#But I have only come to accept that my spark has just gone elsewhere

[drones-of-innocence]

Hi,

The TL;DR of this post is this will no longer be a Mario blog, and I won't be participating in any kind of fandom here anymore.

This is for anyone who keeps tabs on me for any reason, but specifically my fanfiction I guess. I'm a writer so this will be a little long winded lol, but feel free to read what you want.

First I want to thank everyone who kept up with and read my story I'll Never Let You Go. At the time of writing, it was my best work and existed quietly in my drafts for seven or eight years as I built and built it up. It's the longest story I have ever completed, the eclipse of my skills and experiences at a time when all I wanted was to carry across a story about star-crossed lovers while I myself longed for such a fairytale love. While publishing, I invited artists to participate in a small challenge, which resulted in these lovely posts (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8), and set the stage beautifully for me to reveal the major twist of the story. I thank everyone who participated in making that moment so special for me. I'm very proud of the story and how it turned out after all this time. But I'm ready to move onto greater things.

And to anyone who has read any of my other works, thank you. My muse is an impulsive creature and I followed it toward many stories which sometimes had strange methods behind them but ultimately turned into projects I could be proud of. It means the world that my random explorations met any kind of audience with such positive reception.

Fandom has become a problem for me. What used to feel relaxed and creatively exciting now feels like a source of pressure. I caved into it once or twice and posted stories or art or whatever in the past specifically designed to heighten attention or exposure to my work. It never worked quite like I thought and always made me feel a little gross afterward. I may erase these works once I track them down. But now the pressure isn't even creative, it's become more or less of a social performance for me which I am not willing to participate in anymore.

So from now on, I'm going to blog what I want to and write whatever comes to me. Mario or not, fanwork or not. There are still some Mario stories mostly done that I want to share and I may do that in my own time, but it will not be with any intention except to please myself.

I think I'm moving towards more original ideas. There are fan concepts I want to finish out, and if I do it will take time.

Anyway. If any of this doesn't resonate with you, that's fine. Most of my stories will remain up and I'm happy to interact regarding those, but otherwise I would appreciate to not be included in the fandom community on Tumblr anymore. I'll hopefully occasionally find the will to browse for fanfic myself, though lately I haven't been much in the mood to read it. Feel free to unfollow or block or whatever you need to do. I wish you luck. I'm looking forward to being more active on my terms.

Thank you 💙

[huanzhuyulu]

I don’t know if I will ever do anything with this…or if I do, when it would ever be finished, but here, have a random conversation between Hailan and Ruyi if Xiao Yan Zi landed in Ruyi!verse instead. Also, I guess this is meant to be read as a sequel to The Space Between the Finish and the Start. @renewedmotionforjudgment this might be in your areas of interest 😆

“Jiejie, do you think Fu Er Tai might be a good match for Xiao Yan Zi? Now that Ming Zhu Ge Ge is to marry Fu Er Kang, and they being as close as sisters, surely Xiao Yan Zi would welcome such a match.”

“Is there a reason you suddenly are concerned with Xiao Yan Zi’s prospects? Do you truly want to match Xiao Yan Zi with Fu Er Tai for her happiness, or do you simply want to remove what you see as a threat elsewhere?”

“Jiejie knows me too well. I do not wish to hide my feelings from you in this matter. Yong Qi would never do anything to wrong Fu Er Tai. If Xiao Yan Zi is married to him, Yong Qi will have to close the door on any possibilities as well.”

“And you would break Yong Qi’s heart, for what purpose - ?”

“Surely you see the dangers of such a loose end, Jiejie!” 

“I see that no matter how things have seemed to improve between Yong Qi and his consorts, he is still nevertheless lonely. And this loss…at least imposed on him thus instead of, for example, due to Xiao Yan Zi’s own wishes, would hurt him profoundly.”

“He will get over it. Men always do.”

“I do not think this is such a simple affair to Yong Qi this time, Hai Lan.”

“And what of it? It would be folly if we do not learn from the past, Jiejie! I do not understand why Huang Shang seems to like this Xiao Yan Zi so, without any trace of any other motives to make her his own - at this point, I might even welcome the fact. I only know that we do not know anything of her, even now. We do not know where she comes from, who she truly is, what her past consists of. Do you really not see how there is danger of history repeating itself?”

“Of course I see the similarities, Hai Lan. I understand your wariness, but having been burnt in the past does not mean we douse water on every spark, especially if that spark may grow into something that may provide warmth.”

“Jiejie…after all this time, you still put such weight to these feelings.”

“After all this time, having known these feelings to be rare, I feel they are ever more precious and worthy of preserving where we can.”

“And you think it is really such, between Yong Qi and Xiao Yan Zi?” Hai Lan asked in a tone that made it clear she certainly saw nothing of the kind. 

“Do you truly doubt that Yong Qi could feel so deeply? When there is evidence in the past that he has felt it before?”

“I doubt that men could feel so deeply, with what privilege always at their disposal to move from old to new. Even…before, Yong Qi got over it soon enough.”

“Do you think it was soon enough, or did he just have us think so?”

“Either way, he got over it. And he will get over it again.”

“You are either selling Yong Qi short, or project onto him what he does not possess, Hai Lan. He is your son. Do you not feel, given what he has already gone through, given what is still in his future, that he deserves a little source of comfort?” 

“You desired to be that source of comfort once to Huang Shang, Jiejie. How has that turned out, in the end?”

“Again, I think you are projecting.”

“Perhaps. But I cannot help it.”

They had never spoken of it, but it would be impossible for Ru Yi to not understand. Yong Qi had always looked so much like his father, and this has always been a source of pain to Hai Lan. Ru Yi did not doubt that Hai Lan did love Yong Qi, in her own way, but that love could never be free from the fact that Yong Qi only ever existed because Hai Lan had had to force herself to accept the touch of a man who had once destroyed her so viscerally in order to save Ru Yi. That every time Hai Lan looked at him, she could not prevent herself from also seeing someone else instead.

Ru Yi had stopped making excuses for him with Hai Lan a long time ago. When it had happened, Qing Ying had been desperate to excuse him by blaming the alcohol, and soothing her own guilt by doing what she could for Hai Lan. But she understood now that he had never changed…the man he was today had always been there, she just refused all evidence pointing in that direction until she could no longer avoid them. 

But Yong Qi was not his father. This Ru Yi knew. After all, she could not have had so little impact on Yong Qi after having him by her side for so much of his childhood. But she also knew why Hai Lan found it hard to look beyond the exterior, but perhaps because Ru Yi had always felt she owed Yong Qi her freedom, she had always seen him as hers first and foremost. Because the truth was, Yong Qi had been born for her. 

[writing-gifts]

part 9 of the incubus!doppio au aka we'll make it work

its been a long while since the last update so super brief recap: reader found a frog transformed gio in the forest and is currently on their way to one of his relatives to reverse it!

AO3 Link

List of parts

tag list: @wasabi-mommy @mistabrainr0t @the-average-mastermind @risottosplug @ohohimhere @ppribcess-br1 @greatpostunknown @cremaopinios

------

You gather your few belongings while Doppio readies himself in the bathroom. Once he was finished all of you would be heading straight for the train station. Abbaccchio watches you from the bed like cats tend to. However, the end of his tail twitches back and forth signaling that he’s agitated about something.

You zip up your bag and smirk. “You’re already annoyed and the day just started.”

“Hmph, I’m not exactly looking forward to hiding in your bag again,” he says.

“Oh please. You can get out as soon as we're outside and then it's 5 minutes tops when we get to the station. You’ll be okay.”

You move your backpack next to the dresser where Giorno still sits content in his container of water. You'd clean that up right before leaving so he could get as much moisture as possible.

“About last night--” Abbacchio starts.

Giorno opens an eye at that, but you barely react because of course he knows. You and Doppio weren't exactly being very quiet. You had just thought the cat wasn't interested in bringing it up (and you preferred it that way), but would he really be Abbacchio if he didn’t?

“Doppio has it under control so can we not argue about the same thing again?” You ask without looking back at him, though it was more of a plea than a question.

Before the feline can dissent, Doppio exits the bathroom. His hair is done up, though a few strands stick out from his braid.

You quickly switch your focus over to him. “Ready to head out?”

He moves a piece of hair out of his face. “Uh huh.”

“Okay, let me just get Giorno.”

After you move the frog out of his container and into your jacket pocket, you quickly clean up his makeshift “pond” and herd everyone out of the room. The walk from the hotel to the station doesn't take too long though you're very hungry by the time you arrive. You didn't have time to eat a full meal beforehand, but fortunately you packed snacks.

You chew on a granola bar on the train. You try to be careful but stray crumbs litter your lap. “You sure you don't want any?” you ask Doppio. He sits next to you, staring outside the train window at the passing landscape.

Your friend shakes his head. “I'm not hungry.”

You continue snacking on the sugary bar before speaking again. "Do you even need to eat food? You said you don't need sex and I’ve obviously seen you eat, but how does it exactly work?

Doppio leans back in his seat and places his hands in his lap. “Both sex and food give me energy, but the energy from food doesn't last long. I could overfill myself and be hungry 2 hours later. And food doesn't help with sleepiness either so I need to actually go to bed. Sex cures both and lasts longer.”

The explanation was clear and concise. He must have explained it many times before. You purse your lips still confused though. You had sometimes seen Doppio go most of the day without food so things weren’t adding up...Unless he was still having sex sometimes?

“...But the last time you ate was yesterday?”

"Yea but recently I've had energy that seems to come out of nowhere. I even feel fully rested though I wasn't able to get back to sleep last night.”

“That’s strange. Do you remember when you got these boosts of energy?”

He thinks for a moment. “...They were a while ago, so other than yesterday and right now, not really.”

“Yesterday?”

“After we got off the train and were walking to that fast food place. I still felt exhausted but it was definitely way better than before."

He did seem more awake and less irritable after you had finished eating, but other than the food you didn't know what had helped.

"Well try to keep it in mind. There's most likely a connection,” you say.

You finish up your bar and put the wrapper in one of your backpack's pockets, jostling Abbacchio in the process. You ignore his displeased grumbles and continue speaking to Doppio. “You know you're very different from what I’ve read about incubi. Like with how all this energy stuff works...Is this how it is for all incubi and succubi?”

“Most likely not.” He pauses and starts to jiggle his leg. “‘Er...I’m actually only part incubus.”

Your brows raise. “Wait really?”

“I'm half human, half incubus. It's just easier to say I'm an incubus though with how I was raised.”

That has you reconsidering many things, especially about Diavolo. He wasn't a demon possessing a demon, he was a demon possessing a half human! You need to tell Bruno this as soon as you get back.

------

Early afternoon your group reaches its destination. You and Doppio walk outside of the station into the fresh air. The sun shines down directly on you but luckily it isn't unbearably hot. A distance from where you both stand is a gravely road cutting through the unruly grass.

Once you get far enough away from the small group of people leaving the station, you let Abbacchio out of your bag and move Giorno out of your pocket and onto your shoulder. You then pull out your phone and open your GPS to get directions to the farm.

It’s an hour and half of walking along the road and taking breaks under the shade of the sparse trees before a small house in the midst of a field comes into view. There’s also a barn not too far away.

You plan to go up to the house and knock on the door, but part way there a man calls out a greeting to your group from a fenced area filled with chickens. His size is almost intimidating but his face is kind. He seems to be in his mid to late 50s but looks very fit. He jogs up to your group before glancing at Abbacchio who is sitting a small distance behind you. He then raises a brow at you most likely due to the amphibian on your shoulder.

"I don’t believe I’ve seen you lot before, but what can I do for you today?" the man asks. You notice his light English accent.

"Are you Jonathan Joestar?” you ask.

“Yes, that's me.”

You glance at Giorno and move the shoulder he sits on forward. "Okay this’ll sound crazy, but this is your nephew and he was turned into a frog."

Giorno readjusts his position and looks up at Jonathan. "Uncle it's me Giorno. I ran away from home."

The man's brow furrows and he steps back involuntarily. "Giorno? What happened to you?”

“I'll explain later. I need you to change me back first.”

He collects himself (as best as he can) and nods. "How do I do that exactly?"

“He needs a kiss from royalty,” you say. “Like the story but it doesn't have to be a princess or prince.”

Jonathan rubs the back of his neck. “But I'm no longer royalty.”

“That's fine, the person just had to be at some point. I don't know how it works but Bru--the witch told us it would still count,” you say.

“Well if it’ll help Giogio then there’s no point asking any more questions.”

You let Giorno climb onto your palm and pass him over to Jonathan. The farmer lifts Giorno up with both hands and places a kiss on his small froggy head.

Before you can really take in the silly scene, Giorno begins to glow. A glow that increases in intensity to the point that it feels like looking at the sun. He jumps off Jonathan’s hand just as his body starts to take a different form and size. For a moment there’s a lull and then suddenly a firework of sparks shoots off him. Everyone around him shuts their eyes.

When you open your own, the sparkles are gone and their place is a well dressed young man with immaculate styled blond hair flowing part way down his back. He looked laughably high class next to the rest of you.

You’re still taken aback by the display of magic you had just bared witness to and end up wordlessly gaping for several seconds before you can properly speak again.

“I-I did not expect you to look like that!”

Giorno looks at you, unbothered by your inappropriate outburst. “What did you think I'd look like?”

“Um I don't know, but the blonde hair wasn't there...”

Unlike you, Doppio and Jonathan look mostly unaffected by Giorno’s transformation.

Jonathan gives the blonde a relieved smile. “Erina is going to be so happy to see you, Giogio. It’s been so long since your last visit.”

“I would visit more often but you know how Father is.”

Jonathan's smile becomes forlorn. “Yes, unfortunately.” He turns towards you and Doppio. “Thank you for bringing Giorno here.”

Unsure of how else to respond, you smile and accept the thanks.

Doppio doesn't verbally reply but also smiles.

“Can I get your names?”

“I'm _____ and this is my friend Doppio.” You point over your shoulder. “And Abbacchio is the cat that's following us. He’s the witch’s...pet.”

Doppio gives his own greeting and Abbacchio continues to stare silently.

“What an interesting group,” Jonathan says most likely in reaction to Abbacchio.

“_____ found me in the forest and convinced the witch to reveal how to reverse it. Then they made a 2 day trip to get here.” Giorno looks at you, his smile kind and genuine. “Thank you.”

“Oh you're welcome. It's no problem really...” Your statement feels unfinished as you had started it but didn’t know where it was going.

“It means a lot to me though. Who knows where I’d be right now if you hadn't found me in the forest.”

You can feel yourself grinning way too hard. So much praise could be overwhelming at times. In an attempt to try to force it down you look elsewhere and end up locking eyes with Doppio. He looks like he wants to say something but he just turns away instead.

“Well now that that is taken care of, why don't we all head inside,” Jonathan suggests. “I’m sure you're all tired from traveling here so you can stay as long as you need.”

“Just the night is fine. I have work on Monday so we need to head back early in the morning.” You hadn't really thought about work the whole way here, but now that you did, it has you wanting to stay longer.

“That’s too bad. The least I can do is ask a friend to drive you to the train station in the morning so you don't have to walk back.”

“That would be great, thank you!”

-----

As typical for you, you lay wide awake.

When you first hit the bed the dregs of your energy seeped out of you and you were out cold. Unfortunately you had woken up randomly a few hours later and couldn't get back to sleep. Abbacchio had even run off when you wouldn’t stop moving around to get comfortable again.

You get out of bed to leave the guest room and make your way quietly to the living room.

Doppio lays asleep on the sofa. You tiptoe towards him and gently poke his freckled nose. It immediately twitches before he rolls on his side to face the back of the couch. You hold back a giggle and instead gently shake him awake. He grumbles before laying on his back again.

His eyes open a sliver, but it takes a moment for him to process your presence. “....____? What’s wrong?”

“I can't sleep. Soooo I was thinking: Why not invite Doppio?”

The incubus doesn't get flustered like you expect. “Huh--Invite where?”

“Do you want to share the bed again?” you ask more clearly.

His stutters bring a pleased look to your face, but eventually he manages to answer.

“Um okay.”

He gets up with his blanket and pillow and follows you to the guest room. The lamp light in the room reveals Doppio's flushed face. You then both get into bed, Doppio a bit awkwardly but it’s a much bigger improvement from the hotel. Once he lays next to you, you tell him to turn around. He nods and lays on his side, his back facing you. You throw your arm over him before settling up close behind him. The hair that sticks out of his messy bun tickles your face.

“Woah, your hair smells really nice!”

Doppio smiles to himself. “I’m trying this new shampoo…”

Even though you still weren’t sure what to do about your feelings, you did know that you wouldn't mind being able to do stuff like this more often.

------

You hadn't had breakfast yet since Erina insisted on feeding all of you. She let you know that the food was usually ready around the time Jonathan finished his morning chores. So you decide to wait outside while Doppio gets ready. It was going to take awhile for him to finish styling his hair in that complicated braid he usually wore.

You gently sway back and forth on the porch swing while watching Giorno help his uncle tend to some of the cows. They’re too far away for you to hear their conversation but they seem to be enjoying their time together. Abbacchio lays curled up next to you sleeping. You wonder what cat things he had gotten up to last night since he didn't return to your room.

Half an hour later, you’re all inside eating. Doppio didn't want to, but Erina wasn’t having any of it so the incubus tries to eat enough that it looks convincing. The incubus appears well rested so you assume he must have gotten good sleep, but maybe the surge of energy was happening again. You’ll have to ask him about it later.

After a delicious fry-up and nice conversation that you and Doppio mostly listen in on, you start preparing for the trip back home.

“Giogio you have everything?” Erina asks.

“Yes aunty,” Giorno replies.

“Ah I still can’t believe how much you've grown since I've last seen you. I'm sorry we couldn't be around more often and I really wish you could stay.” There’s an underlying sadness in her voice.

“It's not your fault...”

You and Doppio sit together in the living room waiting patiently for your ride. The walls are thin so the two of you are unintentional auditors of the conversation taking place in the dining room. Either way you thought it was nice how Giorno’s aunt and uncle were so caring of him.

Before the family can join you and Doppio, ringing sounds from the kitchen. You hear the phone being answered and a moment later everyone walks into the living room.

“Speedwagon's outside,” Jonathan informs you.

