s empty-handed, wrapped in a silver robe, shimmering under Her light. His mind compels him to return to his room, his soul now cleansed under the full moonlight, but his barely-scabbed over heart guides him towards her.

Though he moves silently, ever the predator in the night, she seems to sense he’s there. As he hovers behind her, she whispers; a quiet, husky voice falls from her lips, so unlike her usual fire.

“I hoped I might smell the roses, see what all the fuss is about.”

She turns to face him, her eyes wet with emotions Vegeta couldn’t begin to name, sparkling sapphires blessed to shine under even the tiniest of light, or filled with so much heartbreak.

Her lithe fingers tilt one of the flowers - roses - towards him. Despite himself he leans forward, his shoulder brushing her own. He feels the twinge, the accidental knock of almost-healed skin threatening to tear off. He breathes in the plant, noting the purple hues made almost silver from the moon.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: WE MADE IT TO CHAPTER FIVE!! EVERYBODY CLAP!! labour of love fr <3 but we're almost to the scene that sparked the whole freakin series and i. oh man im just yearning for that hurt/comfort

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: You test out if your efforts with the tonics are worth anything and Azriel bestows you with a gift. He asks about the Blood Rite and you ponder the strange, golden thread you've been feeling in your chest. Disaster strikes when night falls.

CHAPTER FIVE :: CONFIDANTS

You look younger in your sleep, Azriel thinks.

He doesn't think he's ever seen you like this before. The hard lines of your face are all smoothed out as you rest, so unlike your usual expression. There's something softer about you.

The constant furrow between your brows is whisked away for once. He can still see the familiar line between your brows though, if he looks close enough.

If he can look past the bruises that mottle your face, that is.

The damage you've sustained from training within the camp is severe enough to curdle something sour in his stomach.

Azriel had held his reservations about his trip back to Velaris— a suspicion that proved to be well founded. His own memories of training at Windhaven provide plentiful ways for you to have ended up in this state.

You’re curled up instinctively in your sleep, wings tucked around yourself. It sews of thread of worry through Azriel's chest, a slight concern at the state of your wounds and how the position will agitate them. While you don't move much in your sleep, he knows from experience that it'll be hell when you finally do stretch back out.

But... he can’t bring himself to wake you. You need the sleep desperately.

Azriel is fairly certain that the huddled form you take is some subconscious way to protect yourself, even in your sleep. Your wings drape across yourself, keeping yourself covered, hidden.

And while that makes some part of Azriel's heart ache, he can't deny that you—it looks… sort of cute.

Azriel forces himself to avert his eyes, ducking his chin for extra measure. Those pesky thoughts were becoming more and more frequent — something that he's pointedly ignoring at this point.

Protect, his shadows whirl around his ears like tiny gusts of wind, whispering their suggestions. Protect, they whisper.

Protect. Both a thought and a feeling. A guiding intuition that seems to reverberate from his very bones.

The suggestion from his shadows isn't entirely left field either, as they always take inspiration from what he can see. From his wandering thoughts, from his prolonged gentle gaze that lays upon you whenever he can.

Azriel scowls lightly at himself. He had no claim to protect you and further more, most Illyrian males like yourself would take great amounts of offence to the mere insinuation. He knows that you are more than capable.

He steals another glance at your peaceful, sleeping figure and his shadows seem to quieten in response— at least about you. The whispers don't ever truly quieten.

Azriel's fairy certain where they're getting their ideas. It's what he wonders too as he takes in your battered face once more—whether it’s the truth or just his familiar brand of desperate hope.

Something that would explain the urge to protect beyond reason.

Something like... a bond forged in starlight.

The Mother's Kiss whistles quietly outside and Azriel shifts his gaze again and this time, it lays upon the Heartstriker.

Sitting atop the one table-top in your shelter, the blade stays sheathed away in the very same bejeweled case that Azriel had found it in. Same as on that very first day he laid his hands on it.

It had been a wretched mission. One of his very first. It was not performed with the eloquence he would come to learn in future years.

Heartstriker had not been the objective of the mission. Far from it, in truth. The objective was a simple stealth reconnaissance into the Court of Nightmares.

He was to delve beneath the rock of the mountain in a mission very similar to his current. Swirlings of rumours and whispers of rebellion, against the new Highlord. Azriel was there to learn who had the guts to pick up the knife and try.

Heartstriker was a ploy. A shiny trick that Azriel had not yet learned how to evade.

He was still a novice by his own standards, only a few hundred years old. Spying in this sense was still fresh, still new. The work he had done under Rhysand's father during the war had been far more reliant on his brute strength. He had strict instructions not to hesitate to draw his blade.

It had taken time to relearn the importance in a message sent with words.

To remember the power of mercy.

This mission had been the first and only time Azriel had underestimated the measures in place in the Court of Nightmares, meant to keep out the likes of him.

His hesitance to kill had given another Fae time to trip an alarm, to flood the room with warriors. So when he had been backed into a corner by the snarling miscreants that lived in the belly of the mountain, taken by surprise, he hadn't hesitated to snatch up any weapon he could reach.

And it had branded him, singeing him right to his core.

But when he tried to force his fingers apart, they wouldn't obey, even as they screamed with the pain of the invisible flames. It was as though his hand had become fused with the blade, each atom of his being completely joined with the bronze of the sword through a terrible, unstoppable and invisible force.

Every part of him shrieked in agony. An age-old fear reared up within him, his hands burning like they were set alight and he could feel the flames licking at his skin, at his hands, could smell the scent of burning flesh—

He had fought on and won, all the same, taking on two battles at once. Fighting foes by real and faux, all whilst burning up from within all the while. The sword was immeasurably heavy and yet too light, all at once.

And only once almost all his enemies were slain, their blood staining the marble floors, did the burning cease. The blade seem to hum in response to the battle— drawn to the final foe who was clawing for his breath through his blood-soaked throat.

The tip of the sword had urged Azriel forward, like pulled by an invisible string, and he let it lead him, plunging the blade through the chest and into the heart of the last enemy left.

Only after, had the humming stopped. The sword finally clattered from Azriel's strong grip, the fusion broken.

His hands were same as ever, mottled with their scars, but with no indication of the burning he knew he had felt.

On his return, Rhys had told him the history of the sword and it's duly fitting name: Heartstriker.

It hadn't been claimed in centuries and as such, naturally it had come to live amongst other cursed objects within the Court of Nightmares. Unable to be used, unless someone bested the pain it took to raise it.

But Azriel had, entirely by accident.

It is said that once mastered, it will always strike true. Rhys had said, violet eyes gleaming as he looked over the bronze sword with piqued interest. That it's more than a regular sword but a living thing you must work in tandem with.

If anyone tries to take it from you, they must suffer the same fate. It can be gifted freely but, He had paused, that smirk that held no warmth in it pulling at his lips. I'm sure you can guess how often that happens down there.

It hadn't been used within the Night Court either, condemned to another hundred years or so without sight of battle. Azriel had more than enough blades of his own. The Illyrian broadsword that he had earned all that time ago in the Blood Rite for a proper battle and his Truth-Teller for the finer details.

Heartstriker wasn't right for his stature. Too short, strange weighted.

He'd kept it all the same. Perhaps, he told himself, to keep some other Fae from suffering the same fate if they laid hands on it.

His hazel eyes drift back across to you, bundled within yourself. You make a noise in your sleep, a gentle snuffle, and Azriel finds himself smiling.

Or perhaps, he thinks, he knew to keep it for entirely other reasons.

—

The quick healing of Illyrian's is more often a blessing than it is a curse.

On today's quiet winter morning, it is somehow both.

When you wake, dragged from your slumber in the early hours, it's before the sun has begun to make an appearance on the horizon. The shelter is coated in a soft darkness of dawn. The trees sway outside, a thousand creatures still roaming amongst their branches, reliant on the dark before daylight breaks.

It's the pain that wakes you, ebbing in through your sleep til it shakes off your sleep. You wake with your teeth already gritted.

The only pleasant surprise is that fact you're not shuddering yourself awake out of a nightmare, especially considering yesterday's training session.