Giorno picks up the bag full of items his family had packed for him--food, a phone, and hygiene items along with some clothing that was quickly bought yesterday--before walking outside. Doppio follows out next with his own stuff.

You’re about to yell out for Abbacchio since he hadn’t been waiting with you and Doppio but you see him brushing against Erina’s dress. She bends down and pets him on the head. You almost roll your eyes at the sight knowing the type of cattitude you had to put up with from him. Even before you found out he could talk! Guess he was more fond of older folk.

While loading everything into Speedwagon's truck you ask Giorno a question. “Are you sure you don't want to stay here with your uncle and aunt?”

You had talked with the man the day before about living arrangements. For now he would be staying at your home, but you felt he would be more comfortable staying with family.

“I'm sure. If my father finds out that I'm staying here--which he would eventually--he’ll cause a commotion.”

You pause what you’re doing. “Does he really dislike Mr. Joestar that much?”

“Yes and he’s unreasonably petty. It would be better if I reside somewhere else until I can get on my own feet. Or until he’s properly dealt with.”

Jonathan really didn't seem like the abrasive type at all so it sounded like a one sided sibling rivalry to you. But it wasn't really your business so you don't pry anymore.

Your group says one last goodbye to Jonatahn and Erina before getting on the truck and departing. Giorno and Doppio insisted on you sitting in the only passenger seat. And Abbacchio joined you, but you can tell he hates being in this loud and shaky truck. It was better than being in the cargo bed though. Speedwagon opened the back window so you all could still talk.

"My home is pretty small. I hope that it isn't too uncomfortable," you say. Along with Doppio sometimes staying for days at a time. It would definitely feel crowded.

“I feel slightly ashamed to say this, but I might be somewhat sheltered so it’ll take me some time to adjust,” Giorno replies.

“Well if you're anything like your uncle im sure youll get used to it Giorno,” Speedwagon chimes in.

The more you learned about Giorno, the more curious you became about his life.

“Well I have to work a decent amount of the time so you'll at least get some space, if Doppio isn't there. But there’s a guest room that you’ll have all to yourself.”

Doppio frowns. He spent more time in your house than you knew, and it wouldn't be as relaxing with someone who wasn't you there. Unaware of your friend’s disapproval, you stretch your arms in front of you, careful not to disturb the overstimulated cat on your lap. This not so small adventure was a nice change in your usual surroundings and schedule, but you were ready to get back to your own home.

[kirishibi]

Hi! I just found your blog and I love it! I was wondering if I could request something with Shinsou, Kaminari, Kirishima, Todoroki, and maybe Bakugou (sorry if that’s a lot) to where their shy crush (with a flower quirk) confesses to them and gives them a bouquet of flowers? Thank you either way (i understand wholeheartedly if not)!!! 💛

Warnings: None!

Pairings: Shinsou Hitoshi x Reader, Kaminari Denki x Reader, Todoroki Shoto x Reader, Kirishima Ejirou x Reader, Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

a/n: omg you’re a sweetheart, thank you so much! i went ahead and did these as headcanons, hopefully that's alright - enjoy! 💛

p.s. through writing this, i discovered that i don’t know shit about flowers

Shinsou Hitoshi

The moment the words ‘I have feelings for you’ fall from your lips, Shinsou’s stunned into silence

Unexpected is an understatement, but he’s not complaining in the slightest

Of course he has a crush on you. How could he not?

You’re the gorgeous, yet reserved and soft spoken badass of class 1a. To him, anyone who doesn’t recognize that is an idiot

He never intended to make a move on you, though. You’re too perfect to have feelings for a guy like him, or so he thought

He can’t help but stare wide-eyed as you present a beautifully wrapped bundle of purple flowers to him with shaky fingers. 

“I like lilacs a lot… t-they remind me of you, so- um- I grew some for you with my quirk.” A blush creeps onto your cheeks as you look away, anxiously nibbling on your bottom lip

He watches as you timidly fidget with the flowers’ stems

He desperately wishes your were holding his hand rather than the bouquet

Shinsou doesn’t realize how badly he wants to kiss you until the feeling becomes overwhelming, and he can no longer help himself

His body moves before his mind has time to catch up

A strong hand cups your jaw, calling your attention back to him and gently tilting your chin upward

It takes all of Shinsou’s self control not to press his lips to yours

He instead opts to kiss you on the forehead, deciding to save the real thing for when the time is right

You deserve a truly special first kiss, after all

He feels warmth creep up his neck to his cheeks, his face beginning to flush 

“These are beautiful, but sadly I don’t have anything to put them in.”

When you begin to stutter out an apology, he presses a finger to your lips

His other hand grabs the flowers from you, his lingering touch electric on your skin

A cool smile cracks his characteristically stern expression.

“It’s still pretty early in the evening. How about I take you to dinner, and afterwards we can try to find a vase worthy of them?”

Kaminari Denki

Denki tries to play it cool, really he does

He also fails, horribly

His mouth goes dry as he takes the bundle of flowers from you, “These are so cool! Did you grow them yourself?”

This boy has been so damned in love with you for so long 

Since he met you, truthfully

Normally, he’d just ask you out casually and brush it off if you rejected him

That’s what he does with every other girl, at least

But you’re not every other girl. He actually cares about you, and wants you to care for him too

He’d been waiting for the perfect moment to finally tell you about his feelings for you

He’s typically an impatient guy, but you’re special. You’re worth the wait

And now you were giving him flowers?!

For months he’d been planning the best way to confess how he feels for you, and now you’re the one telling him how he makes your heart flutter and knees weak

The moment you nervously glance away to gather your thoughts, he’s pinching himself just to make sure he’s not dreaming

He can hear his heart pounding in his chest as you talk

He’s sure you can hear it too

One hand is gripping the bouquet so tightly his palm has gone numb

The other nervously thumbs the petals of a chrysanthemum - yellow, to match his hair

When your words trail off, and you nervously look up, awaiting his response, he finds himself tongue tied

All he do is timidly pat your head and smile, “You’re so cute it’s unfair. How could I not like you back?”

Todoroki Shoto

This feeling was entirely new to Shoto

When he first met you, he just thought you were pretty

Later, he discovered that you had a wonderful personality as well, and by then he found himself unable to take his eyes off you - be it during in-the-field lessons or in the classroom

You’re the reason he scored lower than Midoriya on the last practical exam and had to endure an earful from Endeavor the following day

Watching you use your quirk so elegantly and tactfully during a mock battle, though, was entirely worth it

Something about you is alluring. You spark feelings in him that he didn’t even know existed

Do you have a second quirk? To him, there was no other explanation

He tried to ask Midoriya about it, hoping to find an answer as to why his mouth goes dry when you’re around, why his palms get sweaty when you talk to him, and his body grows hot at every lingering touch

Apparently, his friend wasn’t in the mood to answer questions, because he only turned red and backed away, telling Shoto to just talk to you himself.

He asks you to take a walk with him so that he can confront you directly, to which you agree, stating you have something to talk to him about as well

At some point, you stop to sit in a grassy area and rest

As he watches red and white roses grow under your fingertips, he finds his breath taken away once again

You pluck the freshly grown flowers, tying them together with a ribbon that had previously been wrapped around your wrist

Then, you confess your feelings for him

Hearing you put into words exactly how he’d felt about you for so long makes him entirely confused yet so elated he can hardly keep still

“So, you feel that way when you’re around me… because you like me? That’s what that feeling is?”

You nod, and a small smile upturns the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh. Well, then I like you too.” He says so casually that it leaves you speechless. “Does this mean I get to date you now?”

Kirishima Ejirou

When you ask to speak to Kirishima alone, he gets so excited he can hardly contain himself

He doesn’t even know what you want to discuss, but getting to talk to you one-on-one always does that to him

And when you tell him you have something to give him? Oh boy, he’s like a puppy who’s owner just said ‘treat’

Flowers aren’t exactly the manliest gift, especially when they’re from you, the girl Kirishima been trying to impress since his first day at UA

Making you smile makes him feel very manly, though, so he gladly accepts the scarlet bouquet when you offer it to him

He doesn’t quite know what to do with the flowers, so he takes a sniff

They smell like you, sweet and earthy

The overjoyed look on your face when he calls the flowers pretty only delights him more

In that moment, he decides he loves flowers, bouquets, and you everything else that interests you.

If it makes you happy, it makes Ejirou ecstatic 

He’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t hear you timidly clear your throat and begin telling him the reason you’d wanted to be alone

He listens with a wide, sharp-toothed smile as you explain your feelings

If you stumble on your words, he’s quick to rub your back with his free hand until you’re calm enough to continue talking

Once your done, he wraps you in a tight hug

He rests his chin on your head as you bury your face in his chest 

“Don’t worry, (Y/n), I feel the same way about you!”

He plants a loving kiss atop your head before pulling away

“I’d love to be your guy if you’ll let me.” He smiles at you once again, feigning calm when inside his heart’s about to explode

He looks back down at the bouquet, a look of mild concern replacing his joyous expression. 

“The only problem is, uh, I’ve never taken care of flowers before. I don’t really know what to do with these, but I want to make you proud… can you teach me?”

Bakugou Katsuki

Oh FUCK this tsundre gremlin isn’t gonna make confessing easy on you. Nuh uh. Good luck, he’s a little shit

You knock on his bedroom door a little while after he’d loudly declared to you and your peers that he was going to bed

You’d slipped away moments after his announcement as the rest of class A played some card game in the common room

When he opens the door, he’s expecting to see Kaminari or Kirishima with a big dumb smile, standing there ready to bug him as was typical at this time of night

Instead, he’s greeted by you, holding a bouquet of orange flowers and nervously toeing the ground

If you hadn’t been looking elsewhere, you’d have caught a brief smirk flash across his lips before it was forced away, replaced by his iconic scowl

“Whatdya want and what the hell is that.”

When you ask to come in so that you can talk in private, it takes everything in him not to respond with an eager ‘yes’

He continues his forced frown as he steps aside, folding his arms across his chest as you enter the dimly lit room

He kicks the door closed behind you with a huff. “‘Kay, what is it? I’ve gotta sleep, ya know.”

You nervously stutter out your confession as his angry gaze warms your skin and slicks your palms with sweat

When you finish, he silently takes the bouquet from your hand, eyeing it skeptically

He’s convinced this is a dirty prank, some ploy thought up by the idiots that hang out with him

He’s got no clue how they knew he had a thing for you, but he’s getting more pissed by the second as he tells himself there’s no way this is real

There was no way that you, the girl he’d been quietly admiring for what seemed like forever, had a crush on him

You’re too sweet to want someone so bitter. Even he knows that

As he looks up from the vibrantly colored bundle of flowers and back to your worried expression, though, he realizes there’s no way this is fake 

His angry demeanor softens as he watches the anxious fidget of your fingers, the way your hands shake and shoulders cave in uncertainty

“You’re serious?”

“Ye- um, well, I-” You stutter out, trying to prepare for a brutal rejection, tears threatening to well up in your eyes

“Spit it out. Yes or no?”

“Yes. I’m serious”

He sets the bouquet down on his desk with more care and grace than you’d thought possible for the blond brute, before folding his arms across his chest yet again

“I’ll keep the flowers, but if you tell anyone, you’re dead. I mean it.”

You nod in understanding, still bracing yourself for him to raise his voice or insult you

“... And I’ll be your boyfriend or whatever, but that means you’re mine and only mine, got it? If anyone other than me lays a finger on you, tell me so I can kill ‘em.”

[boxofbadaddiction]

Thinking about...

How Ron started working for George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

My theory, or headcanon (however you'd like to look at it), is that Molly proposed the idea...and George absolutely hated that suggestion.

But not because it's Ron.

He hated it because never in his life would George have imagined himself doing what he does without his Twin, and the thought of 'replacing him' causes bile to rise in his throat.

It would take many days of denial, small arguments and George finally reaching his breaking point to consider the idea that: perhaps Ron wouldn't be such a bad addition to the team...

I imagine it's sometime after the War and George has finally brought himself to reopen the store. Maybe it's only been back in business a couple weeks or for a few months now, but he's struggling a little bit. Because he doesn't want to admit he needs another worker around to take some of the load off his shoulders. And a little more than that: he just doesn't want to do it with anyone other than Fred.

Meanwhile, Ron is struggling to find work or get placement in Auror training. Because let's face it: even though he is Harry Potter's right hand man and helped win a War; his grades were...unideal.

I see Ron venting to Molly one day in the kitchen, perhaps after receiving another rejection letter, and she's running a loving hand in comforting circles over his shoulders while he's slumped over a hot chocolate. She's telling him to hang in there and that these things take time, offering that perhaps he should look into a part-time role with his Father within the Ministry. Or reminding him that Percy offered him an internship in his office.

But Ron hates both those ideas.

At this point George walks through the door looking exhausted. Greets the pair casually as he shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the back of a chair. He places a quick kiss to Molly's cheek and ruffles Ronniekin's hair as he moves to make himself a hot drink to wind down after a busy day.

"Hello Dear, busy day?" Molly smiles somewhat sadly, taking in her son's tired figure.

"Extremely." George huffs as he sits down across from the pair with slumped posture. "What's wrong with you, Ronnie?"

"Another rejection letter." Ron replies sadly as he annoyedly flicks the cause of his dejection to the centre of the table and drops himself against the backrest of his chair, taking up a similar slouched position to his older brother.

That's when Molly's struck by the idea. As she looks between her two boys and wishes she had a solution for them...the answer so simply presents itself. But she doesn't say anything.

Not yet.

She doesn't want to get Ron's hopes up if that's something he'd be interested in, and she knows he would be given how much he loves the Twins Shop. But more than that, she doesn't want to just spring the thought onto George because she knows how touchy the topic is going to be.

And it was.

A few days after this thought comes to her she gets her opportunity to run the idea past George. The two of them are alone doing a mindless task together, like washing the dishes. George scrubbing as Molly dries.

They've worked in comfortable silence thus far, but that's because Molly's too busy running a million different ways she can bring this up to George, through her mind, and which is the least likely way to upset him. George meanwhile is just enjoying the time with his Mother and the familiarity the task at hand brings. A strange sort of nostalgia washing over him, one which he'd never consider to be as therapeutic as it was.

But there's something nagging at the back of George's mind. And it has everything to do with the fact his Mother has been dutifully drying the same glass for 5 minutes now.

"Mum..." his voice snaps Molly out of her daze, drawing a surprised hum of acknowledgement from her throat. "I'd say that glass is dry by now." George joked with a crooked smile. "Oh, yes, I suppose you're right."

Molly's slightly flustered and places the cup down. But her expression remains rather vacant, mildly discontent. This finally prompts George to ask what's on her mind. Molly decides to simply go for it. There's no easy way to bring this up around George and she's really just stalling to forgo an uncomfortable conversation.

"George, I've been thinking..."

"Not good."

"I'm serious right now."

"So am I. You thinking never means anything good for me and-...for me."

"It's about Ron and finding him a suitable job, until he's accepted into training..."

And that's how it begins. She cushions the conversation considerably before asking the question she's been stewing over for days. She talks about how disheartened Ron has been in his misfortune, how desperately he wants to be apart of the work force. She talks about how tired George has been the last few months trying to run the shop by himself and how she just wants to be able to help the two of them get on their feet.

When she finally does ask the question: "What if, Ron came and worked for you?" It doesn't go down well.

She watches how swiftly his body language changes. From his casual 'I'm listening' demeanour to instantly putting his walls up. She watches as the words cause him to freeze. Every muscle in his body turning ridged and defensive.

His response is near immediate: 'No'. And he returns to the task at hand, however, he's no longer so comfortable within the grown silence.

He holds zero care in the way he handles the dishes as he cleans them, though it's notable how hard he's trying to not take any of his frustration out on them.

The conversation doesn't stay civil for very long.

Molly falls immediately into a sort of plead as she questions why George won't even take the time to consider the idea. She points out every reason why it is the best possible solution to both his and Rons current situations.

George shuts down not really answering any of Mollys questions as she rambles. The words seemingly falling from her mouth faster than she can process them; working herself into a right fluster.

George warns her quite a few times to drop the subject, but she continues, and he finally snaps. Tossing whatever dish is in his hands down into the water and yelling for her to stop talking. To drop the conversation because it's not going to happen before storming off elsewhere to cool down.

They spent a couple days without speaking after that.

More weeks pass and Weasleys Wizard Wheezes only gets busier. George feels like he's drowning in paperwork and just can't seem to get ahead. He goes to work an hour early and comes home hours late. He's tired and just about had enough. He can't even begin to imagine how he and Fred ever found so much joy in the work as they had.

"It's not work if you love to do it." Is what Fred always used to say when people would ask how he could possibly be so happy while on the clock.

George couldn't do this much longer. Not without his brother.

After one particularly difficult day George arrives home after all other occupants of the Burrow had gone to bed...or so he thought.

Walking in through the back door to all the houses lights out, save for a single lamp in the sitting room which Arthur and Molly leave on for him, he collapses into one of the Armchairs, too tired to attempt the walk up stairs right now.

His palms dig into the sockets of his eyes, harshly rubbing at each lid, to try rid the sandy feeling in them brought on from lack of sleep, then his fingers draw down on his cheeks; pulling at the skin in frustration.

He doesn't know it but Ron is, at this point, looking at him from the staircase landing. He'd meant to come down for a cup of water but instead found himself faced with his Brother.

Or rather, the shell of his brother.

Ron's never seen him look so...hollow and lifeless. It's like a horrible flashback to those months following the loss of Fred and it makes his stomach turn.

Ron comes over and sits on the sofa opposite George, a look of sympathy and concern on his face. George tries to joke and make light of his current situation but the humour and light doesn't come close to reaching his eyes and the smile he paints on looks painful.

After a little while of trying to get George to open up, and receiving quite the snap of attitude Ron concedes. He very well would have left for bed if the hanging silence hadn't made George feel enough guilt to attempt a change in conversation.

Soon though, after the initial awkwardness subsided, they get lost in talk.

It had started as a question of how Ron's job search were going but somehow ended with the pair laughing over silly childhood memories. Something George hadn't been able to do in a while.

Something changed between both brothers that night. They'd bonded in a new way and were much closer than they likely ever had been before. Ron had even managed to spark some product inspiration in George, and over the next couple days as he tries to perfect the concept they spend more time together.