You have a feeling that it has something to do with the sleeping Illyrian, propped up beside the fireplace, keeping watch.

His shadows still move about, even in his sleep. His neck is tucked down, his forehead pressed against his knee. It hides away part his face but as your eyes adjust to the shadowy light, you can make out his closed eyes. His hair looks messier than you've ever seen it.

It can't be comfortable, sleeping the way he is— but you have a feeling that Azriel has slept in places far worse before.

Shifting about in the darkness, your hand comes down to press tenderly at your sides, assessing as quietly as you can. There's no immediate sting of sliced skin as your fingers tips poke and prod at the skin, which makes you sigh in relief. You press down again, at bit harder this time, and it forces a wince out your gritted teeth.

Extremely bruised. But at the very least, the skin has knitted itself together in the nighttime.

Your face still aches, too. It's not quite the same ringing that made both eyes throb painfully yesterday and with a slow wrinkle of your nose, you can assess that the worst of your broken nose has healed up too.

Your ears, however, poses a different problem. One of them, the right side, still rings lightly. It would be more concerning, you think, if the left one itself wasn't so muffled altogether.

Huffing out a breath, you drag yourself up to a sitting position, moving at a tentative pace. Pain ricochets around your body. You're doing the best you can to be quiet but it's futile it seems — there's one creak of the bed as your weight shifts and Azriel's wings twitch, giving him away. He’s awake.

He lifts his head slowly, letting it roll from one side to the next, stretching out his neck. It's the only indication he gives you of feeling sore from his cramped sleep all night, his attentive eyes already watching you closely. His shadows, you notice, seem to gain speed at his rousing— circling his shoulders and neck closely.

You clear your throat and focus your gaze forward, resuming the task at hand. Raising one hand, you snap your fingers beside your left ear, then your right.

Frustration bubbles up inside you as you repeat the motion, as if it’ll change the outcome.

It doesn’t.

At least beyond the ringing, your right ear can hear the snap clearly— a keen Fae sense that like any warrior, you rely heavily on. The left one…

All you can think is that they must have hit you pretty damn hard to leave it as dulled as it feels. It can still hear, thankfully, but the noise that filters through is muffled around the edges. Buzzy. It makes you feel off kilter and unbalanced.

You let your hand drop and try to remain stoic, so used to hiding your emotions away from your face. You don't realise your drooping, limp wings give you away anyways.

Azriel gets to his feet swiftly, the movement so smooth you would have never guessed he spent the night tucked up uncomfortably against the bricks of your fireplace. He regards you with those burning amber eyes and your heart seems to lurch forward in response. You avert your gaze.

"It would seem we have an opportunity to test out our efforts." He says. His voice is still coated in sleep, low and rumbley, and it sends a bright zing down your spine. You lift your gaze from your lap and raise your brows in question.

He waves a hand to the table, in gesture.

Your various ingredients for brewing the tonics stay tucked in one corner, some wrapped up and set beneath the table. There are several different bottles too, stoppered with corks and containing yours and Azriel's attempts at the healing tonics.

It takes another moment to understand what he means.

"No," You say sharply, climbing to your feet. A thousand parts of your ache and groan in protest and you channel your focus into not letting a single ounce of it show.

Rolling your tense shoulders back, you wander towards your armor in slow steady steps. "Those aren't for me. I've healed enough in the night."

"I see." Azriel replies. "Is that why your left ear isn't working right?"

Gaze snapping back to him, you curse his ever-so observant nature. Maybe that's on you for trying to keep a secret from a Shadowsinger.

You are keeping a secret from a shadowsinger, something whispers in you.

A cold flush fills your body, numbing out every nerve for a single moment. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your wings hike up, tuck in. It feels wrong.

For the first time in your life, it feels so so utterly wrong to be keeping this secret from someone. To be hiding who you truly are.

But Azriel... he was a stranger not too long ago, wasn't he? You're not sure if you can even call each other friends, even if you had begun to in your mind, without even realising.

You think back to last night, to when he could have easily lifted your shirt a few inches higher when trying to save your life and known.

Then you wonder if he did — and he hasn't said anything.

If he's waiting for you to trip up, to fess up, to explain to him why you've been lying to him from the moment you first met him.

Azriel seems to sense your internal battle, the same way he seems senses a thousand things from you as though he's known you his whole life. He clears his throat to get your attention. When you focus your vision back on him, you notice one of the bottles is in his scarred fingers.

"I will train you today," He says. "On the condition that you take it."

Your nose twitches. It's an ultimatum. He knows you want to train, to brush off yesterday and let the pain in your body fuel the determination of today but he won't let you do it so carelessly. Bastard.

Before you can blink, he tosses the bottle across to you. You react instinctively, cradling your hands to catch it quickly before you realise what you're doing. Your nose twitches again, a tiny flare of annoyance at his smugness.

No, not smugness. Surety. His expression, bordering on bored, tells you that he knows you don't have any other options— unless you want to climb back into bed and rot for the day.

You yank the cork off the bottle harshly. Then, just to show him how unpleased you are with this, you lob the cork at him with all your might. Your bruised side screams in response. Azriel snatches from the air easily, without so much as a blink.

He looks like he wants to smile but thinks the better of it, placing the cork gently onto the table. "I'll meet you outside." He eyes the uncorked bottle in your hand then back at you. "Drink it. Please."

—

The tonic, as you find out, is only mildly effective.

It's a gutting discovery. The mixture is nowhere near potent enough to fix the level of nerve damage that gets inflicted during clippings if it barely lightens the bruises on your side.

The mottled blue painted on your skin gives way to a light purple, the edges of them retracting to a tinged yellow. The skin glows hot as the tonic works as best as it can.

The taste of it is nearly as rancid as the failure feels.

You deal with it the only way you know how; chewing it up and spitting it back out as determination to do better. The drive to push yourself harder in training rears up, fiery and stubborn— harder than you logically know is any help to yourself.

What was already tedious and heinous training is made that much worse by your injuries.

You're moving sloppily today, offbeat. The dullness in your left ear helps to keep you off balance. Still, you manage to keep up with Azriel— not quite the one step ahead you're usually aiming for but, at the very least, you're still holding your own.

Your ribs ache and your heads throbs. The ringing in your right ear has disappeared with the help of the tonic, only to have started up in the left. A relief in one sense— it's good to be hearing more of anything. A fucking pain in another.

The only major upside, really, is the sword.

The Heartstriker, Azriel had called it

You had been half convinced it was a hallucination, the gift. Sure that it some desperate illusion born out of the delirium of the blood loss because, really, when was the last time you had ever gotten a gift?

When you'd limped your way out into the snow and saw it in his hands, you had blinked in disbelief.

But it's almost like Azriel had expected it, his scarred hands reaching out to gently curl around your wrist, murmuring its name as he had pressed it into your hand. It's yours, he had said.

He had let go of your wrist go immediately, stepping back but not far, still hovering close by. He let you have a moment to marvel at it before he urged you to follow to the usual neck of the woods you trained in. The sound of clashing steel had soon followed.

It's a perfect addition, you find.

The blade is like a mere extension of your own arm. It's light enough to carve through the air with ease but when you strike, it's buries deep. Compared the Illyrian broadsword used in training at camp, it suits your stature far better. You move more agilely, hit more frequently and harder when you do.

It's probably the best thing you've ever owned— ever held.

You're gazing at it where it rests on your lap, glinting in the light of the day, as you try to catch your breath. Azriel had given you a moment to recover, far earlier than normal, due to your injuries, no doubt. Normally, you'd grumble and snarl and push him to continue but today, you're quite happy to have another moment to stare at the first gift you've gotten.

Azriel breaks the silence with a question.

"Why haven't you competed in the Blood Rite?"

Something icy spikes in your blood and your back straightens instinctively, the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end. Whether he knows it or not, he is treading close to dangerous territory.

"Why do you ask?" You answer his question with another question.

Azriel regards you with a certain look, his dark eyes dragging down your body intensely and back up to your face. It's enough to make you fluster momentarily, to feel a faint stirring in your heart that doesn't entirely feel like your own. No one has ever looked at you like that before.