From then on, George can feel a shift in the way he views Ron and in the possibility of him working at WWW. The idea of hiring him doesn't bring that bile feeling to his throat as it does with any other name or applicant who is suggested to him.

So, when George believes he's finally perfected the new product and takes it home to show Ron, that's the day he asks Oh, Dear Ronniekin's to work for him at the shop.

Which he of course agrees to.

[monstersandmaw]

Female tiefling guard x human princess (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This has been up on Patreon for a week, and now it’s time to share it here!

Contents: a short, fiesty, gives-no-fucks female tiefling guard, some anti-tiefling sentiments from the other guards, a soft but 'don't mess with me' princess, an army of attacking demons, a minotaur best friend, and an nsfw scene to finish. Wordcount: 6756

A dull rumbling startled Salanei from her bed and set her reaching for the deep well of magic inside her in a heartbeat. The castle was shaking.

“Impossible,” she hissed, but other guards were tumbling out of their bunks all around her, some scrambling to draw weapons, others calling sparkling magic to their hands, though there were admittedly fewer of those. The castle was built on a promontory of black rock, harsh and stark against the chill morning light, but it was as old as the land itself and nothing should have been able to make the foundations shudder like that.

Unless…

Tilting her head to one side, letting her thick, messy, black braid slide down over one shoulder, Salanei opened her core of magic a little to the surroundings. At first all she found were the life-sparks of the other guards, but then, like a murmuration of birds on the horizon, she felt something far more sinister. “We’re under attack,” she yelled, stuffing her boots on and sprinting for the door. “Demons.”

The tiefling ignored the way the others dismissed her or scoffed at her - whether through deep-rooted prejudice or uneasy disbelief at her cry of ‘demons’ - and she bolted through the palace like a rabbit through its home warren. She didn’t think, she didn’t stop, she didn’t pause; she raced up back stairs and along half-forgotten passageways, and emerged, gasping, in what had once been an upper, open-air walkway that connected the main part of the castle to the residential wing. Her boots skidded on the rough stonework, grit and dust slipping beneath her soles, and she barely stopped before the gaping abyss into the courtyard below swallowed her.

Where a thick buttress of stone had arched across the space for centuries, now a smoking, singed stump of the bridge remained and the walkway was completely gone. “Shit.” Across it, she could see more of the royal guard backing into the part of the castle that would lead to the residential quarters of the princess after only a few staircases and passages. From the looks of it, they’d only just escaped back along the parapet in time.

Looking out at the landscape around the castle, she froze, horror icing over her veins.

Demons swarmed down the hillside and pooled around the outer walls of the castle to form a seething, foetid moat, their shapes as varied as the horrific noises they made; some with wings, some with horns, some with lashing tails and glinting claws. One or two of them breathed gouts of flame into the dawning sky, and from somewhere deep below at the curtain wall of the castle courtyard, the bellow of a bull in a blooded rage made her ears ring. A second later, the whole castle trembled again and a rain of fine particles and chunks of stone clattered down around her.

They were going to breech the wall.

“Fuck.”

The span across the gulf of empty air wasn’t so big that she couldn’t use a little magic to propel herself over it, and so, summoning a gust of air to spring her forwards, she leapt lightly off the stonework behind her and let the updraft catapult her onto the far tower. She landed hard but rolled through it and came to stand smoothly on her feet, finding herself face to chest with an enormous, familiar guard.

“Brandon, it’s…”

“Bloody chaos,” he said, falling into step beside her as they moved through the shrapnel-scarred archway and into the tower beyond.

The huge minotaur was about as broad across at the shoulders as Salanei was tall, and his huge war axe was cradled gently in his massive hands; ready. He was the only person who had ever treated her with any genuine respect at the castle, and the two were somewhat unlikely sparring partners more often than not.

“Who’s behind it?” she asked as they trotted down the stairs and a pounding, dolorous bell began to sound from the heart of the castle.

He shook his shaggy, black head, the patch of white at the front of his forelock dancing in the low light. “Not sure. Reports suggest they came from the west.”

“Dorhul?” she asked, steady pace stalling in time with her horrified, faltering heartbeat.

Brandon shrugged. “Seems likely. He’s always wanted to add the kingdom to his collection. With Ria’s father so ill…”

Salanei’s black eyes narrowed and she fought the urge to ram her hard horns against a wall with the wave of bitter spite that washed up inside her. The minotaur, clearly seeing the echo of a familiar urge bubbling up in the tiefling, laid a hand on her shoulder. It was so big, it engulfed the joint completely, and the weight of it steadied her. “Easy. We’ll get through this.”

“Where is the princess now?”

“The Elite Guard took her down to the undercroft.”

Salanei’s heart lurched and she stopped. “They’re taking her out by boat? Bran, that escape passage only leads to one place… if she’s caught out on the open water…”

“Dawn’s not far off. The sun rises over the lake,” he explained, but she could tell he was as unhappy with the plan as she was. “If the demons can even bear to look at the sunlight as it hits the water, they won’t see her. The glare will be too much. I think they expected to have broken through by now, but this castle’s a hard nut to crack, even with those numbers. It should buy her time to escape.”

He had a point. It was a flimsy hope and a prayer, but it was all they had.

They made it two floors down before the ring of steel and the snarl of demons reached their ears, and Salanei swore again, drawing deep on her reserves of magic so that it lapped like a vast lake a the very forefront of her mind; ready.

She flung a conjured talisman at the nearest demon’s head and the creature exploded into a mist of gore and black ichor. Not pausing to get splattered, she ducked low and aimed another spell - a lancing spike of ice this time - at a twin-headed monstrosity, one half of which was occupied with the head of a guard in its maw, the other half of which had just spotted her. The spike went through both skulls and pinned them to the wall before Salanei had even finished dancing lightly around them.

Quick and light as a mouse in a hay barn, she dodged and struck, until finally she was at the far end of the corridor. From behind her, she heard Brandon bellow a warning at her, asking her to wait, but she was gone like a weasel. Protect the princess. That had been what the old king had demanded of her in return for the shelter and comfort he had offered, and she had gladly accepted the trade.

Shouldering the door at the end of the corridor with a little extra magic behind the gesture, she burst through in a barrage of splintered wood and iron studs as the ramming spell cloaked around her shoulders made short work of it. Instantly, she found three spear tips at her throat, and she froze.

“Stop!” came familiar voice, and were it not for the glinting blades hovering so close to her pulse that she could see her blackberry-purple skin reflected in them, she might have gone slack with relief. “Let her go.”

“Highness,” Salanei said, bowing gratefully from the waist. “They’ve breached the castle from above, and they’re trying to get in from below. They’re only a floor above you now.”

She watched the princess’ freckled cheeks blanch, and she swayed ever so slightly before rallying her courage and pushing back her shoulders. “I have been advised that the undercroft is the safest route out of here, all things considered. Do you disagree?”

Before Salanei could reply, a guard stepped directly in front of her, his deep, maroon livery blocking her view of the princess. “Highness, we must leave. Now. Let the gutter rat fight the demons, but we have to get you to safety.”

Salanei’s lip curled back off her sharp canines and she snarled a warning at the soldier who ignored her completely.

It was a miracle that she even heard the soft tread of slippered feet on the stone floor above the clangour outside, but when the guard’s spine straightened and he shifted awkwardly back to where he’d been standing, Salanei almost snorted with laughter.

The princess’ face seemed carved from marble; all softness had shattered into hard lines, her eyes blazed green, her strawberry blonde hair falling behind her like a shield made of silk. “Repeat that,” she demanded in a voice low and deadly. When the guard stuttered himself into silence, she blinked. “Repeat that.”

“Highness,” he grunted. “Please, we cannot waste any more time! We must leave.”

“Repeat. That.”

“She’s a gutter rat, Highness. Everyone knows it.”

Stepping so quickly that no one saw her move, the princess darted forwards and backhanded the guard across the cheek. “I will not have someone spoken of like that, either in my presence or elsewhere in the castle. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Highness,” he nodded.

“Salanei, come here,” she said, turning away. Before Ria had gone two steps, a demonic portal began to open in front of her. The flickering purple and red edges were ragged as an old scrap of fabric, and a vile, sulfurous gas billowed out of it.

“Shit! Get back!” The tiefling dodged in front of the princess and brought her hands together, calling a binding incantation to mind and willing the strands of the spell to stitch the portal together again, preventing it from opening. The wielder on the other side was strong, their will like iron, but Salanei’s was stronger. Years of being whittled down until she was nothing but muscle and magic and sheer force of will had made her almost unbreakable now, and she knew it. Knowing it was half the struggle with magic.

I am stronger than you, she chanted in her head. This portal will not open.

“I knew having a magic wielder in my guard would be a good thing,” the princess muttered in her ear. “I’m just sorry my mother was so against it.”

Salanei could only grunt with the effort of closing the infernal portal. Behind it, straining against the glowing strands of her spell, a rabid demon snapped its jaws, trying to slice through the counter spell. The mage on the other side didn’t have a spare ounce of concentration to tell the beast to get back. Where was the High Mage when you needed her? Probably bolstering the wards on the castle walls, trusting that the Elite Guard would protect the princess for now.

“Get out of here,” Salanei finally rasped, sweating with the effort. The portal was almost closed.

A hand landed gently between her shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide, palm pressing securely against her skin through the fabric of her dirty shirt, and Salanei gasped as a rush of fresh magic and strength washed into her. With a snap, the portal sealed shut and she whipped around to find the princess smiling softly. “Come with me,” was all she purred.

Salanei nodded, winded and mute, and still dizzy from the surge of golden life that had poured into her from the princess and mixed so easily with her own magic. When had she learned to do that?

The path out of the princess’ chambers was littered with demons. Salanei used every trick and spell she knew, darting here, warping there, slicing, slashing, stabbing, to clear the path while the guard huddled close around their princess and picked off any stragglers who got through. The guards encircled the princess as though she were a jewel and they the setting. Nothing was going to touch her.

Out on another vulnerable, spun-sugar walkway that would lead them directly to the tower that sat atop the cavernous undercroft of the castle, a cloud of tiny, winged demons - which Salanei recognised with horror as having once been harmless forest pixies - swarmed towards them out of the lightening sky.

“Shields!” she screamed back over her shoulder, preparing another spell. Her vision swam from the speed at which she was hemorrhaging magic in the princess’ defence, but she blinked the daze away and focused on creating a wall of fire. Momentum sent the first half of the swarm ploughing straight through it, incinerating their fragile bodies to cinders, but the rest of the flock doubled back and regrouped. With a second flurry of flaming hands, Salanei danced through them until nothing remained but broken, blackened wings at her feet like campfire ashes.

One floundered uselessly at her boots, and while the princess was herded towards the safety of that final tower door by her retinue, Salanei scooped the wounded creature up in one hand and heard its infernal language as little more than a hoarse whisper, like wind through the grasslands. Tapping two fingers to her temple, she directed her magic at the creature, and connected a blue thread with its own yellow spirit thread, and demanded of it, “Who made you?”

A flash of images swirled through the connection, but she had seen enough. “Dorhul,” she spat when she saw the tall, slender figure of the most hated man in the four kingdoms. The connection sputtered, and the creature that had once been a pixie fell limp in her hand. Dropping it, she spun and trailed after the princess, blinking black spots from her vision.

Down staircase after staircase they plummeted, until finally they burst out into the echoing undercroft. Groin vaults stretched away into the darkness like the canopy of an endless stone forest, and Salanei shuddered. It reminded her of the dank dinginess of the slums so viscerally that she almost heaved.  

“Don’t stop now,” Princess Ria whispered, pausing to find Salanei staring off into the darkness with wide, black eyes. “We have to keep moving.”

Nodding silently, the tiefling fell into step beside her, scanning the shadows for the faintest hint of movement, but it was still as a sepulchre down there.

The lap of water eventually reached her keen, tapered ears, and she looked up to see three small rowing boats bobbing in the shallow, underground dock up ahead. A narrow canal of water led out towards the lake, and as they all climbed into the boats, Salanei took a moment to admire the calm presence of the princess. It was a miracle that Dorhul hadn’t known about this entrance to the castle.

Ria, still clad in an incongruously soft, pastel pink gown that was spattered here and there with the evidence of their desperate escape, somehow looked as regal as she had sitting in the great hall in her father’s stead these last two years.

She had remained a steady, reassuring presence in the kingdom even as the king’s health faded away despite the High Mage’s efforts to heal him. In his absence, Ria had taken over the rule of the kingdom with the grace and justice that her father had instilled in her from a young age. The queen had died only a few weeks after her father’s sickness had presented, and Ria had mourned her for the appropriate weeks before getting on with the governance of the kingdom. Beautiful, refined, and achingly gentle, it was no wonder that the kingdom was in love with her.

Salanei swallowed thickly. Half the kingdom, and… her too.

Now, although there was the air of a frightened child about her delicate shoulders, she sat in the centre of the small boat as her guards rowed her away, her green eyes fixed on the retreating castle as they skimmed across the lake. Just as Brandon had said, the morning sun glanced off the surface, glinting like a cut gem as the castle burned behind them.

Salanei uttered a quick prayer under her breath for the minotaur who was presumably still inside the castle.

Halfway across the lake, the guards’ oars faltered with a splash. A vast wave of power pulsed from the heart of the castle and spilled out across the land in all directions, sweeping demons off the walls and parapets, scattering them to ash on the wind. The sheer, raw magic made Salanei’s ears ring and her chest tighten, but when she’d mastered herself again, she found Ria staring wide-eyed at the castle with a look of unbridled horror on her beautiful face.

“Highness?” Salanei croaked, barely resiting the urge to grab her shoulder and shake her gently. “Highness?”

“Father…” she choked. “My father is dead…”

Three thoughts raced through Salanei’s mind before it went perfectly blank again: ‘that means you’re the queen’, ‘if the king is dead it means he used a purging spell so powerful that it obliterated himself as well’, and ‘the castle is free of demons now’. “Should… Should we go back?” she finally croaked.

Ria just sat there in the little boat, her breathing shallow, her face ashen.

“Highness?”

Nothing.

“Ria?” she asked, reluctant to use her familiar name. She leaned forward to touch her arm, but one of the guards - a huge, leonine rakshasa - growled at her. Salanei bared her own canines at him and hissed like a cobra.

The sound of her bickering guards drew the princess out of herself, and Ria turned to them. “Please,” she whispered. “Not now. For the goddess’ sake, not now. Let me think.”

Chastened, they fell silent, though Salanei’s black eyes never left her princess’ face.

“We go back,” she finally said.

The leonine rakshasa’s ears pricked up and he growled softly as he said, “Highness, we only just got you out of there…”

“Look,” she said, her voice eerily calm as she pointed a trembling finger towards the castle.

A cloud of sparkling, fluttering sparks had risen like butterflies above the remnants of the highest tower, and Salanei recognised Maeva’s magical signature immediately. “The High Mage,” she whispered. “You think it’s a trap?”

Ria shook her head. “No. We have a code in case such a signal is ever used. Green with gold is a trap. Pink and pale green is all clear. We return. Now.”

The rowers turned the small craft around, and Ria sat with her jaw set and her fists clenched in the fabric of her dress, eyes intense, mind working. No one spoke or grumbled, despite how the guards’ shoulders must have been burning from the effort.

The princess ground her teeth, and muttered, “This is taking too long. It’s not your fault,” she added as a guard’s expression flickered momentarily. “You’ve all been wonderful.” Snapping her head up suddenly, the princess said, “Salanei?”

“Highness?”

“Can your tiefling magic teleport me from here?”

Salanei tilted her head thoughtfully to one side as she examined her reserves of magic. “If I do, I won’t have much left in the tank when we get there,” she said. “I’d rather not…”

“Do it,” Ria said. “That’s not a request. Get me to my father’s chamber, and Maeva can take care of the magic from there if needs be.”

Jartyn, a gnoll with half his ear missing and a huge burn scar on his face, interjected, “I really must object, Highness -”

Ria’s eyes flashed and he sat back, teeth clacking as he shut his mouth quickly.

However, she got control of her frustration and spoke in a gentle, if tense, voice. “I appreciate your concern, and I owe you all my life,” she said, gathering them all into the praise with a sweep of her emerald green eyes. “But my father just sacrificed his life to cleanse that castle, and now I must return to protect his legacy. If I don’t, there’s still a window of opportunity for Dorhul to step in and claim the crown and the kingdom amid the chaos. Do you understand?”

They did, and they all bowed as one.

“You will follow in the boat and attend me back at the castle.” Ria turned her gaze to the tiefling, and held out her hand. “Now, Salanei.”

Taking the princess’ hand in hers, Salanei concentrated every drop of will and magic on the king’s chambers. Teleportation was not something many could do, and it wasn’t something Salanei particularly relished. The familiar sensation of blurring at the edges announced that they were ready, and a heartbeat later, it felt like two magical grappling hooks had yanked them by the spine and guts and had torn them away to somewhere else.

The princess landed awkwardly beside her with a cry, collapsing against Salanei as they arrived in the bedchamber of the king, and the tiefling caught her. “I’m going to be sick,” Ria hissed a moment before it happened.

Salanei supported her and held her beautiful, long hair back, and then magicked all the mess away with an easy flick of her hand.

Clearly grateful, Ria straightened and turned to her. Her eyes were pink and her cheeks were pale, but she still looked so regal that Salanei’s heart twisted in her chest.

Then Ria’s eyes slid from Salanei’s face to the bed in the middle of the ruined room. The glass in the windows had been obliterated, blasted out into the courtyard below. The twisted remnants of the lead work hung like the gnarled roots of a ripped up tree from the casements, and the rest of the room was reduced to splinters and tatters.

On the bed, there was no sign of the old king at all, but where his head would have rested on the pillow lay the golden crown, and where his heart would have been was a glimmering opal. Salanei gasped when she saw it, following at a respectful distance, a pace behind Ria.