"You're strong. You hold your own. You're of age." He states carefully. "You remain attached to this camp with no rank until you pass it. Why not?"

You scowl at his frame of thinking, as if you haven't passed over those reasons a thousand times. Beyond the fact you can't ever ensure you wouldn't be burdened with your cycle during the Blood Rite, there's more than enough reason for you to remain a nobody.

You feel oddly disappointed that he would think only in that manner; glory and rank.

"What makes you think I want any rank in my camp?" You spit bitingly, watching as his wings sink down an inch at your tone. His misunderstanding of why you've chosen this way of life bothers you more than you expect.

"Because you did?" You ask. "Because three bastards fought their way through it and won and left their shitty pasts behind? I am not you, Azriel."

Azriel doesn't react, not even the raising of his brows. Only his shadows give himself away, whirling around slower than usual. He speaks in that same careful tone as before.

"I know you are not."

He makes you feel foolish for giving in to any lick of your anger, for so quickly snapping at your only friend. You turn your head away and stare down into the snow, taking a breath. Cauldron, you're tired. Lifting you arm, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, clearing the sweat that beads there.

"I could leave but for what reason? Ever since I—" You suck a sharp inhale, swallowing back words that dance too close to giving you away. You pray he doesn't notice your hesitation. "Ever since I was young, this has been my goal. This change must come from within, you know that."

You inhale again, feeling the breath rattle past every ache and pain in your chest.

"I can only do the things I do... the things I must achieve, by being unnoticeable."

You cast a glance up to him. "To them, I am some bastard who won't give up and die. I am not a proper threat. You, of all people, should understand that it's easiest to work when people are not paying proper attention."

And that's all you have known — how to become unnoticeable when needed and how to be noticed when wanted. Attention, you've learned, only means a target on your back.

Beyond that... you can't imagine someone who would want to notice you for anything more. You've had many, many years to make peace with that bitter fact.

I am.

Without warning, there's a sudden thrum from deep within you, like a echo of a drum, of a call. It's golden and threaded with softness. I am paying attention.

It startles you, one hand flying to your armored chest in surprise. As quick as it had appeared, the hum flees and leaves your bound chest twingeing only in its usual discomfort. One moment of brief serenity. You long for it, despite the unfamiliar nature.

You realise abruptly that you've trailed off and force yourself to move, body aching in the process. Heartstriker sinks into the snow and you use it to clamber to your feet, not nearly as graceful as you would like. Azriel doesn't say anything.

In fact, when you lift your gaze to meet his, he's staring at you more intensely than usual. His shadows seem more agitated. They flit about, circling his hands more than his shoulders, and you can barely see the scarred skin through their inky darkness.

There's a long moment. Around you both, the trees creek as they bend in the wind, a thousand leaves rustling around you in a chorus.

Azriel breaks the silence, casting his eyes to the ground and lifting his blade. "No more questions."

He says it like a promise, his lips pulling at the edges like he might be offering a smile.

"Just fighting."

—

By the time the moon rises, the ache in your body has dimmed to a more bearable pain.

While you'd be miffed at the idea of Azriel pulling his punches, you can't deny the sliver of gratitude you have for it now. As you reach over the cauldron of simmering stew, only a few of your ribs twinge enough to make your motions falter momentarily. The stew bubbles and brews, filling your shelter with a hearty smell.

It's been too long since you last cooked something to share.

You try to shelve the guilt away—you and Azriel have been running a very tight schedule, switching between training, tonics and rest. Taking time to cook, for yourself or others, hasn't even had time to cross your mind.

Your brief brush back with the reality during yesterday's training, however, had provided you with ample reminders. Your home camp and all its violent glory.

So, you cook. The logs crackle on the fire and above them, the stew simmers gently as you stir absentmindedly at it. Giving yourself this quiet moment, you let your thoughts drift as the tiredness of the day trickles into your body. Your thoughts turn to the quiet Shadowsinger.

He had taken his leave as soon as he had declared the end of your days training, needing another trip to Velaris.

I'll be back by morning, he had said, each of his seven cerulean siphons flaring brightly before he stepped between the fabric of the world and disappeared. Another hidden trick up his sleeve.

You'd allowed yourself only one moment of surprise before you closed your mouth— you really needed to stop underestimating him. As the stew before you begins to hiss and spit, you pull yourself from your thoughts and prepare yourself for the discomfort of meal times.

They never are as friendly as you might hope.

Despite your generosity, the different outcasts of Exordor remain cagey. Regard you with pensive and guarded looks, hands hovering on the butts of their swords. You can't blame them in the slightest.

But those that can brave the walk to your cabin, risking both themselves and your own safety against the other Illyrian brutes in the camp, are rewarded with a hot meal. Tonight, you feed 12 hungry mouths before your doorstep grows quiet.

You pack it all away in silence, with a quite yearning for company you've only just become used to having.

It's only as you're tucking in for the night, your wings wrapped around yourself tightly, does the first pain strike. Right to your core, the very insides of your gut feels as though it's being shredded. You gasp, your entire body curling up tighter to fight against the pain.

For only a moment, confusion clouds your mind at the attack that seems to come from nowhere, from an invisible enemy. Only one answer comes forward—the only thing that can threaten to reveal your secret without your permission, through mere scent alone.

A certain agony that only tortures you twice a year.

[NEXT PART: BETRAYERS]

[thebuckandeddiething]

...halloween episode confirmed...funny pumpkin emergency...it's something special... OK GUYS I THINK WE NEED TO PREPARE

[thesweetestofdreams]

The Gold and the Rust (Part 2)

How It Shines (part 2/??) 3k words

pairings: poly!marauders x reader (soon)

warnings: none I think

a/n: Hello, thank you so much for the warm welcome to this series. I'm so happy to share more, and I would love to hear your thoughts.

Sometimes the wizarding world felt like a fever dream, one that you would wake up from at any minute. The first time you saw magic, real and intentional magic it felt like you found something you didn’t know you lost. The strangeness you’d always felt suddenly disappeared even if for just a moment. As young as you could remember you felt like you were watching the world spin without waiting for you to catch up. You could finally catch your breath, that is, until everything came crashing down. People are frightened by things they don’t understand, even if it is their own child. This shining and magical world stole everything from you, and now you were left in the dark trapped between two lives that you couldn’t fit. 

You figured when your entire world is made of gold it's easy to be blinded by all of the reflections. That's how you thought of Gryffindors. It was strange to be in a house and only ever feel like you're viewing it from the outside. 

Few people left you with the feeling of an open door, a welcome and unencumbered view of what a true Gryffindor was. Lily Evans was one of those people. She was made for this life. It was clear from the moment you met. She was contagious and impossible not to like. 

Looking at her now as the two of you studied in the Great Hall, you could still see traces of her at eleven. The girl you met on your very first train ride to hogwarts. She always held an unwavering assuredness that no matter where she was she would find her place. She was there the first time an older boy with sharp eyes called you a mudblood. You hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but you knew it was bad enough that Lily broke his nose for it. She sought you out at the start of every year no matter how much work you did to avoid her. 

"Are you even paying attention?" She asked, finally looking up from her book. Copper hair fell over her shoulder. She looked like a painting from a museum, something timeless. She also looked rather annoyed. 

"Yeah yeah there's a rare pixie in eastern caves." You said trying to remember you were in the great hall and not your own head.

“That was ages ago, I asked if you were going to the Slytherin party?”

“Why would I?” Slytherin parties were notorious.

“Because it's going to be fun? And I'm going so you should.” She didn’t return to herbooks instead she watched expectantly.

“I don't know. I have a transfiguration’s essay.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t much of a good excuse, not for Lily.

“Remus is in that class and he said it wasn’t due until next week. Please come with me.” You were caught and Lily was giving you an irrefutable, pleading look.

You were about to answer when a surge of people flooded into the great hall. Their noise came with them like the roar of a wave, trickling down to where the two of you sat. 

You started to gather your things ready for your next escape, but you weren't quick enough. 