“That’s…”

“The heart of the Lunar Forge,” Ria whispered. “Yes. Imagine what hell a necromancer like Dorhul could raise with a focus like this… That must have been how he was able to wield so much magic just now too…”

Salanei shuddered, not wanting to think about what could have happened. The Lunar Forge sat at the heart of the castle, and beneath the light of a full moon, any weapons quenched in the pool of spring water had the power to destroy demons utterly. The focus of the power was that opal. It was the size of Salanei's fist and it thrummed with power. That power did not have to be used to focus the powers of the Lunar Forge though; it could be used at the heart of any ritual, to add unfathomable power, and if the necromage had got his hands on it, who knows what he could have brought into this world.

Ria picked up the stone and the crown and then sank onto the bed. When she looked up at the tiefling, another pang went through Salanei’s chest. Tears flowed silently down Ria’s face and the urge to embrace her surged inside Salanei. “Highness,” she whispered, her heart going out to the young woman.

Her face twisted, and sobs wracked the princess then, and her guard didn’t hesitate. She stepped in close and the princess folded forwards, throwing her arms around her wiry torso and burying her face in the filthy fabric of her shirt. Her tears dampened it until the flow finally stemmed as Salanei stroked the coppery hair and just stood there, taking her grief and fears in her stride.

“I can’t do it,” Ria whispered, still plastered to her chest.

“You will. You’re not alone. I know he’s gone, but you’re not alone. You have Maeva, and your guard, and… for what it’s worth, you have me.”

It took another few minutes before Ria leaned back to regard Salanei and drew in a deep, unsteady breath.

Taking a chance, Salanei reached out and thumbed the remaining tears from the princess’ blotchy cheeks. “You have me,” she repeated as her golden eyelashes fluttered softly. A moment later, the tiefling let go and spun, adopting a defensive stance as footsteps rang on the floor outside and someone burst in.

She relaxed instantly, adrenalin dissipating when the familiar red robes of the High Mage swirled to a halt and the older woman appeared to go through a similar gamut of relieved reactions upon seeing the tiefling. “Thank the goddess,” she breathed, leaning heavily on a long, slender staff. “Ria, child, are you alright?”

Mutely, the princess nodded and stood. She touched Salanei briefly on the arm as she passed, and sent a tiny rush of her innate magic into the tiefling. The tenderness of the affection made her sway on the spot where she stood and she smiled at the princess, bowing her head.

The Queen, she corrected, forcing herself to make the mental adjustment. That’s the queen standing there now, you dolt!

The severe figure of the High Mage was made all the more stark by the harsh daylight now flooding in through the empty windows. The wind at this altitude whipped right through the room, tugging at tatters of cloth and blowing papers around like dry, rattling leaves. Maeva drew the queen to one side and the two proceeded to talk in hushed voices, leaving Salanei with nothing to do except keep watch.

She crossed to the door at the sound of — she tilted her head and strained — hooves. Demon or friend…? Brandon’s telltale white forelock and black pelt drew into view as he trotted up the staircase and she relaxed.

“You’re alright,” he smiled, tugging her into a quick hug before stepping back. “Thank the goddess. When you disappeared like that — And… the princess?”

“Queen now,” Salanei murmured. “She’s fine.”

“Goddess shelter his soul, and long live the queen,” Brandon said under his breath.

“What’s the rest of the castle like?” she asked, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder and adding, “It’s a fucking mess in there.”

“Same,” he said, leaning on the door frame and suddenly looking extremely tired. “It’ll take weeks to clear the demons and the rubble, but whatever that was, it purged them all in one go. Damned powerful magic.”

“It was the king,” she said. “He sacrificed himself to save the castle.”

“Not just the castle then,” Brandon said darkly. “Saved the whole bloody kingdom with it.”

It in fact took just over a week to get the last of the ichor and demons out of the castle, but it did take much longer to clear the rubble.

Ria insisted on being crowned in the goddess’ temple at the castle, despite the fact that half the roof was missing. Maeva and anyone with even a scrap of magic had been drafted in to weave invisible supports over the roof timbers and pillars to stop it all from tumbling in and crushing the congregation.

Salanei stood at the head of the guard of honour, her blade raised as the queen passed beneath, and she winked at one of the kitchen girls’ daughters whom Ria had selected to be one of the four train-barers. The tiny child could hardly lift the heavy material of the excessively long gown, but she valiantly did her best, along with the other children who had been chosen from the families of the castle staff. It was a lovely touch, and it had only endeared the young queen more to her people.

As the queen drew level with Salanei, she didn’t stop or break her step, but she shot her a fleeting look in passing, and the tiefling’s heart leapt. Over the past few weeks, the queen had shown her a remarkable degree of affection. She’d raised Salanei to the prestigious position of the Queen’s Blade - her personal bodyguard. But where the two had hardly interacted before the attack on the castle, now Salanei found herself often being admitted inside her private study to discuss security and plans to bolster the castle’s and kingdom’s defences with magic and boots on the ground. On such evenings, it was not uncommon for their hands to brush or their gaze to meet, but whatever swirling emotions Salanei felt, she kept her thoughts to herself. This was the queen after all.

The coronation service went on and on, but finally the oaths were taken, and the queen, now formally crowned, processed out into the courtyard beyond to thunderous cheering and applause. Maeva sent a rain of enchanted petals down around her, and she addressed her people as their new leader. All the while she spoke, Salanei scanned the crowd, but to her relief, she found nothing but adoring faces and cheering people. She met Brandon’s eye from the front row of guards keeping the crowd back, and he nodded at her.

It wasn’t until Ria was back in her chambers, again with Salanei at her side, that she showed the faintest sign of her exhaustion.

She was silent while her maids undressed her, their nimble hands undoing the regiments of buttons. Finally, they removed removed the ridiculous gown from the room and found something more comfortable. In her humble, ignorant opinion, Salanei thought that the queen looked much better in plain dresses anyway.

Ria had decided, upon Maeva’s advice, to take the rest of the day to herself, and just as Salanei was preparing to stand guard outside her door, the queen took her wrist in her gentle, firm grip, and halted her.

“No, Salanei,” she said in a hoarse, tired voice. “Stay. Please.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I… I don’t know,” she said with heartbreaking honesty. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Feeling her body go slack as her heart went out to the young woman, Salanei said, “Shall I run you a bath, Majesty?”

On the point of replying, the queen paused and changed her mind. “Call me Ria,” she said. “Please. When it’s just us two in these rooms, please… call me by my name. I’m… I’m afraid that I’ll forget the sound of it now that I’m queen and there’s no one left to call me that…”

Bowing her head under the weight of that gift, Salanei nodded. “As you wish… Ria.”

With a smile, the queen reached for Salanei's other hand and squeezed her fingers in her own. “You’re so strong, Salanei,” she said, running her thumbs over the rough, scuffed knuckles and feeling the calluses from weapons training on her palms and fingers. “You… You’re so beautiful…”

The breath left Salanei in a rush as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus. “Majesty,” she protested, embarrassed and trying to pull away, but the queen held firm.

“I mean it,” she said with a fierce light in her eyes. And then she went soft with a sigh and said, “But yes, a bath does sound nice.”

“I’ll run you one,” Salanei offered, glad for an excuse to leave the room. Her heart was thudding and her skin felt hot all over.

“You’re not my servant,” Ria barked as the tiefling made to stride away across the room towards the chambers. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’d like to,” she said. “Please.”

With a nod, Ria accepted, and ten minutes later, a steaming hot bath stood ready for her in the adjacent bathroom, the scent of jasmine heady in the air. When Salanei emerged, she found the queen undressing again, and struggling with a button right in the middle of her back.

“Help me?” asked the queen in a surprisingly shy voice.

Silently, Salanei crossed to her and freed the tiny pearl button from the back of the dress, revealing the smooth, warm skin of her back as the fabric parted and fall away. She had three freckles just to the right of her spine. The urge to brush her fingers down the length of the queen’s back from the nape of her neck to the waist of her dress was almost overwhelming, but she forced herself to step back. “Anything else?” she asked in a croak.

With a knowing, almost playful smile, the queen looked over her shoulder and said, “Fetch me a robe?”

Licking her lips, Salanei swallowed. Had Ria’s eyes always been so bright? Her hair so golden? Her lips so…

“Salanei?”

“Of course,” she chirped and turned abruptly to fetch a robe from the back of the bathroom door and bring it. When she found the queen standing completely naked in the middle of the room with her dress pooled around her ankles, she nearly cursed. Her feet stopped and she stood there, slack-jawed and staring.

“Are you going to pass it to me or not?” Ria giggled.

Flushing hot, Salanei handed it to her and looked away as she extended her arm.

“Don’t,” Ria breathed. “Unless you want to, of course.”

She had no answer for that.

“Salanei…?” the queen asked, sounding suddenly unsure. “What is it you want? Answer me honestly.”

You.

“I can’t,” she hissed, turning completely away.

Oh gods, I want you so much, she thought. I want to make you forget everything. I want to kneel between your legs and taste you. I want to sink my fingers into your heat and feel you let go. I want to give you what no other can give you.

The queen’s voice was steady as she asked, “If you could speak freely, what would you say to me?”

“Tell me I’m not out of line,” Salanei breathed. “Tell me —” she couldn’t finish it. It felt… blasphemous even to begin to voice her desires. This was the queen. And she was a gutter-rat tiefling from nowhere, with no family and nothing but her magic and her fighting skills.

“I want you, Salanei,” the queen said unflinchingly. “I want you, but I don’t want you afraid.”

Her lips parted when she heard those words, and she turned to face her queen properly. Ria still hadn’t done up the bath robe, leaving a column of perfect skin exposed between her covered breasts, and a soft nest of golden hair between her legs. Salanei’s fingertip ached to touch her just there and see if her knees would buckle at the contact.

Without a word, the queen turned and walked slowly towards the bathroom, leaving the door open. An invitation? Salanei stood there for a long time, listening to the slosh of the water in the huge copper bath as the queen got in and then lay back. Steam billowed out of the room, coiling along the floor like crooked fingers calling.

Swallowing, her heart thudding, Salanei padded into the bathroom and came to an uncertain halt. The bath stood in the centre of the small chamber, and the queen had her back to the door where she reclined in the steaming water. “Come here,” she said gently.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“I’d like you to do more than that, if you feel comfortable…” she purred, and as Salanei drew level with the bath, she looked up at her, features sharpening. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, alright? I’m well aware of what I am, and what your station is. If… If you feel as though you’re… obliged in any way to… to…” tears filled her eyes but she refused to let them spill, and in a rush Salanei knelt on the cold marble beside the bath and put her left hand on the rim of the tub.

“No,” she said fiercely. “I want this. Trust me, I want this…”

“You can touch me,” the queen said in a low voice, tilting her head back. The bubbles just skimmed the surface of the water, but as she moved, fragrant waves lapped at her chest and Salanei glimpsed the roundness of her breasts beneath the water and the dusky pink of her hard nipples too. “Please…”

Salanei slid her right hand into the water, her plum-purple skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of the queen’s own, and she found the inside of the queen’s thigh, letting her palm play up and down it for a moment. Ria let out a long, broken moan and arched her back a little, and it suddenly occurred to Salanei that she probably hadn’t ever been touched like this. Aside from being dressed by her maids, she was always apart, always unreachable, always kept safely at arm’s length.

“I…” Ria faltered, her eyes still closed. “I never thanked you. I never found a minute, but… I should have made time. You’ve given everything to me, and you helped to save my life.”

“I made your father a promise,” she said, still just cupping the curve of her thigh in her hand, hardly daring to believe that this was happening. “And I grew to love you years ago. Your goodness, your grace, your kindness… You won me heart and soul, Ria. I’m yours. Always.”

A tear slid from Ria’s eye and disappeared into the dampness on her skin at her neck. “Touch me,” she whispered, voice intense, and Salanei complied.

She moved her hand further up her smooth thighs, feeling her tail coiling around her own ankle as her body heated up and she began to get wet from the sheer anticipation of touching the queen like this at last. How many nights had she touched herself with thoughts of the queen’s pleasure ringing in her imagination?

At the smooth glide of fingertips over her folds, the queen’s legs fell apart and she bucked weakly, sloshing water almost over the rim of the bath. Another moan escaped her and she let her head loll as Salanei repeated the gesture on the other side before circling her swelling clit and then nudging just beneath it.

A shudder ran through the queen and she gripped the edges of the bath as Salanei brushed against her, teasing and testing, finding out how she liked to be touched, where was too sensitive and what garnered her the most vocal reactions. Slow and firm seemed to drive her closer to towards her peak, while tentative and teasing made her buck and gasp, shivering and grunting with satisfaction delayed. Naturally, she drew out the process for as long as she could, and oscillated between the two.

“Please!” Ria finally gasped, curling forwards, knuckles white on the rim of the copper bath as Salanei ran one callused fingertip back and forth just between her clit and her entrance. It was far too slow and far too teasing. “Oh goddess… oh goddess…” she chanted, her whole body winding tighter and tighter. The water could not disguise the slickness that eased Salanei's attentions either.

In a single motion, Salanei slid two fingers deep inside her and crooked them, pressing against her walls while circling her clit with her thumb, and the queen shattered. Salanei was fairly certain she’d soaked through her own underwear, but nothing could distract her from the tight, clenching heat as pleasure ripped through the other woman and swept her away with it. She gave herself completely to it and convulsed, water slopping over the edge of the bath and onto the floor and drenching Salanei's loose trousers too.

“You’re so beautiful,” Salanei crooned as the queen continued to come. “Goddess, but you’re so beautiful…” She kept the pressure inside the queen’s body with her fingertips, easing her through it until finally Ria slumped back against the bath, her chest heaving, her eyes closed, and the softest, sweetest look of joy on her face.

When she’d caught her breath, she opened her eyes with a flutter of golden lashes and whispered, “I want to do that to you.”

“I’m yours,” Salanei replied with a wry smile, withdrawing her fingers and tracing a fond touch across her sensitive inner thigh without removing her hand from the water.

“Give me a moment to feel my legs again,” Ria said, “And then help me out of here, and I’ll return the favour. I do feel bad that you were on the floor though,” she said, a tiny frown pinching her eyebrows together.

Salanei laughed hoarsely and said, “If you knew how wet I was, you wouldn’t have said that.”

The queen went still, a surprised smile on her face. “That got you wet? Doing that to me?”

“You have no idea.”

With that, Ria stood somewhat shakily, water cascading down her perfect body, and, with her eyes practically glowing, said, “Show me.”

___

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[feralandmoonstruck]

Promise

DNI IF UNDER 18

WC: 1745

True to his word, Prince Viorel spent most of the next three days in the infirmary with Fiora. He had left her side a handful of times, but was never gone long. He even slept nearby until she was discharged.

“I want to see the others,” she told Viorel as they left the infirmary together.

“I’ve already made arrangements and am taking you to see them now.”

She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Thank you, Prince.”

“I promised you I would, and I always keep my promises.”

Fiora could hear the murmurs of courtiers and servants that they passed. She drew herself up under the frightened gazes that fell upon her mottled visage. She refused to look apologetic or embarrassed in the face of their twittering. Her defiance was in every line of her face. The scabs and swelling and bruises were all a reminder to herself and others, When faced with capture, I chose death. Having been stopped from going through with it was something entirely different from backing down on her own.

“Before we part,” Viorel said, “I was wondering if you might like to have rooms made up near mine, or if you’d prefer elsewhere?”

Fiora looked at him. “It depends on what my purpose here is.”

“I could not tell you what Dracen had in mind, but you would be part of the court in one form or another.”

Fiora heard the words he didn’t speak aloud. If you choose me, your life will be better. She chewed her tongue for a moment. “I know which you’d rather I pick.”

Viorel ducked his head. “I will admit that I have hope. I would not have made the suggestion otherwise.”

“Do I need to make my decision now?”

“You may see your friends first, if you wish, but the sooner your decision is made, the sooner I can have your rooms ready. You still need rest.”

“I’d like to wait.”

They came to a stop in front of a door gilded with gold. “Of course,” he said. “Once you’ve made up your mind, simply send Lettie or another of the maids to inform me.”

Beyond the golden door, the room was filled with sunlight. She didn’t have a chance to notice much more, because the moment they saw her all of the Oleran women surged to their feet as one. A wave of concerned voices. Viorel shut the door quietly behind her.

“Fiora,” they shouted, “are you alright?” Their questions overlapped with shrieks at her appearance.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she assured them. She let them pull her deeper into the room and settle her on a couch.

“What happened?”

“We’ve been so worried about you!”

“They said you’d been hurt. Was it one of the soldiers?”

Fiora held up her hands to slow the onslaught of questions. “I hurt myself. That’s why I wasn’t here sooner, I’ve been held in the infirmary for three days.”

“Why would you do something like this to yourself,” Anjali, one of the oldest women among them, asked. She leaned forward, letting her black hair fall like a curtain. “You can tell us if someone did this to you.”

Fiora squeezed her arm. “I promise, I did this. I thought death would be the better option.”

Maria, one of the youngest of their group, began to weep. Jasmine and Beatrice, two sisters who’d run the mill after their father, moved to console her.

“You’re so strong,” another said. “I could never be as strong as you. Even if life here might be terrible, I just don’t think I could fight as hard as you have.”

A spark of annoyance shot through Fiora as a chorus of agreements rose around her. “They took us from our lives! Burned our homes to the ground! How could you not want to fight?”

Camry, a girl standing at the edge of the group, gave Fiora a small smile. “Fi, we’re not fighters. We never have been. And even if we were, what could we even do now? You said so yourself, our home is gone. We don’t have anything to go back to.”

Fiora bit her tongue and shook her head. “It doesn’t mean we have to give in to them.” She could taste the bitterness of the hypocrisy her words left behind. How dare she lecture them on giving in when she had spent nearly all her time here in the company of a prince?

“Fighting now would only make our lives more miserable. So far they’ve done nothing to hurt us. The only one of us hurt is you.”

“And the rest of you agree with this?”

The women gathered around Fiora looked away, mumbling noncommittal answers. She knew they were right, but to accept it felt like a betrayal of everything she believed. And yet, Viorel's offer hung like a glimmering crystal before her. It would be so easy to accept. She could give up and give in. It would mean having a better life than she could have ever dreamed of in Olera. There, she was just another poor person living on the edge of the kingdom, so far from the capital that help was hard to come by and any wealth got lost long before it came anywhere near Millen.

Fiora stood and pushed her way through them. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe any of you.” she shook her head, “Turning your backs on Olera so easily.”