"You don't have to leave," a familiar voice said. It was James coming around to your other side. He smiled at them as he started talking to Lily about a new quidditch player. He always smiled like the sun, almost too bright to truly look at it. 

"You weren’t leaving, were you (y/n)," another familiar voice and a familiar arm over your shoulder as Sirius sat on your other side. He was looking at you with his usual mischief, already planning something surely. “What were you ladies talking about? It wasn’t me was it?” He winked, incredulous.

“It wasn’t you, Pads,” and there it was the last of the trio. Remus leaned over the two of you, if it was anyone else his height would be intimidating, but for him it was just, well, Remus. “It was, transfiguration?” he said looking at her work. “I thought that wasn’t due until next week.”

“That’s what I said.” Lily jumped from her conversation with James as Remus sat next to him. 

“Okay lads, well it's been lovely as always,” you said, sliding out from under Sirius’ arm. 

“Wait, you’ll come with me won’t you,” Lily added. She was certainly persistent. 

“She’ll go,” Sirius said.

“You don’t even know where, and I’ll speak for myself thank you,” you said, patting a less than gentle hand on his shoulder as you stood. 

Lily looked at you again with her best pleading face on display. 

“Yes, I’ll go with you, but can I finally leave now?” Your eyebrows raised as you tried not to smile at her giddy face. 

“Okay yes, go, you’re dismissed,” she said waving her hands to shoo you away. 

As you walked away you heard Sirius say something along the lines of never having any fun. Little did he know you were just doing your best to get through the year, fun came in rare moments you didn’t have the time for anymore. Really you were going to the party as a chaperone, to watch Lily have fun from your place at her side. 

If the wizarding world was a fever dream then slytherin parties were another realm altogether. The flickering candles were enchanted to an array of colors casting the room in darkened rainbow hues. It was as if the room was colored by stars. 

The floor to ceiling windows showed the dark expanse of the black lake only further reflecting the lights swaying with the water's movement. 

People were passing cups full overflowing with curling smoke and uniforms were long since abandoned for more festive clothing. 

Gryffindor parties often got a bit wild, but they still had nothing on Slytherin. Being below the ground, nestled in the dungeons, meant celebrations could be as loud as they wanted. Once you'd considered what life would be like if you were sorted into Slytherin, what it would feel like to be in the house of the cunning and ambitious. Then you were reminded that there were no more prizes in life that you wanted, only to get through.

The party was a swaying sea of green, house pride and what not, but there were occasional pockets of yellow, red, or blue. Some people it was nearly impossible to tell, blurring the lines of house division. 

Somewhere music was playing but it echoed through the large stone rooms so it seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

Lily had pulled you in a large circle around the room, seeming to greet everyone you passed. The night was still young and there was much to do and much to see, although you did wish for the comfort of your dorm.  

"Do you want something to drink?" Lily asked loudly overcompensating for the music.

"No thanks, I don't feel like tumbling down a moving staircase tonight." You said picking up a sugar quill instead from the table of drinks and treats. Gummy snakes slithered along the surface, curling around discarded cups and tangling amongst each other. 

"Sirius was right, you know," Lily said, taking another drink for herself. "You don't know how to have any fun." 

You'd heard Sirius say it plenty of times. You could almost hear him now. Hearing it come from Lily had a different weight to it. "I have fun, I just want to make sure I remember watching everyone else fall on the stairs."

"Ha ha," Lily deadpanned. "Here," she shoved a drink in your hand, clearly ignoring you. Smoke snaked around your fingers from the lid of the cup. You looked at her incredulous. "Just to hold," she said, "for decoration."  

 A group of kids in the corner were already placing lively bets on the coming quidditch season. A few more were playing some game with a floating bottle spinning in the air. Lily continued to pull you along with her almost like a tethered balloon. She slid between Slytherins with sharp eyeliner and bold shadow, she slid between a group of hufflepuff girls with yellow blouses more fit for summertime than cold dungeons.

The entire scene was otherworldly an escape from the sometimes stifling class schedule. Everything seemed to burst with color and that's when you saw it. That's when you saw the contents of your cup begin to bubble over spilling liquid past your fingertips. You looked around the room trying to see if this was happening to anyone else. A cup in the hands of a younger ravenclaw across the room and several at the refreshments table began to do the same things. You looked down at the purple foam now dripping down the side of your cup until suddenly it exploded. You were bathed in a sea of colors. The contents of the cups in the nearby table flew in fountain-like streams up to nearly touching the ceiling. You were soaked in streaming colors, bursting from the purple foam of your cup. Pink trailed down your arms and a bright yellow pooled around your shoes. A few others by the table caught the brunt of flying colors, but none so bad as you and the ravenclaw boy, well it was hard to tell now that he was ravenclaw his house sweater was now closer to a kaleidoscope rather than the usual blue and bronze. 

You felt yourself slide into place behind your eyes, almost watching the scene unfold from a separate version of yourself. Separate from the you that partygoers were now snickering at. Separate from the you that more resembled a rainbow than your usual self. You didn't share in the merriment, nor did your face reflect the shocked "o" shape of Lily's. You were fuming, almost as if you could steam the color right off of you. You knew exactly who was behind this, better yet, you knew the exact three who were behind this. 

You stalked into the Gryffindor common room eyes searching for your target. Sitting on a couch tucked near the back three laughing forms came into view. 

Pink powdered hair and color-smeared face forgotten, you approached them. “Can I talk to you,” you whispered to Sirius leaning over the back of the couch. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course love,” he started, but quickly stopped as the three of them took you in. Shock dancing on their features. From the look on your face Sirius knew he was in trouble. Pulling him into a secluded 

“Do you really think this shit is funny?” you fumed. Sirius took you in his face falling more and more by the second, then a quirk of his lip.

“Pink hair suits you.” For a moment you were dumbfounded. This was meant to be an argument. 

“Can’t you just be serious for one minute?” 

“I’m always Sirius.” He flashed what was meant to be a dazzling smile, it just made you want to smack him. Instead of actually hitting him, you started to walk away. Clearly there was no talking to Sirius on this issue. 

He catches up to stand in front of you. “I didn’t know you’d be there (y/n). I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” Finally a sincere thought, let alone an apology. You sigh. 

“Please just leave me alone Sirius. I think that will be best for both of us. We don’t need any more distractions this year.” 

“So you think I’m distracting,” he says, quickly falling back into his usual ways. 

“Sirius Black.” It comes out far too loud from your mouth and immediately you wish you could snatch it back out of the air. You look over and James is peeking over his shoulder while Remus at least pretends to be engrossed in the fireplace. You run your hands through your hair pink dust staining your fingers. “Some of us are just trying to make it through the year and this,” you gesture to yourself covered in bright pigmented blotches, “only makes it harder.”

“I could try to help, make things easier, I mean.” He seemed oddly sincere. It suited him and for a moment you thought you saw a chink in his armor, that maybe there were pieces of you reflected in him. You pushed the thought away.

“I want you to stay out of it, to leave me out of it.” You were getting tired, of the night, of the conversation, all of it. 

“Well, I’ll try, but I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told.” 

The Gryffindor common room was warm. It always was no matter the weather outside. As days marched forward the common room always seemed fixed in time. It was the one constant, it never changed when classes did. It saw everything. 

It saw you at every turn. It also saw you as you dashed through the portrait hole. Running extremely late for charms this morning.

After a long night of scrubbing colored powder from nearly every inch of yourself and catching up on assignments you’d meant to do after the party, you jolted upright, knocking a host of books off of the bed. Your hands were smeared with ink and a good portion of the parchment had smudged, illegible writing now pooling at the bottom. You muttered curses as you flew about the room for your uniform. With an undone tie and bedraggled hair you ran to Charms hoping you hadn’t missed the entire class. 

Stomach flipping as you made for the door, you had the vague sense to smooth down your hair and robes. Had the world been on your side the class would have been in the middle of chaotic demonstrations from students, but when was the world ever on your side? An overly dramatic hush came over the classroom and several students, a handful being Slytherins from the party, snickered at the sight of you. 