Camry stepped forward and laid a hand on Fiora’s arm. “Fi, you don’t have to keep fighting. No one will think less of you for doing what needs to be done. You think we don’t want to fight? Our lives and our families were destroyed, Fi. Of course we want to fight! But fighting isn’t going to bring them back. Nothing will. We’re just trying to be realistic, and so long as we have each other, as long as we’re alive, we’ll be Olerans. Nothing can change that or take that away from us. It’s just, there’s no reason to make ourselves more miserable than we already are.”

Fiora yanked her arm out of Camry’s grasp. She shook her head, the corners of her eyes burning. “I don’t,” her mouth opened and closed several times. Camry was right, these women were all she had left of her home. There was no way back to how their lives were before. “How do I stop,” she whispered. Tears slid down her swollen cheeks.

Camry wrapped her arms around Fiora. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed, “we’re all here for you. For all of us.”

Anjali rose and joined her. “I wish we had an answer, but I think that’s something we each have to find within ourselves. And even then we may never know.” She rubbed broad circles along Fiora’s back.

“How are you not scared?”

“We are,” Anjali whispered.

“Hattie hasn’t been eating,” Jasmine spoke up from where she cradled Maria to her chest, “and Juniper won’t get out of bed.”

A murmur of agreement went through the cluster of women. Fiora let herself be drawn back into their embrace. Giving their fears voice diminished their power little by little. It made them smaller and the bond between the women stronger. They cried together for all that they had lost. Time was immaterial as they clung to each other. When the door opened they all jumped. More than one of them let out a little scream, but it was only the maids.

“Ladies,” an older woman in Breschen colors spoke. “We’ve been sent to prepare you for your presentations to the royal family.”

Several of the Oleran women began to sob again as the maids filed in and drew their charges out of the room. One by one their numbers dwindled. Maria clung first to Jasmine and then to Beatrice, refusing to leave until their guards entered the room to prize them apart.

Fiora was one of the last women to leave. “Where’s Lettie,” she demanded when Milo came to fetch her.

“She’s finishing setting up your rooms.”

“My rooms?”

“Prince Viorel is having you something made up near his quarters.”

Fiora shook her head. “I didn’t– he said I could decide.”

Milo shrugged. “You’ll not be questioning the prince’s orders.” He took her by the arm and led her out of the room.

“He can’t do this! He said it was my decision,” she spat.

“The prince can do as he pleases.”

“I demand to see him!”

“Demand all you want, it’s not going to make a difference. Neither Vioral, nor any of the royal family will ever jump at your demands. You’ll see him when he wishes, and not a moment before.”

Fiora growled and swore all the way to her new room. Milo deposited her inside with Lettie and snapped the door shut behind her.

“How did your visit with your friends go,” Lettie asked. “My apologies for not being there, but as you can see…” she let the words trail off as she gestured around them.

The room was done up in greens and golds. Iron lattice adorned the exterior of the windows and cast intricate shadows on the plush rugs that covered the gleaming wood floors. The bed was larger and more beautiful than Fiora had ever seen. The footboard was carved into a masterpiece of forestry so detailed that she could hardly follow it. A glance at the headboard told her it was much the same. Each of the four posts were topped with carvings of an owl. This room wasn’t meant for someone who was considered a prisoner. Not even someone who would be a maid. Fiora’s heart lurched at the same moment her stomach twisted when she realized the implications.

Fiora dragged her gaze back to Lettie, “I can’t believe he did this.”

“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Lettie ushered her deeper into the room. “Now, I know that this isn’t as close to Prince Viorel as you might have hoped, but even he has rules that must be followed. But don’t worry, he’s not far. In the meantime, why don’t I get you washed and ready for your presentation to the family, hm?”

Her shoulders slumped forward. “If you must.”

“We won’t be able to cover up all of the bruising, but I promise to do my best.”

“I’m not worried,” she sighed.

Lettie laughed. “I appreciate your confidence in me. The bathing room is this way.”

[lykegenia]

The Dragon Knight’s New Clothes

The speed with which Davion left Hauptstadt left him no time to pick up clothes, so now he's back to square one and very much missing enough layers to cover up his... secrets. When he and his companions stumble on a farmstead his prayers seem answered, but there's also the other matter, the reason why he had to flee Hauptstadt in the first place, and the fear that it will happen again. Set between Episodes 2 & 3. 

Hints of Davion x Mirana

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Read on AO3

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Normally, Davion is perfectly fine with silence in his travelling companions. The life of a dragon knight requires long hours on the road, not all of which can be filled with talk, even on the days where there’s no hunt to keep the quiet. But normality seems to have taken its butterfly wings elsewhere for him lately, and the current silence is getting awkward. It’s just him and Mirana. Marci took Sagan scouting shortly after sunrise and left them alone together, and while she seems content with their current situation, she’s also the only one between them wearing clothes. She doesn’t have to worry about the strength of errant breezes finding their way to places, and she has the weight of a weapon at her side as insurance against any trouble they might run into. Her feet aren’t slipping around sockless and blistered in too-large boots taken off a dead man.

A man he tore to pieces.

He swallows, glances to his companion to take his mind off the remembered taste of blood in his mouth. Her shoulders are loose, her gaze soft and hair flowing where the wind lifts it back from her face, the unassuming brown sparking copper in the dappled sunlight. He swallows again.

“Soooooo…”

“Is there a problem?” she asks, slowing a little. A quizzical knot appears between her brows and he raises his hands in surrender.

“No problem!” he says. “It’s just… you’re quiet.”

“I was enjoying the peace.” If there’s a note of annoyance for his interruption it flashes too quickly for him to catch it.

“You must not get much chance to just stop and smell the flowers,” he supposes, after a moment. “Being a princess and everything.”

“There are always little things, if you let yourself look for them – but you’re right that my duties rarely allowed for anything more.”

Allowed. Past tense.

“You never snuck away to try something more fun?” He grins, and when she only quirks a brow at him he clears his throat. “No, never mind, I think I know the answer to that… I’m sure Marci will be back soon.”

She throws him a smirk. “Are you worried about her?”

“Actually,” he says, letting his thoughts tease out, “I’ve been wondering about you two.”

“What about us?” The smirk draws in, a warning that seems to dim the sunlight itself.

He shrugs. “She takes your orders, but you don’t exactly treat her like a servant or a squire, and you have that –” he waggles his fingers experimentally – “hand language. You must have known her a long time.”

She turns away from him, her eyes going to a bird cleaning its beak on the branches above them as her arms fold in a loose cross over her chest.

“We came to the Nightsilver Woods together, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says. “We were already companions before then.”

“Just the two of you?”

Something in the memory pains her. “There was no one else left.”

“What about Sagan?” he asks.

“A gift from my goddess, so that I might do Her work.” The smile comes back, and he’s glad for it. “He was adorable as a cub – so fluffy. He used to chase the reflections from my arrowheads.”

“I never had a pet,” he confesses, without quite meaning to. A memory of a mongrel begging at the back door for scraps threatens to pull him in, but it was a long time ago and his mind can’t conjure the dog’s appearance. It probably ended up like the rest of his village, anyway.

Mirana’s eyes find his face, too perceptive, too understanding. Before he can think of a new subject to distract her, he notices the birds have all gone silent. The undergrowth rustles nearby, concealing something huge. He darts forward, fists ready in place of a weapon, but an instant later he catches a flash of white and relaxes in recognition at the wide, blunt head that pushes out from among the trees.

“Sagan!” Mirana ducks forward, arms outstretched, and the tiger butts her in the shoulder, purring like an avalanche as Marci slides down his back.

A brief conversation follows in the silent language the two women use between themselves, the signs made by their hands too fast for Davion to follow. He waits patiently, even dares to give Sagan a scratch under the chin, his fingers inches from the mouth full of sabre teeth the length of his hand.

Finally, Mirana turns to him. “There’s a farmstead about five miles west of here. If we’re welcomed it would be a good place to get some rest.” She throws a casual look over him and he resists the urge to tug the too-small cloak further around his body. “Perhaps we might also find you some better clothes.”

“I’d like that.” What he likes less is her singular ability to make him aware of his body – and not in the fun way.

She starts to lead off down the path but stops, sighs, her fingers going to pinch between her brows in an attitude of long-suffering patience.

“Ride Sagan,” she says. Orders, really. “It’ll save your feet.”

He can’t help but lean closer, grinning. “That’s surprisingly nice of you, princess.”

“And it’ll stop you slowing us down.”

He chuckles at that. Even in the few days they’ve spent travelling together he’s learned the difference between her wry mock threats and the times she truly intends to bite. As he winces over to tiger and vaults into the saddle, he almost misses the look exchanged between his two companions.

“How do I, uh, steer?” he asks. The neck in front of him is too short, the shoulders much broader than those of a horse, and there aren’t any reins.

Mirana smirks at him. “You don’t.”

--

They reach the farmstead as the sun is on its last descent towards the distant hills. Barley stalks sway gently under the wind as they climb the path to the house, and when a young teen tending vegetables by the back door spots them, Davion can hardly blame them for dropping their rake and running inside. The three of them don’t exactly make for an ordinary bunch of travellers, especially not with Sagan padding along behind them. There’s a stag slung over the saddle, intended as a sort of offering by Mirana, who took it down with one of her arrows before he even knew it was there. While most would follow the custom of hospitality without such a gift, they have only a few coins from the bandits he killed, and they need more than just shelter for the night.  

“Better let me do the talking,” he mutters as they pass into the yard. It’s not the first time he’s had to explain to some poor local that he’s not a marauding thug, and that was without the daunting presence of the war tiger at his back.

For a moment, Mirana considers, but nods and hangs back, passing a hand over her holstered bow as if to reassure herself it’s still there. With another self-conscious tug on his attire to make sure his decency is covered, he advances towards the farmhouse’s front door and as he passes a soft fragrance of thyme and lavender rises from pots placed beneath the windows, though it’s too early in the year for the buzzing of bees. A memory tickles at the back of his mind but he pushes it away before the herby scent can be tainted with ash, and in the instant it takes to centre himself the door swings open to a tall, broad woman with steel-grey hair and an iron brow who steps out just far enough to not appear suspicious.

“You’re an uncommon bunch, right enough,” she comments, her face half shadowed by the overhanging thatch. “What business have you?”

Davion offers her his most winning smile. “We’re travelling from Hauptstadt. If you have enough spare for a hot meal and room in your barn for the night, we’d appreciate it.” He gestures to his companions. “My friend here managed to take down a deer, and we’ll happily share it with you.”

“Half of it,” Mirana corrects, with a hand on her tiger’s shoulder. “And the hide. Sagan needs to eat too.”

The farmer passes a calculating look over them, lingering longest on Davion and the scars so clearly visible across his shoulders, but in the end he guesses their fearsome appearance works in their favour. Their would-be host shrugs. If such travellers wanted to pillage and burn, they’d have no need for subterfuge first.

“We’re always happy to have well-mannered guests, especially ones with news of the road,” she says. “At this time of year the stock is out so your cat will be fine in the barn. Just keep him away from the back field, I’ve ewes ready to drop and they don’t a need a fright to help them along.”

Mirana nods. “Thank you. Is there somewhere we can put the deer?”

If the farmer is surprised by Marci’s strength as she hauls the carcass off Sagan’s back, she doesn’t show it, only points to the gate set into the far wall to show the way to the outbuildings. “And you always dress like that, do you?” she asks a moment later, still eyeing Davion.

He glances down at himself as if it’s going to suddenly change the nature of his attire, but the princess answers before he can open his mouth.

“There was trouble with bandits.”

“Only for your friend here?” The farmer’s eyes narrow.

“We met on the road,” she says smoothly. “If you have some spare clothes, my companion would appreciate the return of her cloak.”

The farmer accepts the half-truth with a solemn shake of her head. “Some of my late husband’s things should fit you, though he never kept quite so trim as you seem to be.”

She beckons them into the house. Davion follows, ducking under the lintel to avoid knocking his head, but pauses when he realises Mirana isn’t behind him.

“I’m going to bed Sagan down,” she tells him. “I’ll join you shortly.”

He smiles, nodding, and resists the urge to reach for her as she turns away. Inside, the whitewashed walls split the house into two, a kitchen with a large, scrubbed table in the back, and a parlour of sorts with a gathering of chairs around a large fireplace that overlooks the garden. An old woman snores in the armchair closest to the window, but she doesn’t stir at the prospect of visitors, even though the stairs leading off this main room creak under Davion’s weight, the wood worn to a polish by generations of use.

“Tayran,” his host calls out as a young woman appears from one of the upper rooms, “go help your brother with the veggies, will you? We’ve three more mouth to feed tonight.”

Tayran, a few years younger than Davion and sporting the same square jaw and brown eyes as her mother, nods and ducks along the hallway, but not before she’s let her gaze rake along the expanse of his muscles not covered by Marci’s cloak. The smile he offers in return is friendly enough, but not encouraging. He needs the clothes more than he needs someone to take them off again.

Seemingly oblivious to the exchange, his host has gone on ahead to the main bedroom and has taken a key to a heavily locked chest in the corner by the washstand. She digs through it, muttering, though he notices she never quite fully turns her back to him, and after a moment she stands again, with a shirt, breeches, and quilted jerkin draped over her arm. After a pause where she casts a critical eye at his boots, she stumps over to a dresser and pulls a rolled pair of wool socks from one of the drawers as well.

“These are the best I can do,” she says, handing the ensemble to him. “Afraid we’ve no salve for those badly fitting boots of yours, though.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

She huffs. “You can pay it forward. That’s what decent folk do. I’d best go see if yon slip of a girl has managed to get any meat off that stag yet – there’s plenty of room to change in the barn,” she adds, as she chivvies him from the room.

--

Dinner a few hours later is a crowded affair, the family’s meagre supply of chairs not enough to accommodate their guests, which means Davion’s legs are folded awkwardly around the tree stump serving him as a stool, his knees already bruised from all their accidental knocks to the underside of the table. The dim light for their meal comes from the fire and from a storm lantern hanging in the rafters in the centre of the room, and in the darkness beyond this the house groans and creaks as it settles for the night. After the disdain Mirana showed for the inn in Hauptstadt he wondered how she would react to such simple surroundings, but she nods graciously as their host ladles her a portion of stew and doesn’t complain that it’s being served with a wooden spoon. Marci is already tucking into hers as if she hasn’t eaten for days.

He smiles down at his bowl. The stew itself tastes good, the venison paired well with bacon and fresh vegetables, and it’s so thick the slice of bread he’s been given can be planted into it like a battle standard. Their host seems satisfied with their enthusiasm for her food, too. She has yet to sit down, her own portion left off as she pours a clear liquid into a motley collection of cups.

“Don’t knock this back,” she warns as she passes the drinks around. “It’ll beat you round the head like a club and go through your pockets for loose change.”

Davion can’t resist. He makes a great show of tasting the liquor. “A fine vintage, ma’am. Comparable to an Icewrack white, I’d say.”

Opposite him, Mirana narrows her eyes, like she wants to kick him under the table.

“My, you’ve expensive tastes,” their host rumbles. “You won’t find anything half so fancy in these parts.”

“Oh? Shame.”

“Where have you been that serves Icewrack white?” the elder asks from the head of the table. It’s the first Davion’s heard her speak, and her voice is cracked with age and suspicion.

“Oh, a few places,” he answers, careful. “I’ve spent most of my life travelling.”

“You must have many stories,” says Tayran, leaning forward on her elbows while her younger brother rolls his eyes next to her.

“Some, I suppose.” Davion shrugs. “My – uh, I had a friend who was much better than telling them.” He can’t mention having a squire; it would invite too many questions.

The elder seems content with him, but then her eye swivels towards Mirana. “What about you?”

“Mama,” their host chides. “We don’t interrogate our guests.”

Mirana sets down her wooden spoon. “It’s alright. We came from further west, on business.”

“Wrong time o’ year to be travelling the high passes.”

“My business could not wait,” she replies. Not for the first time, he wonders what calamity must have drawn her from her woods, put the grit in her voice as she speaks of it.

“And what about you?” Tayran asks him. Her eyelashes flutter. “If you’re looking for work you’d be far more likely to find it back in Hauptstadt, or on one of the farms in the valley.”

He disarms her with a grin. “And leave my companions without a defender? My honour wouldn’t allow it.” He shrugs elaborately. “I’ve got some friends near Levinthal who should be able to help me after I go that way.”

“More people who owe you favours?” Mirana asks, casually enough, though it’s clear she hasn’t forgiven him for the cockroaches that came included with the last one.

“It’s likely just as well you travel together,” their host interrupts. “There’s rumours of some sort of monster roving about these hills. Someone found bodies ripped apart not a week’s journey from here, and whatever it was killed a dragon knight an’ all. Dangerous times, these.”

The chill that grips Davion’s spine doesn’t go away, nor the knot in his stomach that feels like another gang leader’s ring just waiting to be hocked up onto the table. Mirana and Marci both have stilled to watch him, but he doesn’t meet their gazes. Instead, he draws in a breath and stretches his best tavern-pleasing smile across his revulsion.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says. “We’ll be extra careful.”

The conversation moves on after that, well into the night. On isolated farms like this one, travellers may bring the only news of the outside world for weeks, and new stories of far off places are always welcome. Finally, drowsing under the effect of the wine and the full meal and with the supply of fire logs running low, Mirana rises to make their excuses for the night. They have an early start in the morning, and don’t want to trespass any further, she says. Davion follows.

In the doorway, however, an unexpected hand reaches out in a caress across his chest that stops him before he can make it out into the cold. His breath fogs as he turns, finding Tayran in the shadowed alcove where the family keeps their coats, the smile on her face one he’s seen on more than one young woman on his travels.

“It’ll be cold tonight, you know,” she purrs.

From the corner of his eye he sees Mirana pause at the sound of the voice, but when he turns fully she’s already resumed her pace, perfectly measured, her shoulders straight, and he wonders if he imagined it. Tayran’s hand moves up to cup his cheek, to bring his attention back to her.

“If you want a better offer than a draughty old barn, I’d be happy to oblige. If you’re not already spoken for, that is?”

“You mean with –?” He coughs. “No, I’m not. We’re not, ah – like that.”

She steps closer. “Good. Would you like to hear more about my offer?”

--

When he lets himself into the barn a little time later, bright moonlight spills around him, though his eyes take less time to adjust to the unlit interior than he expects. An oil lamp glows in the far corner.

“Your ‘better offer’ fell through then?” a voice chimes through the darkness, low with disdain.

He finds Mirana with Sagan’s head in her lap, running a soft brush over the tiger’s fur, her scowl and the sour curl of her mouth revealing the nature of whatever else she wants to say. She doesn’t look at him. His own anger rises in response.

“I didn’t take the offer,” he snaps, quiet enough not to disturb Marci. “Not that you have any reason to care.”

“I didn’t want to waste time looking for you in the morning.”

But the gaze fixed on him now flickers with calculation, the same astuteness she turned on him after he let the elf go, as if he’s a puzzle box with no clear solution.

“She was a pretty enough thing,” she comments as he unfolds a horse rug over the straw as a makeshift bedsheet. “Many men would have gone after her.”

“Yeah, well – I’ve said it before.” He throws his head down on his folded arm. “I’m not most men.”

Now more than ever, he thinks ruefully as silence descends again. If he were the sort of person who believed the gods cared at all he’d wonder if they turned him into… whatever he is… as a punishment for hubris. For a little harmless flirting. He yanks the blanket up to his chin and rolls over – he’s slept in less comfortable places, but that doesn’t make the cold, prickly ground any less frustrating. A bed would have been much better. A bed with a bit of fun thrown in, for the both of them, and yet he chose to leave, and he’s going to go mad trying to work out why.

“You’re afraid,” Mirana says into the quiet. “Worried that what happened at Hauptstadt – what you became – that it’ll happen again.”

After a long moment, he unclenches his hand and sighs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“For what good it will do, I can watch over you, if you like.”

He shifts. The offer feels unfamiliar. A dragon knight is sworn to protect others, and though the rational part of him knows if he does turn she’ll be dead before she realises it, there’s a warm glow of comfort from the assurance in her voice. She asks nothing of him, only honesty.

“If the transformation happens…”

“I’ll shoot you.” He hears the smirk.

“Thank you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the images his mind conjures, her blood on his hands, and prays to whichever gods are listening that if the worst comes her draw will be fast enough.

[detroitbydark]

Part 8

Characters: Commander Fox/Reader

Summary: things are getting interesting

Warnings: mentions of past smut but nothing really steamy.

A/N: this needs to be done as I’m tired of staring at it. I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.

Padme Amidala was a dream to work with; polite, considerate, appreciative. Truly one of the few people in the Galactic Senate that Fox truly enjoyed. Her ability to rally those around her to her cause and spark loyalty in her followers was something he couldn’t help but admire and though her strong willed personality had put them at odds at times (when keeping her safe out weighed her desire to throw herself headlong into danger) he would always consider himself a fan.

Which made it all the more irritating that he was on detail for Raxallian Thrug, the sniveling chakaar from Cantonica. Every vile cliche Fox had ever heard about politicians was on display in Thrug. Deceitful, underhanded, slimy- the list went on and on.

Fox stands at attention behind his current charge as he leans to the aide at his side and whispers what amounted to filth into his ear as Senator Amidala gave an impassioned plea for aide to the outer rim, heavily under siege from seppie forces.

Did Thrug not realize Fox could hear every disgusting comment he made about Amidala or did he simply not care what a clone may or may not hear. Clenching his hands into fists, Fox wasn’t sure what option bothered him more.

Trying to block the senator out he looks past him, scanning the crowd for any anomalies, anything that stood out or could indicate an issue.

Rule’s voice crackles through his helmet comms. “She’s really worked up over this”.

Aside from the HUD and the various other bells and whistles the buckets were equipped with, the ability for private comms was one of the biggest perks in Fox’s eyes. No one ever needed to know they were talking.

“Seems to be, yeah” he hums in agreement.

“She said to say ‘hi’ earlier. You think she’s got a crush too?” Rule teases.

Fox rolls his eyes behind his visor. He doesn’t justify that with a response. Padmé Amidala was not interested in the likes of him, she merely cared about those around her. Even if she did, his interest lay elsewhere.

Interest wasn’t the right word though was it? Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d said. He’d said those words, those words, to not one other soul in his life. He honestly had never even thought about the phrase before he was quieting her with it. They had just been one of the many things he- and many other troopers- absorbed over time about their progenitor’s culture. Mando’a spread like wildfire when spoken in barracks and war zones across the galaxy. They were just men without history, without a background or roots, looking for meaning and belonging outside of someone else’s war.

He’d been supremely thankful (and also a little miffed) when she hadn’t questioned him any further on his amorous declaration. Hadn’t she even been curious? Obviously she didn’t feel the same. How could she?

He’d taken her in a way he’d only dreamt about, done something he had relegated to his most private fantasies. But she’d encouraged it. She’d asked for more. For more explanation, for more of everything. Even now the memory of spilling inside her, of the way she’d sobbed out her release and quaked in his arms sent a thrill through Fox. He was a man nursing a borderline obsession and it was going to end badly for the both of them if he wasn’t careful.

“Commander?” Rules voice breaks hesitantly into his thoughts.

“I hear you, Rule. Whatcha got?”

“I’m not sure sir. I just got a flash of something in quadrant three, northwest corner. HUD picked up a wonky looking heat signature.”

Fox’s eyes scan to the coordinates that pop up on his display, a balcony two levels above where he stood guard behind Thrug. It should have been unoccupied. That was the game plan, no guests above Guard eyesight.

“Ryk?” Fox’s voice is brisk as his mind starts working through the possibilities, adrenaline slowly seeping into his system. “Come stand with the good senator while I look into this.”

“Yes Commander?”

Fox has approximately three minutes to think of all the horrible possibilities. Snipers, Bombs, Seppie Sympathizers. Each one offers a new and more complicated amount of paperwork. And more headaches.

Always the headaches. They were getting worse each week. More frequent. More intense. More of a pain in his ass.

Mouse had noticed. Mouse always noticed. This morning she’d crawled over him, still only in his shirt, and gone digging through the ‘fresher cabinet til she’d found a bottle of pain pills. She’d come back with the bottle, water, and a cool cloth for his head. He would have fallen to his knees and worshipped her if his head hadn’t caused such a revolt. She’d laid with him, legs straddling his hips and body sprawled over his, before the sun came up and done her weird little miracle massage along his forehead even though he knew she was exhausted. It had helped but hadn’t cured him. Even now the dull ache followed him.

Ryk slips into Thrugs box and if the politician registers one clone has traded places with the other, Fox will be surprised.

He takes the steps up to the supposedly empty balcony dragging his deece from the holster as he gets to the door, eyes drop to the weapon to check settings. The door is slightly ajar and he can see a quick flash of movement through the crack.

He counts silently to three before his boot connects with the door control, slamming it open. It’s a tense moment as he finds himself face to face with the singing blue plasma blade of a lightsaber and a pair of blasters, identical to his, pointed dead center mass at his being.

“Commander Fox” Anakin Skywalker’s voice is cool as it greets him. The curse that escapes from Captain Rex at his side is less than formal.

“Fierfek, Fox…” he grumbles lowly, something Fox vaguely hears as something about shooting his shebs off.

General Skywalker retracts his blade and both clones lower their blasters, pausing for a tense moment before holstering the weapons.

“General. Captain. This area is off limits. If I may ask, why are you up here?” He aims for stern military Commander but he can’t help the cringe under his bucket as Skywalker raises a brow in his direction. “With all do respect General” he adds as on afterthought.

Rex must sense the brewing tension between the pair as he steps into speak for his general. “We were just trying to get a good spot to listen to Senator Amidala speak. We’re both fans.” A look passes between the pair that Fox can’t decipher. Skywalker rolls his eyes at his captain before turning back to Fox.

There was no love lost between the general and the Commander. Too much had happened that set their paths intersecting- and not for the better- for them to meet with anything but anxiety (from Fox) and thinly veiled contempt (from the Jedi).

The Jedi waves his hand dismissively turning his back to the clones. It raises the small hairs on the back of Fox’s neck. He should be used to this by now, the brush off, the outright disdain that he and his men had been forced to become accustomed too. In the name of obedience and loyalty he has to handle the general’s brush off with an acceptance that he doesn’t feel.

He turns stiffly as the roar of the crowd rises up to them. A quick glance over his shoulder shows Skywalker staring down at the young Senator with a look in his eyes that felt, at once, both foreign and all too familiar to Fox.

“Fox?” Rex’s voice rises over the sounds below. “I was wondering if I could talk to you? I was going to just stop at your office but since your here now-“

Fox’s bucket cocks to the side. anything Rex has to say to him wouldn’t be in front of the Jedi. “my office is fine. I’ll be there all afternoon”

Rex looks as if he’s about to argue but he stops and gives him a nod of affirmation. There was history between them and if something had to come of it then it would be on Fox’s terms. In private.

“Commander? You ok?” Ryk’s voice crackles through his helmet comms.

“Yeah, Ryk, nothing worth seeing here.”

———-

Your body throbs dully, the pleasant soreness from last night sending a shiver down your spine each time you think back on it. Everytime you think of Fox your body reacts, a warm flush of color to your cheeks or a full feeling in your chest that can only be one thing. Kriff. You were in deep and you couldn’t help the smile that played on your lips when you thought about him.

You move through the cafeteria line, slowly gathering a few things for a light lunch. You weren’t particularly hungry but you grab a sandwich and a bag of protato chips along with a small cup of fruit. And the largest mug of caf available because you were exhausted. Fox had not let you be done after your initial romp. Your cheeks flame hot as you remember waking in the middle of the night to his tongue lapping are your cunt and the soft groans he made between praising you for taking him so well and telling you how much he wanted to have you again and again.

You wonder if anyone can tell the filthy thoughts you're having, how you were remembering Fox cleaning up his release that had leaked from your overly full core.

You needed a cold shower. Or your Commander.

“Mouse!” Sargent Wren elbows through a trio of troopers to get to you. He smiles brightly as he places his own food on your tray and takes it from you. “I’ll carry that.”

You give it up, knowing that there was no use in arguing. Wren falls in at your side as he grabs a pair of ration bars and adds it to the tray.

“For later” he explains. You’d never in your life seen people that could put away so much food. Hound had once explained it was due to a higher than normal metabolism and, while they’d been engineered to run on the dense ration bars alone, if given the option, each clone could put away seemingly half his weight in food at each meal. Nearly every one you’d met had a viscous sweet tooth on top of it. You’d learned the hard way after the candy stash you’d kept in your desk drawer had been discovered and raided but a group of “unknown perpetrators“.

Ryk and Rule had promised to look into it, Rule with bits of chocolate still clinging to his lip.

“All by yourself today?” Wren asks conversationally as the pair of you find an unoccupied table. You know what he’s asking. You’ll have to inform Fox that the pair of you were the worst kept secret in the Guard.

“Senator Amidala had a speech today. He’s pulling protection detail.”

“With Amidala?” Wren has shoved a large bite of sandwich in his mouth and struggles to swallow as he asks the question. You push a canteen of water to him.

“No. Thrug I believe.” The Sargent makes a sound of understanding as he gulps down a drink. He coughs once as the food goes down.

“That sounds about right. Since The incident with Skywalker’s Padawan he hasn’t been pulling detail with the senator. Word is General Skywalker is a bit protective over her. Unfortunately the Commander is a two time loser in the generals eyes.”

The fruit in your cup is a bit too ripe, but you eat it regardless, chewing thoughtfully. Wren is right. You hadn’t noticed the change but now that it was pointed out you wonder how you’d missed it. Maybe Fox wasn’t the only one carrying on an unheard of affair, not that you could blame the Jedi. You’d only met once (and for a second at that) but you’d found Padmé Amidala to be courteous and warm, much more like senators Chuchi and Organa than the loud blustering career politicians from other worlds.

You keep your mouth shut. If you'd learned one thing it was best to stay out of matters involving Jedi. Public opinion on the war and the order itself had been wavering as of late. Your concern was with Fox and the men of the Coruscant Guard and while what happened with the Senate and the war would affect them on a grand scale you’d come to terms with the fact that you couldn’t control that. You could, however, control things in their daily lives. Make things easier in little ways. It was a small consolation but it was what you could offer.

It was more than some, who claimed to be for clone rights, did. A glance around the cafeteria shows the self segregation, clones and civilian contractors at separate tables not mixing or interacting. A group of troopers to your right argues good naturedly in Mando’a. Wren smothers a smile as he listens in.

“What’s so funny?”

Wren looks up at you, confusion then clarity lights his face, “just a joke” he gestures toward the other clones. “It’s stupid” he dismisses.

You huff a breath. Maybe you wanted to hear a stupid joke. Not for the first time you wished you knew the language the troopers bantered in.

“Really Mouse it’s not even that funny. Like, ‘your mother’ jokes? We don’t even have mothers.” Wren rapidly tries to explain and hold up your hand for him to stop.

“It’s fine. I get it. You’d think I’d have picked up some Mando’a by this point anyway.”

Wren shrugs as if agreeing with you. “I could teach you a few words if you want?” He offers. He waits while you think. “Come on” he presses.

You shrug, “ok, cyar’ika” you throw back at him.

His flashes a toothy grin, “easy- and I can guess where you’ve been hearing that one- beloved, darling. It’s a term of endearment but I’m sure you’ve learned that by now.”

You fight back a blush, hiding behind a big gulp of caf. “Something like that.”

He goes on unprompted with simple words for child, mother/father, outsiders, Jedi. You try to burn each into your memory.

“Al’verde Fox” he offers and you shrug.

“Leader Fox?”

“Close! Very close Mous’ika” Wren is an enthusiastic teacher. He makes an encouraging gesture with his hands, “try again”.

You think carefully before your next attempt, “Commander Fox?”

Wren slaps his hand against the table with a laugh. You jump slightly at the loud noise. “Yes! Good job! Now” he offers, “you tell me something and I’ll translate it”

The words don’t even pause at your lips before they slip out. Your accent is atrocious and you're not sure if it comes out correct. “Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum”.

The phrase catches Wren mid-drink and he seems to choke before he’s able to swallow down the liquid on his mouth. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“Yes, wow” he sobers “wanna tell me where you heard that doozy? Or should I guess?”

“Well are you going to tell me what it means or what?”

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum” he repeats, the words flowing off his tongue easily and without the stilted tone you’d used “I know you forever” he says softly.

It’s a pretty phrase and you say as much.

“Pretty is an understatement. It’s the Mando equivalent to a declaration of love.”

———

Fox paces his office floor as he flips through screen after screen of requisitions. This was the part of his job he hated most. The supply clerk was in charge of getting all orders together, but as Commander, he had to give final authorization for every order going through. It was mind numbing, monotonous.

A soft knock comes mid step and he gives a sharp bark to enter. Between dealing with Thrug, his unexpected run in with Skywalker and the Captain of the 501st, and the new stress inducing realization of the depth of his emotions for his little Mouse,Fox feels off-kilter. He doesn’t like it.

Mouse enters bearing a ration bar, a mug, and a smile that makes him forget his raw nerves.

“Caf?” He asks enthusiastically. She shakes her head and gives him a skeptical smile.

“Tea. A little less stimulating this late in the afternoon.” She sets both on his desk before leaning against the duraplast and taking him in.

“What?”

Something soft tugs at the corner of her mouth. She shrugs, “just wondering why you're trying to wear a tread through the floor. That’s all.”

The eye roll he gives is big and dramatic and she chuckles quietly. He moves to the desk, tossing the datapad down. It doesn’t take much to work her bottom back onto the surface and step between her legs. She looks hesitant, staring up at him, her lip between her teeth in that telling way of hers.

“Something wrong, Cyar’ika?” Gently, his gloved hand cups her cheek and she tips softly into it. He places a soft kiss on the crown of her head before her eyes flutter shut. She’s so kriffing soft. He scarcely believes he’s allowed to handle anything so delicate and fragile. Fox’s fingers slip to her chin and angle her mouth up to him.

“Was your day really that bad?” She probes. Fox can feel her feet hooking behind his knees and pulling in til he was flush with her body.

“S’much better now” he’s being purposefully evasive. Mouse didn’t need to worry about the things that had been weighing heavily on him, nor did he want her to realize that she was one of them. He slides his mouth over hers, sharing his breath and taking in hers in return in a soft reverent meditation masquerading as a kiss. Being wrapped up in his precious girl does seem to make everything better, the tension pressing in on his chest eases. The soft sigh that slips past her lips as his teeth nip at her is the best thing he’s heard all day.

One hand splays across his chest while the other grips behind his neck. She mewls sweetly as his tongue tastes her. Sweet girl tastes like caf-

“Commander Fox-“ Fox has missed the tell-tale slide of the door and curses mentally.

Mouse makes a distressed noise as the deep voice cuts through the room. She pushes ineffectively against Fox’s chest as he squeezes his eyes shut. Fox doesn’t move as Mouse scoots back enough to slip her legs from around him and rise to her feet. She looks up wide-eyed and accusing, as if he’d orchestrated the whole thing. Her cheeks are a vivid shade of pink. Her look is one of absolute embarrassment.

He wants to lean in and kiss her swollen lips again, tell her there’s nothing to fear or worry about because he had her. Of course, he can’t do that but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to. He watches as she smooths her skirt and mutters something about getting back to work.

Fox can feel eyes burning into his back. He knew the voice as well as he knew his own. Some believed that clones were interchangeable but any person who’d spent any amount of time should be able to tell him or Rex from their other vode. Little things like accents they’d picked, how they worded their thoughts. How they carried themselves.

“Captain Rex. It’s customary to knock before entering.” Fox spins to see his visitor turning away from his furiously blushing secretary as she scurries past him and out the door.

“My deepest apologies” What Rex says and his tone don’t exactly match up. Fox has a feeling he’s given the Captain free entertainment and a serious bit of gossip to bring back to the front. “I was unaware you were preoccupied with- such an important engagement.”

Fox smiles, a thing full of teeth and thinly veiled menace. “I can understand how you wouldn’t understand such things, ner vod.”