Sirius tried to get your attention, waving a hand at you and gesturing to the seat beside James. Ultimately this is what got Flitwicks attention, snagged away from his lecture. “Unfortunately that will be point from Gryffindor Ms.(l/n). Please have a seat.” Flitwick looked to the seat closest to you. As fate would have it that seat was also the one next to that of James Potter. It wasn’t particularly surprising as he had a habit of talking with his hands and a reputation for spilling ink jars.

“So Gryffindor, party too hard?” A voice sounded from the mess of green robes. You saw Sirius shoot a scathing look their way. 

“That’s enough distraction,” Flitwick reprimanded, quickly returning to his lesson. You could still hear your heart pounding over the scratching of quills. The thundering rhythm of embarrassment came with it. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t?” A whispering voice came from your right. James was restraining his usual sunshine smile.

“What?” You were still reeling from the sticky pull of sleep, your hands fumbled through your bag.

“Party too hard?”

“Oh, no,” you said, your mouth trying to catch up over the race of your heart.

“Sorry, it was meant to be a joke.” James said. “Here.” He slid you his notes, they were surprisingly diligent if only half legible.

"Alright everyone, as we are nearing the end of your time at Hogwarts, we must be sure you're prepared for the real wizarding world. In a real job you'll seldom work alone and for that reason I am introducing our first group project. I trust your desk mates will make worthy companions on this venture." Flitwick continued but you hardly heard him. A series of groans fluttered through the class, but Flitwick continued as if you had all just applauded. “This will be a considerable portion of your grade so please do take this seriously.”

You glanced down the table at Sirius who looked rather happy with himself. Remus smiled at you with a small wave, and James bumped your elbow with his. “Welcome to the best group,” he whispered to you. You felt a part of yourself crumble at the realization that you were now dependent on the Marauders of all people if you wanted to pass Charms and finally leave hogwarts. 

The rest of class was a blur between Flitwick going over the project and frantically copying James’s notes. He kept having to tell you what words were through all of his scribbling. Eventually after all of the trouble Remus passed his to you. There were little black stars drawn in the left margin. 

As class dismissed you did your best to get out and into the hall before being sequestered by Sirius. You were not successful. 

“Oh love you have ink on your cheek, James why didn’t you tell her?” Sirius said, standing next to you.

“I didn’t want to be rude.” James tried to defend himself. You were mortified.

Sirius began to lick his thumb. You take a few steps back bumping into another small group of students. 

“Here.” Remus rummaged through his bag pulling out a packet of tissues. 

“Of course you’d have that, Moony.” Sirius says, grabbing them up. With it comes a half bar of chocolate. 

“I figure you didn’t have time for breakfast, it's not much but…” Remus said trailing off at the end. 

“Oh great idea. I think I have a… an apple.” James pulled an apple from his robe pocket.

Sirius tries to wipe your face for you but you make quick work of doing it yourself. 

“Thank you,” you say, passing the packet back to Remus, “but it’s really not a big deal. Lunch isn’t too far off.” You can’t rightfully take food from them after telling them off just the night before.

“Don’t be coy, (y/n).” Sirius took both the apple and chocolate, pushing them into your hands. 

“Thanks,” you said, not sure what else you could say. They had no reason to be so nice to you. 

As much as you wanted to glare at them or make a snarky comment, they were being, well, caring. It left you feeling off kilter, like one push could knock you over. People didn’t treat you like this, not anymore. Not since your mother and father left their strange and scary daughter at Hogwarts only to never retrieve you, only to send you off again. It was another reason you would never be the same as the golden Marauders. You were from and you lived in two different worlds. 

“Okay well, I have a transfiguration essay to fix, but I guess I” you paused, “owe you guys.” Finally you seized the chance to leave. A series of objections fell from behind your back as you made your way to the library. 

You had to get a grip, remind yourself that staying away from them was what you wanted, was easier, was for the best, but how were you meant to work together if all you wanted was to avoid them? What was the better sacrifice, your vow to leave Hogwarts as soon as you can or the vow to never let anyone see who you really were? You were just going to have to make it work. You can work with the Marauders without falling into anything more. Sirius couldn’t rope you in if you tethered yourself to the truth, that no one wants the strange and scary girl left alone at the train station.

[renlyslittlerose]

Two bros, chillin' by a window, a couple feet apart cuz they're not friends~

[nic-coughlan]

we're in single digits

9 days to go my dudes

[amygdalagustd]

HOSEOK IS BACK

[evewasheretoday]

Accidents Happen: Chapter 2 - Fate

You didn't know where Lady Cassandra was leading you but you hoped she wasn't taking you to the dungeons.

Anywhere but the dungeons would be far better than being taken there.

“Tell me, maiden” Lady Cassandra started to speak again. “What brought you here to this castle?” She asked.

The question was innocent enough and the answer to it was simple.

“My family sent me here,” You told her.

She stopped in her tracks and turned around to stare at you. “Your family?” She questioned.

You looked at her a bit confused before nodding your head slowly. “Yes, my lady” You said. “My family were the ones to send me here”

She looked at you in a strange way before she shook her head and chuckled. “Are you certain of your answer?”

You blinked at her for a moment before answering her. “Of course,” You told her. “Why wouldn't I be?”

She seemed to be thinking about your words for awhile before smiling. “You're a strange one,” She said.

You couldn't help yourself but wonder what she meant by those words.

“How so?” You asked her with a small tilt of your head to the side.

“You seem quite confident in what you believe,” Lady Cassandra remarked. “Yet I can tell by the simplest details about you that there's uncertainty hiding beneath that confidence”

You frowned at her words. “Is that so?”

The other woman nodded, her expression being unreadable. “Indeed,” She told you. “It's as if you're carrying a burden that you're not even fully aware of”

“What very intriguing observation, Lady Cassandra” You replied. “Though I'm afraid you must be mistaken about any burden I may carry” You paused for a moment to think about your words. “I assure you that I am fully aware of my circumstances and the reasons for my presence here”

“Perhaps,” Lady Cassandra hummed. “I could be wrong but there are things yet to be revealed, both to you and to me”

You weren't sure if it was the cold air of the night but a chill ran down your spine. 

“There are forces at play we cannot fully understand, maiden” She continued.

“Such as?” You questioned.

“Fate,” She answered. “Such things are beyond our understanding and of our control” She added.

“Fate,” You repeated, leaving the word to hang in the air for a while. “It's a.. odd thing, isn't it?” You mumbled.

“Strange and unnatural” She nodded in response.

“I don't like where this conversation is heading” You admitted.

Lady Cassandra chuckled at your words. “Not a fan of the unknown, I suppose?”

“No,” You shook your head. “I can't say that I am” You muttered.

Lady Cassandra was at it again, staring back to you with an unreadable look in her eyes.

“Come follow me,” She spoke, taking a step forward before holding her hand out to you.

You hesitated only briefly before reaching out a hand to take hers.

“To where, my lady?” You asked her.

“You'll find out,” She replied, dragging you to where ever it was that she wanted to go.

[peachremix]

here's leon too

doing these studies have been really helpful and i think ashley is next :3 (if i still have motivation)

[fluffomatic]

GUESS WHO IS WRITING AGAIN!! THAT'S RIGHT BABY, IT'S MEEEEE!!

I'm hoping this fic will help me get the motivation to create again. I really want to, but this block has been brutal. With some help from some friends, I've been able to get this idea I've had in my head down, FINALLY! It's still not done, not even close, but I'm getting there.

I'm sure no one will be surprised when I say it's a Bakugan fic. I've wanted to write this idea of Dan going to Spectra so he wouldn't have to be alone, and he finally let's himself break down. Found family hurt/comfort is my jam! Plus, there's gonna be some sweet cheer up tickles, which is always a plus! So, keep your eyes peeled if you're interested :D And thank you guys for staying despite my inactivity. I really want to be as active as I was before and I'm trying my darndest.