Rex’s helmet shakes and Fox can hear the quick huff of dark laughter that filters through his vocoder before he’s reaching up to remove his helmet. “I'm really sorry about that. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was” Fox agrees, moving to sit at his desk and motioning for Rex to sit across from him. He hesitates a moment and Fox wonders if he’s ever been offered a seat in any meeting. Is he relegated to standing over the shoulder of Skywalker like a well healed akk dog? He doesn’t ask. “What can I do for you today?”

Rex sits straight, his face a composed mask. This wasn’t a social call though that was no different from any interactions they’d had before.

“I need to apologize for the incident with my shinies.” The stiff pseudo apology catches Fox off guard. He sits quietly for a moment. The two clones staring at one another.

“Ok.”

“Ok? That’s it?” Rex’s voice is wary.

“Am I supposed to throw a fit? Yell and scream that I want their buckets on a platter? What would you have me say Captain?” Fox pinches the bridge of his nose, “look I get it. Trust me. Since-“ he angles away from the other clone. “I get I’m not ever going to win a popularity contest and yeah, it was not kriffing fun. Actually, it was about the least amount of fun I’ve had in a while but what am I supposed to demand? Demotion? Reconditioning?”

Rex flinches at the last word.

“Exactly” Fox feels as if he’s made his point. “So if that’s all you wanted…” he lets the words hang in the air between them. Rex closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“That’s not it.”

Fox can feel what’s coming next, always knew it would come.

“I need to know about that day. I need to know why you killed Fives.”

The Captain’s stare is unyielding and Fox feels like he’s under a microscope, rigid and without escape while the clone across from him dissects each move and every word he’s about to say. He’s never backed down for a fight in his life but right now, right here? He wants to do nothing more than get away.

“He had a gun.” Fox draws a steadying breath but his voice comes out shaky and he's disgusted at his own weakness washes over him. “I told him to stand down. I told him to get on his knees. Even after he grabbed the kriffing thing I told him not to do it. I-“

“Why didn’t you just stun him” Rex’s voice rises above his, anger bleeding into every word as he leans forward, planting his hands on the desk as he rises to his feet.

The invasion of space throws Fox off. He rolls his shoulders briefly trying to ease the tension that was growing there. The spot behind his eyes throbs. “The settings were wrong. I- I don’t know how but the kriffing setting was wrong.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that”

Something in the arch of the captain’s brow, the accusatory nature of what he was in insinuating sparks white hot rage in Fox’s chest. The photos on the wall rattle as he rises to his feet, his fist meeting the wall behind him.

“What are you saying?!”he asks turning on the blonde clone. “Are you inferring that I had it out for him? A vod I’d never met? That I went looking to kill a brother?”

Rex flinches back. Fox’s knuckles throb. He focuses on the growing ache, uses it to stay grounded. His voice is low, a pained snarl.

“His death will never leave me. I pulled the trigger that ended his life. Do you know- can you understand what that feels like?”

“He said this was bigger than us” Rex pushes on, seemingly paying no mind to what Fox had said.

“And that means I was in on a conspiracy?”

“Damn it, Fox” Rex growls, “you said you don’t know how your blaster ended up throwing bolts!”

Something about that catches Fox right in the gut, steals air from his lungs. As quickly as his rage had swollen it subsides and he’s left to sink back down to his desk, forehead cradled in his head.

“Bigger than us” he repeats Rex’s words- Fives words- quietly.

“He mentioned a conspiracy to Kix” the blonde clone doesn’t sit but he’s posture loosens.

“Conspiracy?”

“Something that went all the way to the top. Said the clones and the Jedi were in great danger.”

“Tell me more.”

[starshineandbooks]

    This is for @b0nechewers as part of the Revalink exchange (@revalinkexchange ), I used a mix of the prompts they gave me.

Words: 2106

    Warnings: Implied and referenced abuse, homophobia (Brief)     If I missed anything please let me know!

    Relationship(s): Revali/Link,  Background/implied Saki/Teba

    Summary: After a less than ideal ending to not only their dance partnership but their dating each other, Link and Revali find themselves back together, but will there still be sparks?

Revali had always known he had messed up, leaving Link after a several year-long relationships and an even longer friendship, maybe they had their fights, and they certainly started off in a bad place, but seeing Link dance with someone else hurt more than Revali would care to admit.

    Link had become Ravli’s own dance rival again, he dances with a childhood friend of his, Mipha, Revali dances with his friend Teba, but there was a time that Link had been Revali’s dance partner. Revali’s partner in every way that mattered.

    The way things had ended left him colder than before, less trusting, less hopeful, and more egotistical, and missing Link with everything he was. It’s one thing for a relationship to end on its own, but Link and Revali’s hadn’t ended of its own accord.

    But Link hadn’t been ready to leave his father behind, his very homophobic, father and violent mother had made it clear that it was them and their support and money, or Revali and nothing.

    He doesn’t blame Link, it sucks that Link chose them, after everything, but it’s likely better for the man.

    But it’s when he was assigned the same hotel suite (A completely different disaster due to them technically going to the same dance place) that he truly realized how much he still mourns the loss of Link, and how- he loathes to admit this even in his own mind- he pines for and love the man still.

    Teba had claimed a separate room for himself and his family, so this suite was Mipha, Link, and Revali. And then came the who sleeps where and no you aren’t sleeping on the couch, well you aren’t either discussion.

    Revali simply claimed one room while Mipha and Link tried to out friend the other, each insisting they take the couch and the other the bed.

    He sighs, walking into the room, “Or someone could share a room, now will you stop bickering?”

    Link pauses, looking to his phone for a time check, nine in the evening, Revali’s meditation, his eyes twinkle as he smiles softly, “Sure.”

    Mipha hums, “Well, I mean, Link and I could share a bed, you and Link could too, your both boys.”

    Revali rolls his eyes, “And I should share with him because?”

    “I have been known to be a restless sleeper?” Mipha says, “I’m sure he would be better elsewhere.”

    “Fine, he can take my bed with me, or the couch, it hardly matters to me. Now could you please keep it down?”

    The other two agree, and Revali goes to the hotel room, settling on the bed to begin meditation. His breathing slows and he focuses his mind on where his weight is distributed, letting his mind clear.

    Link looks nice with the jeans and blue sweater today- not going there. Clear mind.

    He sighs softly, trying again, it works better for a little while, but then he’s thinking about Link’s smile, and how the man might share a bed with him tonight.

    Revali thought he was over this, better than this, better than hopelessly pining over someone who chose something else over him.

    Just great, Revali supposes, finishing his meditation slower than is typical of himself, exiting his room to find Mipha on her laptop, video calling Zelda.

    Link is Hylia knows where, and Zelda spots him, “Hello Revali!”

    He sighs, “Hello, Zelda.”

    “How have you been? It has been- a long time. I’m sorry about-”

    Revali walks away, grabbing his wallet and exiting the room to go and see Teba and his wife and child, deciding to brave that more than to see Zelda.

    As if Hylia herself planned it (She’s a bitch thank you), Link trips over something, and tackles Revali to the floor, both sprawling on the ground of the hotel, neither as a breath yet in their lungs. 

    Link squeaks, pulling his face off of Revali’s chest, “I am so sorry.”

    “You should watch where you are going.” Revali sniffs, and the disdain is there, but he’s forgotten, Link knows him better than likely anyone else, the chastesation would chill most people.

    But Link? He just smiles softly, “Thanks, Revali.” Pushing to his feet, he holds a hand out to help the man he knocked over up, just to have it smacked away as Revali stands on his own.

    “I don’t need your help.”

    Link just smirks softly up at Revali, “Okay.”

    “What? Do I have something on my face?”

    “No.”

    “Well then, what is it?”

    “You-” Link hesitates, and oh, there is that sweetly awkward boy Revali first met, “You look good. You’ve done well in your career I hear, and your dancing is as perfect as ever.”

    “Of course it is, of course, I am, do you take me for a second-place king of man?”

    “No, you never were.” Link says softly then, “I’m sure you’ll win, you always have.”

    “It will hardly change now.”

    “No, it won’t,” Link says then he sighs eyes flicking to the ceiling then back to Revali’s own, “Revali, I- ‘m glad you’re okay.”

    “Why wouldn’t I be?”

    Revali watches Link hesitate, good, he should hesitate. The way things ended was awful, but what Link’s mother did was worse, it was Link who saved him, but it was also Link to leave his life.

    “I know Carolina was awful to you that last night and I- well- I’m sorry. But- I’d also like to say thank you.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “Thank you, thank you for everything you said while I was still with you. I shouldn’t have chosen them, I was scared and young and stupid, and maybe we wouldn’t have worked out, but I’d have been happier if I’d cut them out sooner.”

    “You cut them out?”

    Link nods, shifting, “Zelda and Uncle Roahm did too, I don’t know, it’s just- what you said kept rattling in my head, it stuck.”

    Revali almost preens outwardly at that, Link has always been stubborn, reckless, and fairly carefree if a little overly protective of his loved ones, to get him to listen is a feat and a privilege few have.

    Revali suspects he knows what was ‘rattling; about Link’s head too, the exact phrasing. 

‘They are bad people, Link, awful, vile creatures who berate you, withhold food, lock you in a small room without food, water, or a bathroom for up to two days giving you a trash can instead of a toilet then. Your father is neglecting at best and your mother physically beats you why you would choose them is beyond not just me.’

Quite the phrase, Revali supposes, but Link has always needed reality checks, not sugar-coated bullshit.

“Hm, well, I’m glad you finally made a decent choice about them.”

    Link laughs and Revali finds that even though he wanted to hurt Link (The way Link hurt him just a little, maybe revenge will help him heal) that the laugh he receives instead is sweeter and welcome.

    “Well, Revali, I had to eventually, statistically at least.”

    Revali snorts at that, he regrets it and doesn’t at the same time, letting lInk see him anything but annoyed at his presence is dangerous, but the way his eyes light up at the taller’s mistake is enough to soften the blow, even if his pride is bruised.

    “I suppose so.”

    “I was just coming back from my run to see if you wanted dinner, Mipha and I were thinking Subway.”

    “I do enjoy Subway,” Revali says noncommittally.

    “Want to come with me to get it?”

    “I suppose that would ensure my order is relayed properly, yes.” Revali nods, letting Link lead him through the halls, into and then out of an elevator, and down a street once they exit the hotel.

    They walk in silence, not awkward but not quite comfortable. Heavy, perhaps, but neither expected different, honestly they expected worse. The men walk along, in step, and each graceful after years of dance.

    The ordering and retrieving and even paying off their walk-in uneventful, though it is raining when they leave the place, Link seems pleased though it is a nice light rain on a hot night it does present the issue of memories.

    (‘C’mon, Rev, not even one kiss?’ It had been raining then, and they had just been reunited after a road trip.)

    He firmly shuts the memories off, he is better off this way, pining and hurting but free on a relationship that ended poorly. He’s better off not letting himself get wrapped up in Link and what that boy does to him.

    ---

    So, that was easier thought than done. The night before the competition’s final Teba’s son got injured and they have to spend at least two days in the hospital, and Teba won’t leave his wife or child, so he’s out of the competition. Mipha sprained her ankle the day before.

    Link grains, looking to Revali, “I talked to the competition judges; they said we can either partner up together or accept that we’re out.”

    “Why?”

    “They said because we’re from the same initial program and emergency issues came up we aren’t cut off. We can find a replacement, ie, team up ourselves, or, we can go home.”

    “I have never gone home empty-handed.”

    “I know.”

    “You are willing to be my dance partner?”

    “Of course I am,” Link says, that glint in his eyes that Revali has missed dearly.

    The night is spent in a choreographing and routine learning frenzy, and they know it’s sloppier than their usual standards, but they also still have the connection they used to. They sleep some, not as much as they should but not as little as no sleep. All in all, not too bad.

    The day of said competition is a mess of coffee, last-minute practicing, and pining from our resident useless gay dance team. And it isn’t until they end the dance, the crowd cheering that the two realize just how badly they messed up, doing this together, being kind.

    Revali drags Link off the stage, glowering at the blonde, “What are you playing at? You were too fast! I had to match your pace, my heart is moving entirely too fast.”

    “I wasn’t.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “I wasn’t.”

    Revali scoffs, but Link is right, he wasn’t.

    “My heart’s fast too,” Link tries.

    “Good.”

    Link shifts then, “I thought I was over this, you.”

    “Oh?”

    “I worried for you, but I figured that was to be expected when I found you bloody and almost dead on the ground of my kitchen with my mother over you.”

    Revali scoffs, “I hardly was on the brink of death.”

    “It felt like it, in the moment.”

    “Well, I suppose so, you always were overly emotional.”

    “Still am.”

    Revali sighs, “Well, surprisingly, I am not over you either.”

    “What?”

    “You heard me.”

    “I did- I just- Not what I was expecting.”

    “Nor I.”

    Link hums, “I don’t suppose you’re free tonight?”

    Revali cuffs the back of the blonde’s head when he smirks knowingly up at the taller, “I am.”

    “And I don’t suppose you’d want to give us another chance?”

    Revali hums, low, soft, unintentional, thinking. Link did choose his parents (His awful, abusive, toxic parents) Over Revali, but he’s moved on, he apologized, he was scared. And he’s here now, no less enchanting and no less Link.

    “One more chance, but if this does not work out, I am not giving you so much as a glance.”

    “Understandable.”

    Revali sighs, pulling Link into an embrace, startling the younger though the blonde hugs back tightly.

    “Just-” Revali sighs, kissing the top of Link’s head, “Don’t make a choice between me and someone like them that ends in the bad one.”

    “Never.”

    “Okay.”

    “You do know I’m not letting you go again.”

    “Sap.”

    Link snorts and Revali knows very well what that means, yes, Link is a sap, his sap. Link is his sap, oh Hylia, Link is his.

    (Maybe Hylia isn’t such a bitch. After all, these two certainly have a wonderful future ahead of them, and even if it is a spoiler for these two, they manage to make the relationship work this time, going so far as to get married and adopt a daughter they name Naru.)

    Link smiles softly, “I don’t think we won.”

    “I think we did, just not the competition.”

    Link snorts, shaking his head. And the world seems brighter, neither had realized how dark it had been. And if they end up curled up in the bed at the hotel that night, third place overall, watching old reruns of some show or other lost in each other, well, that’s their business. Isn’t it?

[sendrickbecs]

Unspoken Feelings (3/8)

The heavy throbbing of her head makes the bedroom whirl around her. Is the world spinning? Beca sits up, quickly bringing her left hand to her forehead, pressing down on it as if it will release the tension. The intense dizziness is causing her stomach to churn which increases her urge to vomit.

Her eyes snap shut instantly, in attempt to decrease her hangover symptoms.

Beca inhales quickly, holding the breath, then exhaling. She repeats the breathing strategies a few more times until she no longer thinks she's going to vomit all over the floor. She doesn't want to recreate Aubrey's puking mess.

When her eyes flutter open again, it takes a minute for her to realise that she isn't in her own room, she's so naturally comfortable in the warm bed that she isn't even alarmed. The surroundings aren't unfamiliar, so she doesn't feel the need to get up and run away shamefully.

But then she looks to her right as she suddenly realises, she isn't alone in the bed.

The sight of her best friend lying next to her, with her left hand underneath her cheek and her gorgeous red hair sprawled out over her pillow, is absolutely breath-taking.

Her other hand is connected to the wrist that is resting on Beca's stomach. Beca didn't realise she was wrapped in Chloe's grip until now, and she has the urge to snuggle closer, loving the feeling of being so close to her best friend. But that isn't a thought someone should have about their best friend, so she hesitantly nudges Chloe's arm away.

After she sits up against the headboard, Beca reaches out to tuck a strand of Chloe's hair behind her ear.

She wants to appreciate the sight, because Chloe Beale really is her favourite thing to look at – to admire. Beca can deny it time and time again but she'll always come back to the same conclusion.

Chloe is her weakness.

Beca has never allowed herself to be vulnerable around others but the realisation that Chloe could literally break down every single one of her walls scares the absolute shit out of her.

She allows her gaze to drift around the room. Even though she shares the attic room with Amy, their room isn't much different to the other girls' bedrooms. She's spent a fair amount of time in Chloe's bedroom anyway, which is why she's almost surprised it took her so long to acknowledge that she woke up in her room.

In this moment it suddenly strikes her – why is she in Chloe's room?

What the fuck happened last night?

She tugs her hair down from the messy bun – she doesn't remember putting her hair up last night so Chloe must have done it for her, which is another example of why Chloe is literally the best person in the entire universe. Beca rakes her hand through her hair and takes note of the faint scent of alcohol. She's also pretty sure that she has sick in the front few strands, but she doesn't want to get into that right now.

Guilt runs through her accompanied by shame as she remembers the way she danced with Jesse last night in attempt to rid her feelings – if they even were feelings at all – for Chloe.

The events from the night before flood back to her and she's overwhelmed with...rage.

Beca isn't angry at Jesse for dancing with her because she was the one that asked, or at Chloe for messing with her head and confusing her, because Chloe isn't to blame.

She's mad at herself. She's so fucking angry at herself that she's allowing herself to feel this way about her best friend – her best friend who is beautiful, sexy, smart as hell and literally the most caring person on the planet.

Chloe Beale is way too good for her, so even if she was into girls there's no way she'll ever love her the way Beca longs for her to. The way Beca has loved Chloe since her freshman year.

She hates herself for the way she treats Chloe – hot one minute, cold the next. She only distances herself and runs from Chloe because it's all she's ever known. Leaving is the only thing she's good at.

There's no need for the walk of shame, but it's not like they had sex anyway. However, that doesn't mean she wants anyone seeing her leave Chloe's room early in the morning. Beca knows what her fellow Bellas are like – they love to make assumptions – especially about 'Bhloe'. It's bad enough that Stacie and Amy occasionally tease them by giving them a ship name and asking things like "When's the wedding?" and "Can I be the god mother of your child?" so there is no way Beca is going to let anyone see her leave Chloe's bedroom, it will only fuel their theories. They'll never let her live that down.

So instead of lying back down and falling to sleep like a part of her wishes she would do, she clambers out of the bed and moves across the room, careful not to knock into any of Chloe's things and cause a ruckus.

When she emerges from the attic stairs, she's met with an empty room, which half surprises her, but Amy not coming home is typical, especially after a treble's party.