[astarioffsimpmain]

"By the gods, you feel incredible." He groaned, snapping his hips up to meet yours. "Wet and tight, isn't she?" Astarion huffed, his breathing labored as he continued to stroke himself. "So much so, oh gods." Gale said, tugging your nipples between his fingers as you started bouncing on him in earnest.

🤪

[rqgender]

Today's gender is still listening?

[distinctlywhumpthing]

This Time

(Unintentional 30)

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: BBU-adjacent (institutionalized slavery), brief references to past-beating, fear of noncon drugging. It's the boys' first time out in public together, we're being gentle, this is practically all fluff. Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

When it’s seven o’clock and not a minute sooner, Leo says, “I’d feel better if you came with me.” He almost adds ‘this time’ and wonders if Aiden is also remembering the last time Leo left him alone while he ran into a store. 

Aiden’s eyes widen. “I…mmm…I…” He timidly raises a hand to the base of his throat, gaze falling as he does it. 

Leo tries not to read shame into his uncertainty. He clears his throat, wanting to sound as casual as possible. “I know. I looked it up and the law says you just need some form of identification on you. It doesn’t have to be…uh…” Nope, he can’t say it out loud. “But that’s really more if you’re on your own. If you’re accompanied…” 

He will also not be repeating the stipulation that in the absence of ‘wearable restraints’, anyone with a ‘plausible reason or concern’ may request that Leo ‘subdue’ Aiden or they are within their rights to do so themselves ‘by any means necessary’. Which unfortunately “explains” the bastards who tore him from the van that first night.

Leo runs a hand over his hair. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes, it’ll be fine.” 

Halfway to the door, Aiden loses his footing. Leo’s ready though, catching him with an arm threaded under his shoulders. 

“Mmm’sorry…” Aiden clutches Leo’s sleeve with his uninjured hand, leaning into him to steady himself. He doesn’t let go once he’s standing so Leo keeps an arm around him.

“No worries. It’s icy as hell and Converse aren’t exactly known for their traction.” They’re also not very warm so Leo ushers the wobbly kid on, making sure to steer him where there’s road salt or dry patches.

 They pause outside the door so he can pull Aiden’s hood off and make sure the scars on the back of his neck are covered by its fabric. “Hands out, right?” he reminds. Aiden nods. 

The last thing they need is some racist assistant manager on a power trip insisting on frisking him. Just the thought has Leo rethinking this whole stop. He’d never be able to stand aside and let that happen. The poor kid has already seen the worst at the hands of strangers; there’s no telling what reaction yet another pair might set off. Leo might be able to spare him the experience by outing him as a Companion but that isn’t exactly risk-free either. Leo doesn’t think he’d be able to make a passable demonstration of the “justice” he’d rain down later on his sticky-fingered Companion and even if he could, he’s pretty sure Aiden wouldn’t be play-acting terrified. After what he already had to put the kid through tonight, he doesn’t want to risk anything else testing the fragile trust between them. 

Aiden shifts from one foot to the other. Leo’s hesitance is making him even more nervous. The parking lot is still empty and Delia’s car has real locks and an alarm he’d hear from inside. Maybe there’s no need to take any risk—

“What-what…if…mmm’I…mmm…” Aiden looks over his shoulder to where he just slipped, furrowing his brow. 

There’s no way Leo can bring him back to the car now, not without confirming that he doesn’t trust him to manage his own two feet either. Sure, he’s not very stable on ice but it’s been weeks since he tripped in the house. Regardless, it’s one hypothetical Leo would happily handle.  

“You’ll be fine, you can do this.” 

Aiden drops his gaze. Leo can’t tell if it’s because he’s shy about the encouragement or if he thinks it’s just empty words. 

“I’ve got your back, kiddo,” he says, straightening Aiden’s beanie that doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll catch you if you trip again.” 

Aiden meets his eyes and only searches them for a second before nodding. 

Any remaining apprehension on Aiden’s part is eclipsed by a quiet overwhelm once they step through the door. His eyes widen and he looks even smaller surrounded by the full shelves, under fluorescent lights. He follows Leo closely, practically brushing against his side as though they’re jostling through a crowd and might get separated even though there’s no one else in sight. 

Leo steers his mind away from wondering too much about the last time Aiden was in a store. 

They walk along the even-brighter cosmetic aisle toward the prescription counter at the back. Aiden looks away from the little mirrors framed by bright red, pink, and coral lipsticks. His eyes trace the bottles on the other side instead, shampoos in colorful plastic, hairsprays in metallic spray cans, and gels in an array of containers all lined up in rows. He keeps his arms perfectly straight and pinned to his sides but his fingers twitch there. Like maybe he wants to touch something but he thinks he’s not allowed to. 

Leo pauses by the shower gel, earning a concerned if not startled stare from Aiden. “Easy, all good. Why don’t we pick one you like?” 

Aiden looks at him like he just suggested flying to Mars. 

Leo picks up the brightest red bottle, flips the cap open and sniffs. Nothing special, just a generic soap smell. He holds it out for Aiden who, slowly, eyes flicking up to Leo’s three times before he leans forward all the way, inhales too. 

“Anything?” 

He shrugs noncommittally, nervous now that Leo’s put him on the spot but Leo wants this to be light and fun, though that might be a leap. He goes for one that says ‘coconut-something island bliss’ in a yellow bottle. Smells nice enough. Aiden leans in a bit easier this time and, though barely discernible, wrinkles his nose. 

“I think not,” Leo offers. 

Aiden shakes his head. 

“Go on, pick another one.” 

He bites his lip and raises his good hand. Hesitates a few times as he scans the shelf before pausing in front of a teal bottle. His fingertips rub together absently as his gaze slides over to Leo, who gives him a reassuring nod. He carefully picks it up. Luckily, this one only needs to be pressed down to be opened and he gets it right away. He holds it out to Leo first—something floral this time—just shrugging once he smells it himself. 

But now he’s into it. 

Leo pulls a pink bottle off the shelf as Aiden chooses purple. Their arms cross in the air when they hold them out to each other and Aiden’s lips almost twitch into a smile. Leo wants to beam but he forces himself to play it cool. 

Aiden replaces his bottle and picks another red, ‘blood-orange orchid blossom’. It smells only of citrus because last time Leo checked, orchids don’t smell like anything so why even call it that except to fool people into paying more for something just because it sounds fancy?  

A black Axe bottle Leo is relieved Aiden also hates, Irish Spring, a classic Dove. Aiden only has trouble with one of the tops. Leo worries it’ll kill the moment but Aiden just passes it to him and finds another bottle. 

After a few more, Aiden goes back for the purple, or actually, ‘lavender fields in summer’, pulling it off the shelf again with about as much confidence as if he were playing Russian roulette. 

“Nice, good job.” 

Aiden huffs and tucks his chin against his chest, hiding a small smile that might just be relief but Leo hopes is something more. They feel different, this smile and the one in the car. Leo can’t put his finger on how they’re different but he finds himself willing to do just about anything to see one again. 

He has another internal debate about whether or not Aiden should be next to him at the prescription counter. In the end, he decides it can only help his case later if a neutral third party explains the medications to them both. 

The pharmacist is young and way too energetic for seven in the morning. Leo makes zero effort to match the vibe. He slides his license across the counter. “Hi, I’m here to pick up some prescriptions, please. Marshall.” 

“Marshall, Marshall, Marshall,” she repeats as she searches the system. “Leo?” she asks like it’s not on the license she’s holding. 

“Yep.” She passes it back and disappears behind the shelves. 

Aiden’s still as stone beside him. Leo smiles reassuringly but it’s no match for the basket of prescription bottles the pharmacist returns with. He should have read Noah’s notes to know exactly what they were getting into. 

A two-week course of—thankfully—liquid amoxicillin. High-dose naproxen for pain as needed. A refill of his paroxetine thanks to Delia. She’s good. He definitely would have skipped it to reduce the sheer volume of pills he would be picking up with Aiden. At least the pharmacist skips the instructions because she can see it’s a refill of a medication he’s been taking for years. 

The last is the worst. Alprazolam with an over-the-top warning that it “causes extreme drowsiness” and “do not operate heavy machinery”. Finally, the real nail in the coffin: “it’s a potent tranquilizer.” Five doses, no refills. He definitely should have read Noah’s notes first. 

Leo rushes to end the exchange and move on to damage control. He grabs a basket from the stack, sweeps the medications in, and resists the urge to rush Aiden out of the whole damn store. He walks them to the far right, along the cold cases of sodas and drinks and freezers filled with ice cream, bags of ice, and a smattering of frozen dinners, mostly for one. The opposite side of the aisle is lined with chips but Aiden’s eyes are glued to the pile of white paper bags in the red plastic basket. 

Christ, where to start? 

“Aiden, can you look at me?” He does, of course. Eyes shining and full of betrayal. “Hon, I know you heard some things back there—” 

“...good…” 

“What?” 

Aiden swallows, wets his lips. He’s clutching the bottle of body wash like it’s keeping him upright. “I-I-I’ll…be…mmm…good.” His eyes flick to the basket and back to Leo’s, pleading. 

“Of course you will. You are good. You’re always good, I know that.” 

No dice. Leo’s reassurances mean nothing, not with what he’s holding. He drops the basket behind him, an arm’s length away. The gesture is met with open suspicion. 

“Hon, the only thing in there that you have to take are the antibiotics. To fight off the infection in your hand. The liquid one Delia talked about, right?” 

He nods once but his eyes narrow. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Delia and Noah only wrote the other prescriptions to give you options. The pain killers, the anxiety pills, they’re only if you want them.” 

Aiden’s expression crumples and he shakes his head. Distressed by the suggestion that he would ever choose to take anything? Or can he only see the whole thing as a trick, a mockery of his agency or lack thereof? 

Leo’s heart aches for him. There’s nothing he can say that will erase all of that history or make it any easier to carry. “Okay, okay. I know this is overwhelming but I wanted you to hear it for yourself. I mean, from someone other than me. That way when you… If you… You can decide…” Aiden looks at him miserably, eyes still burning with betrayal. Leo’s only digging himself deeper. “One of the prescriptions is for me anyway,” he flounders. “Let’s just—” He reaches for Aiden’s shoulder but he steps back, out of reach. 

For a moment they just stare at each other. 

Aiden takes another step back and his eyes widen, surprised to find himself where he’s just stepped. Surprised Leo hasn’t grabbed him yet. His gaze slides from Leo’s face to a point over his shoulder and Leo’s heart sinks. 

The door? Would he run? Aiden takes a step forward, eyes still locked over Leo’s shoulder. 

“Wait—” Leo can’t handle the thought of losing this kid for the third time tonight. His eyes film over with tears. “Ple—”

Instead of walking around him, Aiden steps right into his arms. 

And then the sound hits his ears and Leo turns, shuffling Aiden behind his back for the shelter he was seeking. He wasn’t trying to run, he heard people coming in. He leans into Leo’s back, free hand gripping a fistful of Leo’s jacket so tightly Leo can feel how hard he’s shaking. They don’t have much of a height difference but he’s ducked his head to try to hide better, Leo can feel his cheek against his shoulder blade. 

It’s no wonder why—though Leo is impressed by his hearing—the guys are similar enough to the group that beat the shit out of him that first day. They laugh and banter their way to the first case in the aisle like this is just one stop in a fun night that’s still going. They pull out a six-pack of Red Bull and head to the registers without so much as a glance Leo’s way. 

He doesn’t move until Aiden does and Aiden waits until they’ve picked out a scratch-off and multiple vape flavors, joking with the cashier. Leo doesn’t bother keeping the judgment off his face with Aiden tucked behind his back. They stay, frozen like that until the pair amble out of the store. 

Aiden straightens, releasing Leo’s coat as soon as the first set of automatic doors slides shut. Leo turns to find him staring ahead unseeing, bottle in one hand and the other still closed into a tight fist. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Leo keeps his voice a whisper, all too aware they’re still in public. “It’s all right, they’re gone.” 

Aiden nods but only reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut once, twice, blinking away more tears each time he opens them. His fist trembles between them, arm still locked where it was holding Leo’s coat. 

Leo’s nervous to touch the poor kid considering the mental whiplash he must have—thinking Leo might drug him against his will only to be forced to depend on him for some semblance of safety—but if Aiden’s clenching his fist as tight as it looks, he’s putting too much strain on his stitches. 

“Can I give you a hand?” Leo holds his out, palm up. 

A few days ago, he’d spent a whole bathroom re-tile brainstorming a phrase to use during these moments when he didn’t know where to begin. Something neutral, not explicitly offering help but still open-ended enough that Aiden might get what he needed.  

Without even looking, Aiden drops his hand into Leo’s, uncurling his shaking fingers to grip him tightly. Leo’s momentarily dumbstruck that it worked. Has to be a fluke. 

“You’re doing great. We’re almost done.” He wraps his other arm around Aiden who shudders, finally exhaling. Leo wishes he could just hold him properly, until he stopped shaking, until he felt safe, no matter how long it took. “I just need to grab a few more things and then we’re outta here.” He gives Aiden one last squeeze before releasing him. 

The list from Noah is actually in his sister’s handwriting, first the prescriptions with more specific instructions and then a bunch of other things. Before he attaches himself to that fucking depository of pills again, he grabs a bag of pretzels and another of popcorn off the shelf to add to the basket. It’s an obvious move but at least now the prescription bags aren’t staring at them.

“Sterile gauze and bandages,” he tells Aiden, who nods stiffly, falling in to shadow him as he weaves through the store. He could move faster but he can’t risk anything else going wrong just now. 

Aiden doesn’t react to anything else Leo adds to the basket. As much as Leo wants to involve him, give him some choice or context, he can see the kid is dead on his feet. He is too, has been all night. 

Clothing basics happen to be at the end of the last aisle on their way to the registers. Leo wonders how bad is it to get some for Aiden now. Probably not as bad as it was to let him go this long constantly borrowing Leo’s. A pack of t-shirts, a pack of boxers, a pack of socks. Black for sure to avoid his tendency to flat-out panic about stains. Evidently, even this strip mall CVS is influenced by the pretentiousness of the surrounding area: there’s a choice of organic cotton that costs about forty percent more. Leo wonders if that means he can permit himself to feel forty percent less shitty for not getting Aiden even one thing to call his own sooner. 

He’s not sure what to expect when they get to the register. The woman in her mid-forties has hoops in her ears and acrylic French tips tapping on the side of her lime green phone case. She unabashedly continues scrolling, even after Leo says hello until he finishes unloading the basket. 

“Morning,” she says offhandedly as she starts scanning and bagging. 

When Leo leans away stack away the empty basket, Aiden steps forward to soundlessly place the bottle of body wash on the counter. 

“And good morning to you too, darlin’,” the cashier says, winking theatrically. 

Leo is about to step in front of him, make some remark about the weather to pull focus, but Aiden flashes her a smile that is as dazzling as it is vacant. Leo finds it unsettling but the cashier laughs, joking about how Aiden should look her up when he’s ten years older. Leo forces a chuckle as he pays, shoving the receipt in his coat and telling her to have a nice day while he grabs the bags off the counter. 

She returns the pleasantries and waves at Aiden. Leo’s jaw almost hits the floor when Aiden wiggles his fingers back as they walk away. 

Outside, Leo shifts all the bags to one side, turning to offer Aiden his other arm. 

He holds on right away, glancing around nervously like he's a deer about to step into an open field. He can’t seem to decide if he should watch his footing or surroundings. The street lights cast harsh angles on his face, hollowing his cheeks and throat, deepening the weariness under his eyes. 

Night and day from the mask of a smile he’d pulled on inside and haunting in an entirely different way. Leo is struck again by how little he knows about Aiden, how much he may never know, and the fact that if he’s going to do right by him, he’ll have to be ready for it all.

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[lucawrites11]

just posting this link for the collection

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 27 - Close

The rogue rolls a stealth check.

On AO3.

Astarion ends up giving the drow’s knife to his most intrepid leader. He took it, obviously. Spends the half hour she takes to drink water and eat her dried fish to polish off any lingering contaminants (and check his arm three times, feeling for ridges or fleshy knobs beneath his skin). Once they’re both done, he presents it to her.

“Um,” she says.

He was hoping for something a little better.

She doesn’t know how to use it, save for gutting fish and skinning woodland creatures under the Blade and the wizard’s tutelage. But while her staff will do an adequate job with enemies at longer range, her close-range skills are utterly abysmal. The worst he’s ever seen, and he’s including Leon in that (the man relies far too heavily on his magic; ugh, wizards).

She takes it reluctantly. And he realizes he’s going to have to teach her how to use it. Takes another half hour to show her two basic holds (she’ll be best at overhead strikes and slashing, he thinks; at least until the gith can build up some arm strength in her). Remembers she’s human and living, and belatedly shows her how to hold it without potentially cutting her own fingers off.

Then she announces she’s fit to travel again by way of grunting and grumbling and her left knee cracking as she rises—her pulse goes fluttery and she stands very still a moment. Hmm. She really shouldn’t have let him feed. For her own sake, anyway.

Baffling creature.

And then they set about walking. Again.

They walk. And walk. And walk some more. She takes up a musical chant that ends with her muttering and a soft snort. Must be one of her people’s jokes. She tries to explain it, but he has no idea what a “taumcardee” is.

They stop frequently. It’s her fault. She wouldn’t be so dizzy if she had more blood sloshing about inside her own veins. But she gave half of it to him, to slosh about in his own veins, and now she’s unable to walk more than fifteen minutes without needing a break.

Rather like those beastly little dogs patriars of the upper city used to keep a century and a half ago. Dreadful things. Always knew when he or one of his siblings were about. Until the city finally got tired of the nightly cacophony (partially funded by that bastard, no doubt) and declared them all contraband.

She’s rather bitey like those tiny terrors, too. And, well, loyal.

He feels his face twitch and has to smooth his expression down.

She’s nice to him. Not because she’s trying to gain anything (no more than usual, anyway), but because she just…is. He’s useful to her, yes. Undoubtedly. But not in the way he’s accustomed to. Not in the way his instincts can fall into line with. Not in a way that makes sense.

She does. Genuinely. Want to just…help him. Just because.

He should be congratulating himself. This is what he wanted, the prize he’s been playing for. He’d even tasted something in her blood, this last time. Something new. Small. Like a freshly struck ember nestled in a fluffy ball of tinder. Neglect it, and it suffocates. Feed it too much, and it dies.

It’s almost like…

No. Best not dwell on that. Especially not at the spider silk connection between this foreign oddity and him.

Astarion is a vampire spawn, a rogue, a recently freed slave, and arguably one of the most experienced whores in all of Faerun. His goal is to stay that way (and keep the fourth in the past tense). Whatever his leader’s blood tastes like doesn’t matter, so long as she remains his leader and his key to the others. That’s how he stays safe. How he stays free. All he needs do is maintain his altered plan. Easy. He barely needs to do anything at this point.

Which is why there’s no reason for him to reach for her when he picks up distant sounds. A word of warning would do just fine. (It’s just practicality, since she’s his meal and his protection, and that’s why his innards lurch all sickly in trepidation.) (Simple practicality.) (Nothing more than that.)

“What?” she says in Chondathan.

He holds. Listens.

It’s quiet, even to his ears, and distant. He stops breathing and stills himself utterly. Has to strain to hear over the whoosh of her heart and the rush of her lungs inflating. But the longer he stands there, the more certain he is.

Footsteps. Distant pulses. Something—three, perhaps four—living things at a distance. And getting closer.

“Far over there,” he says. “People.”

The word he uses is an inclusive one, as Chondathan is rather lenient with it comes to whomst one is speaking about and their relation to the speaker. Elvish is far more discerning in what it considers a person. But he’s not teaching her Elvish, and she seems the inclusive sort (inviting him to feed on her even after discovering what he is).

He sends that thought (definitely not the second part of it, though) to her. It’s more an impression: careful steps padded to silence, heartbeats strong but slow, the lack of muttering or humming. Not just people.

People on the hunt.

“Fuck.”

He needs no translation.

She wonders if they can fight.

No.

He’s killed three so far?

By surprise, and he’s wondering if the first two weren’t slaves. In a fair fight (they both snort) he’d lose.

“Fuck.”

And they shouldn’t engage anyway. Part of fetching victims for that bastard was knowing who to lure and when and where. A pattern of missing patriars tends to draw attention. A few disappearances here and there amongst the lower city, and the flaming fist can barely be bothered to file the paperwork about it.

Then he realizes how much he thought so very openly just then, and he starts to cringe away. But the only thing he gets from her is a sort of grim acknowledgment.

Apparently human villains hunt the same way in her world.

He’s a little disquieted at the comparison (even though he shouldn’t be, he’s a vampire) (still).

“They’re coming this way,” he says, careful to use the simplest verb forms. Rather like talking to a dull child.

They can’t move fast enough to escape. Not with her in that condition. They’re near a shallow stream, the ground low and flat. But it rises up ahead. Becomes a narrow sort of low canyon. And she spots something in there. What she thinks might be a cave.

(What she actually thinks is an image of a wolf pup emerging from a hole on a steep embankment.)

It’s not so much a cave as a shallow alcove. They splash (quietly) through the stream to get to it, whereupon she realizes they’ll have to lie partially submerged and crammed right against each other to fit under the shallow overhang.

“You, in,” he says.

She makes an unhappy noise. So he crowds closer and makes a nudging motion with his hands. It’s not as if he’s trying to do anything disgustingly noble. It’s just that, should they be discovered, he has knives he knows how to use, and she doesn’t. Plus, they’re less likely to see him.

Water splashes. She sucks in a gasp through her teeth as she shuffles in and lies down.

He’s far less squeamish. Kneels down and stretches out, her front to his back. Pushes right up against her. Her body goes rigid against him.

He initially thought all that came from a virginly shyness. He nearly opens his mouth to tease her. But then he remembers what she admitted, what else that awkwardness might be, and a nastiness churns up his throat.

“Apologies,” he says.

To have children. She’d compared her future to a breeding sow. To be impregnated over and over. Not even just the sex of it, but to have her body taken away from her like that. Not as a person, but as livestock. As cattle. As a thing to be used up.

He lies there still and quiet.

Until her thoughts nudge him. She can’t see past him to tell if they’ve been discovered. And there’s no room for her to shuffle enough to peer past him. Perhaps she ought to be on the outside?

No. He’s got excellent hearing. He’ll know if they come close. And besides, drow have excellent nightvision, but in the depths, they tend to rely on seeing heat. They’ve become suited to the deep darkness. Able to see creatures with no light at all.

“Infrared?” she whispers, meaningless syllables.

So she shows him something. Another of her “movies.” A ridiculously muscled man with no shirt, slathered in mud, shouting into some overgrown forest.

“What?” he says, barely breathing.

And then the image changes to fuzzy shapes and colors. A gray and black landscape, and the shape of the same man, but now all red and white for some reason. Back to normal vision and some creature walking past the man, now covered in mud and no longer red, but the same gray and black as his surroundings.

Predator rules.

He blinks uselessly in the actual—and his own personal—darkness. Whispers, “What?”

Hiding body heat. He has no heat, so they can’t see him?

Yes, he knows. It’s how he got close enough to that half dead drow that hurt her—

Oh. He’s still angry about that, isn’t he? And she’s startled because that leaps between them at the same time she realizes he placed himself in front to camouflage her very living, very warm flesh with his own corpse.

That’s…she’s impressed. It tickles feather light across his senses, but it makes his lungs shudder in a gasp and he has to shove her out of his mind before he can reveal anything else. Show any more weakness.

They wait in that cold a long while. The hunters patrol overhead. Still making no sound. Likely using a gesture language. They come near the stream, and both Astarion and his leader hold their breath. He feels her tilt her head against his shoulder blade as her mortal lungs finally have to exhale.

But the patrol does pass. The two of them emerge dripping and streaked in mud.

The cave air feels cold in her absence.