Beca is tired, exhausted in fact, but there is no way she's going to be able to get back to sleep so she reaches for her precious laptop and headphones. She sets them on the edge of her bed as she fumbles through her clothes until she pulls out a pair of sweatpants, which she quickly changes into.

Her laptop and headphones are back in her grip as she trudges down the stairs towards the kitchen of the Bellas house. She slips the headphones around her neck and places the laptop on the counter.

As she's making herself some coffee, she acknowledges that it's only five in the morning, which is extremely early for someone who usually rises around midday.

Beca picks up her mug – one Chloe brought her last year – and carries it along with her laptop out the front door and on to the porch. Instead of sitting on the chair swing, Beca sits down on the steps, half leaning against the railing.

She lifts her headphones up and slides them on over her head, connecting the wire to her laptop and pressing play on the queued playlist. The music instantly relaxes her, she won't ever admit it but ever since Chloe requested a Taylor Swift song for the set, Beca has been pretty obsessed with her music.

But not even music can distract her from her thoughts, or more specifically, thoughts about Chloe.

She can't feel that way about her because she's her best friend. She loves her so much, but she can't be in love with her because if it ends badly – which Beca believes all her relationships will – then she'll lose her best friend.

At least with Jesse she's never cared for him the way she cares for Chloe, so if they fight or he gets mad at her, he can't hurt her the way Chloe can.

She doesn't know how much time has gone by since she came out here, but the playlist has ended, and her coffee is now stone cold. Beca has just been staring at a tree whilst she completely zones out.

She hears movement behind her which startles her out of her trance. Her head snaps to the side and she is met with Fat Amy holding a hot mug. She offers it to Beca, and she is quick to accept it considering how the one she made is now undrinkable.

"Are you working on a mix?" Amy asks, as she flops herself down on the porch swing.

"Uh, yeah?" Beca's already finished the mixes and set for the Bellas, and she isn't making anything new for her internship.

Recently her mixes have been kind of shitty, so she hasn't been able to add anything to her collection of mashups that she keeps for potential future use to show someone in the music industry if the opportunity comes up.

Normally Beca uses music as an escape, something to take over her thoughts if it gets too much for her, but right now her mind is elsewhere. Not even music can distract her from her own thoughts.

"Well, no...I'm just trying to figure some shit out." She says, trying not to admit too much about why she is really out here so early in the morning.

"Anything I can help with?" The blonde questions, whilst repositioning her arms behind her head so she's now leaning against them.

"No."

Beca's lack of hesitation sparks a hint of confusion in Amy's thoughts. "You sure? I'm your best friend, you can talk to me about anything." She says, completing it with a grin.

The brunette scoffs lightly, "Well, actually-"

"Mitchell, I know you love ginger more than me, but you don't need to say it out loud and break my heart," Amy jokes.

She almost wants to deny it, because lately the way she feels about Chloe is weird. Beca doesn't understand it, but instead of unpacking it slowly and acknowledging her feelings, she forces her thoughts about Chloe to the back of her mind. But no matter what, Chloe is her best friend, that will always come first.

Beca forces herself to chuckle, "It's just some stuff at the studio."

. . .

When Chloe finally stirs, a few hours after Beca's departure, she reaches her hand out for her best friend, but instead she's met with an empty, cold bed.

She instantly misses Beca's warmth even though she doesn't know how long she's been gone. She can also faintly smell Beca's perfume. Chloe sometimes thinks she's sprayed it around the house just to taunt her. In a way it's like Beca is still always around even when she's being distant or hanging out with Jesse.

Beca is always there and Chloe can't seem to escape her – but she isn't sure that she'd want to even if she could. For Chloe, Beca is her literal will to live. Seeing the smile on her best friend's face is what keeps Chloe going, so without her, life would be pretty damn pointless.

But waking up to an empty bed, knowing that Beca has left her once again, sends a punch to her gut.

Chloe knows she should just take that as a sign, that Beca doesn't want her, not when they're both sober anyway. When the small brunette's feisty attitude is combined with alcohol, she becomes needy – and very touchy. Chloe doesn't mind it, in fact, she kind of really likes it. Beca initiates the hugs and reaches for Chloe's hand to hold. Beca is a lot less clingy when she's sober so Chloe takes advantage of the moments where Beca wants to touch Chloe. She knows she should feel even the slightest pang of guilt for enjoying these moments, but it's not like she's forcing the alcohol down the younger woman's throat.

However, Chloe's thoughts can't help themselves, she assesses the situation once more. Beca had chosen her bed to sleep in last night, to cuddle with her and to wake up next to her. She could have gone to her own bed or any of the other Bellas. But she wanted Chloe. That has to mean something, right?

Chloe is most definitely a morning person, yet this morning she has to fight the overwhelming urge to stay in bed, wrapped up in her blankets all day.

Once she's out of the shower, and dressed in suitable clothing for Bellas rehearsals, she heads downstairs.

When the kitchen comes into view and she hasn't spotted Beca yet, she feels somewhat relieved, she knows Beca will pretend like last night never happened, but Chloe just can't let it go that easily.

She must jinx herself because not even five seconds later, Beca's voice runs through the bottom floor of the house.

"I swear to god, you can't even have anything to yourself in this house."

Chloe acknowledges the anger in Beca's tone and instantly wants to help her or calm her down – something only Chloe can do – so she rushes towards the kitchen. Beca is pacing around the room with her hands flying about frantically.

"What's up, Becs?" Chloe quizzes, attempting to keep her tone calm which is surprisingly hard as she watches Beca get worked up over something. Beca is her friend and she doesn't like seeing her upset.

"Someone ate my fucking ice cream." Beca mumbles, but the look in her eyes tells Chloe that this isn't just about ice cream. There is something much bigger bothering her.

"Um...Bec." Chloe looks at Beca with her most precious puppy dog eyes and a small smile, almost begging Beca to forgive her for something she hasn't even apologised for yet. In her defence, she was mad at Beca for disappearing when she needed her best friend.

Beca can't deny that Chloe's adorable expression got to her – it always does. "Yeah, Chlo?"

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Beca quizzes, still not understanding what exactly Chloe was apologising for.

Chloe sighs, and drops her gaze to the floor, ready for whatever Beca was about to throw at her – metaphorically and physically. "It was me. I was the one that ate your ice cream."

"Girl fight!" Cynthia Rose comments as she makes her way into the kitchen towards Fat Amy.

The brunette chuckles softly which causes Chloe to lift her head. "Dude, you should have told me, now I look like an idiot." Beca sits down at the table and lifts her mug to her lips.

"Wait...so you aren't mad?" Chloe asks.

Beca meets Chloe's gaze so both pairs of blue eyes are staring into each other's.

Although the shades of blue are quite different, they fit together so well, just like the ocean and the sky. Beca and Chloe are compatible; the light and dark shades of blues in their eyes harmonise together in the most perfect way.

Beca's expression softens into a smile, just for Chloe. "Course not. It's just ice cream." She shrugs.

"What?" Fat Amy yells, which earns three glares. Her volume is way too loud for this time in the morning, considering how a majority of the Bellas are still asleep. Although Amy's probably woken them all up with her shouting.

Beca tosses her head to the side and gives Amy a pointed glare. "Why are you being weird?"

"You were just about to rip my head off and it wasn't even me, but when Chloe comes forward and says she ate it all you have to say is 'it's just ice cream.' Beca, what-"

"She wasn't feeling well. Ice cream helps with the flu. She's better now so it must have done the trick." Beca smirks but dials it down a notch when she sees Amy raise her eyebrows.

Chloe's heart skips a beat at the thought of Beca taking care of her. Beca has always taken care of her in her own way – she buys Chloe her favourite food when she's on her period, she offered her shoulder to cry on when Chloe had Tom trouble back in Beca's freshman year and Beca makes numerous mixes for Chloe whenever she's feeling down.

There have been so many times where Beca has cared for Chloe, but Chloe wishes that Beca could really take care of her, that they could take care of each other.

She wishes they could cuddle in one of their beds, or on the couch when watching a movie with the other Bellas.

She wishes Beca would trust her enough, so she doesn't have to lie to her anymore.

And finally, she wishes they could care for each other's sexual needs, because the Bellas were probably getting tired of hearing Titanium blast from Chloe's room.

Titanium is kind of their song, Beca might not know this but whenever Chloe listens to it, Beca takes over her mind. It's the thought of Beca that drives her towards her climax.

The brunette twists, focusing her entire attention on Chloe, ignoring the questioning glances between Amy and Cynthia Rose. "You are okay now, right?" She asks the older girl. Her expression softening as she waits for Chloe to confirm that she is okay – that they are okay.

Chloe's face lights up at Beca's obvious concern. Now she knows that Beca was actually worried about her. The past few days she spent in her room she had been assuming that Beca didn't want to be around her because she didn't care that Chloe was supposedly sick. But if Beca knew, then why wasn't she here? Just seeing the younger girl would have made her feel better instantly.

She nods quickly, and watches as Beca's shoulders drop slightly, relaxing them as she lets out a breath. Beca smiles at her and the expression is mirrored by the redhead.

The sudden need to be close to Beca, fuels through the older girl so she takes a couple of steps forwards until she's standing directly in front of her.

"Where'd you go?" Chloe mumbles, "I thought you would still be asleep."

"I was just working on some of my mixes." Beca says after taking a bite of toast, then returning the half-eaten slice to the plate.

Chloe reaches for the plate and lifts the toast up to her mouth, taking a bite then offering it back to Beca. She accepts the toast and takes another bite, smaller this time.

"You know I can make you your own toast if you're hungry?"

"No, I'm good." Chloe replies with a smirk, "I'd rather share yours."

Beca eats one more bite of the toast before holding it out for Chloe. The older girl gives Beca a playful smile then opens her mouth, wanting Beca to feed her instead. The brunette grins and rests the toast against Chloe's bottom lip, looking up at her with a wide smile.

"Get a room, you two." Fat Amy yells, which startles both girls, pulling them from their own little world where only the two of them exists.

Chloe reaches her hand up and takes the toast from Beca. The pink tinge on her cheeks suggest she's just been caught in the middle of a sexual act, not sharing toast with her best friend.

Once she's finished the toast she spins on her heels and reaches into the fridge for a bottled water and instantly unscrews the lid. The cool water is refreshing, and it manages to calm her down, she just hopes that the blush on her cheeks has faded.

"Can I hear them? Your mixes." Chloe asks eagerly once she's turned back to Beca.

The brunette hasn't looked away from Chloe since she entered in the kitchen, but when Chloe meets her gaze, she knows she's been caught staring, so she averts her eyes.

"Later?"

"Okay." Chloe nods, along with a squeal of excitement. Usually when Beca produces a new mix, Chloe is the first person to listen to it, unless it's about her – Beca doesn't show those to anyone, she just transfers them to a USB and adds them to her collections. She has too many mixes dedicated to her co-captain than she'd like to admit. "After rehearsal?"

Beca goes to accept, but then remembers that Chloe hasn't been feeling well recently and she doesn't want her to strain her vocal cords, her nodes damaged them enough. "Are you feeling up to it?"

Once again Chloe's heart swells at Beca's caring tone. "I could ask you the same thing. You drank quite a lot." She giggles at Beca's frown.

"I'm okay if you're okay."

Chloe smiles at Beca's choice of words. Beca is saying she'll only be okay if Chloe's okay, so if Chloe wasn't then would Beca not be either? The brunette's words are not helping, in fact they're just making her feelings towards her more prominent. "I'm okay." Chloe says, and she has the desire to ask, 'Are we okay?' but she pushes it down, too afraid of the answer.

Chloe nears the counter, selecting two mugs from the cabinet and filling up the kettle. She twists to face Beca once more. "Do you want a coffee?"

"Yes please," Beca answers, a smile growing on her face at the offer of coffee. She's already had two cups this morning but definitely won't say no to one more, especially to Chloe.

"Okay, you go shower, I'll bring it up to you." Chloe says, before turning back to work on the drinks.

Beca jumps up from her seat at the table and takes her plate over to the dishwasher. "Alright, thank you. Just don't barge into my shower." She teases, with a growing smirk on her face.

"Beca Mitchell!" Chloe squeaks as she spins around, blushing just like she was a few minutes ago.

"Sorry Beale, I'll try not to sing titanium too loudly." Beca jokes, letting out a laugh at the effect her words had on the older girl. It's as if Beca could hear Chloe's earlier thoughts.

"You better not, we might be late for rehearsals if you do." Chloe fires back, fighting the urge to invite herself into another one of Beca's showers.

Beca smirks at Chloe's response, deep down wishing that she'd take her up on the offer to join her in the shower, but before Beca can dwell on it, she pushes it to the back of her mind and hurries up the stairs.

Chloe can't resist the smile that tugs at the corners of her lips, curling upwards and breaking out on her face.

"Tonerrrrr." Fat Amy sings, with a growing grin.

"Shut up." Chloe says, but doesn't deny it which doesn't go unnoticed by the two other Bellas in the room, "I'll make you do extra cardio."

"No thanks, Boss. I'm good. Sorry Boss."

. . .

Throughout rehearsals, the co-captains were back to being Beca and Chloe.

Beca carried Chloe's bag into the auditorium even though she had her laptop bag and gym bag as well. Chloe encouraged Beca to join in the cardio, which she normally skips with the excuse of needing to set up the speakers.

As Beca leant over her laptop, Chloe found herself staring at her more than once, admiring her in her element. Beca was the same, she'd watch Chloe run through the routines with the other girls, staring at her ass and her biceps every now and then.

The two were synchronised once again.

Everyone seemed so much more relaxed now the tension had drifted.

But then Beca danced with Chloe.

The lingering contact and the passionate dance moves were just too much for her.

It was overwhelming Beca, and she began to panic. The thoughts running through her head weren't right and definitely not PG, she felt hot all over, and her head throbbed. She just needed a second to breathe.

Thank fuck Chloe decided to call the end of rehearsals.

Beca isn't listening to the multiple conversations between the other girls, she's completely zoned out, focusing on not fainting. Her heartbeat has quickened, and her hands are clamming up.

Her breathing still isn't back to its normal rate, but she's not just out of breath from the choreography. Beca's breathing is unsteady and it's starting to panic her. She begins to feel like the walls of the auditorium are closing in on her as she rocks to herself in one of the chairs.

She clenches her eyes shut tight, and grips onto her legs with both hands, squeezing hard so she can focus on the pressure. But it's still not enough because her breathing doesn't differentiate.

The volume of the auditorium does shift, however, and Beca realises that the Bellas must have left, but she doesn't dare open her eyes. The noise must have been a pretty big factor to Beca's panic attack because she's slowly starting to breathe at a steadier pace. Although, she is still far from calm.

The brunette acknowledges Chloe's presence instantly, she can smell her – Beca doesn't have time to analyse how stalkerish that sounds because a sob rakes from her chest, which takes her completely by surprise.

The chair beside her squeaks slightly, and a hand falls onto her knee before it moves up and rests on top of one of her own hands. "Hey Bec," Chloe's soothing voice reaches her ears. After a few seconds she releases the grip on her legs.

"Take my hand." She says, and Beca instantly grips onto the hand offered to her. "You're okay, Becs. I've got you."

Beca finds comfort in the words and she latches on to Chloe's hand for dear life, too afraid of what might come if she lets go.

The two girls sit together in silence as Chloe guides Beca through her panic attack, helping her breathing pattern get back to normal then working on her senses.

It takes Beca ten more minutes to calm down and finally open her eyes. When she does, she's met with the beautiful ocean blue eyes, they are slightly glistening with unshed tears, almost mirroring her own.

Chloe's smile isn't as bright as usual, but it's still enough to reassure Beca that everything will be fine. Beca genuinely believes that everything will be fine as long as Chloe Beale is here.

"Are you okay?" Beca nods and takes the water bottle that Chloe offers her, gulping down at least a third of the water before reapplying the cap.

"Sorry." She whispers, as she stares at the ground.

Chloe's face saddens. Beca did nothing wrong yet she still feels the need to apologise, which makes the older girl acknowledge just how frightened Beca is to let her guard down around people. She is terrified of people judging her for things that are beyond her control.

"Hey, don't be sorry." Chloe says, as she intertwines their fingers, "I'm just glad you're okay. You scared me a little back there."

"Uh, yeah. I get them sometimes." She explains, "Thanks for helping me through it."

"I'll be here whenever you need me, Becs. If you have a panic attack again, please call me and I'll come straight to you."

Beca doesn't like to rely on people, she never really has, because everyone leaves at some point. Even the people you believe will stay in your life forever walk out of it and never return. But there's something about Chloe that makes Beca trust her entirely. Chloe is the first person in Beca's life that she trusts will never leave her, but that scares her more than anything, because if one day she does leave, that will hurt her more than she can imagine, it will leave her broken and shattered to pieces, the pain will be worse than anything she's ever felt before and she never wants to let that happen to her.

So that's why Beca distances herself from Chloe, so she can be the one to leave if times get tough.

Before Beca can process what's happening, Chloe's arms are wrapping around her waist, bringing her close into a hug. Beca scoots closer to Chloe and puts her own hands on Chloe's back.

Chloe is always so caring, and Beca feels like she always throws it all back in her face.

"The girls are back at the house setting up for the movie night." Chloe mentions after they've collectively packed up Beca's equipment. The Bellas left around half an hour ago so they're probably wondering where their captains are. Beca always has something to say about the Bellas movie nights so when she doesn't respond, Chloe knows she still isn't okay. "Are you coming?"

Everyone that knows Beca, knows she doesn't like to be smothered, but it's hard for Chloe not to be overprotective and worry about her when she's just witnessed Beca look so scared.

"No can do, I have a shift at the radio station." Beca mumbles quietly, as she secures the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder.

"I thought you stopped working there when you got your internship?"

"I did," Beca confirms, "but Luke asked me to be in charge for a few days and I kind of owe him a favour."

Chloe knows Beca is lying, but if she calls her out on her bullshit it might cause an argument and she really doesn't want to argue with her best friend. She knows Beca must be feeling emotionally drained after her panic attack and that she needs some time alone to recover from being so vulnerable with another person. Chloe understands, but she wishes that Beca didn't have to feel that way, she just wants Beca to relax in her arms and feel comfortable enough with her to let out her emotions.

But Chloe knows that's just not who Beca is. Not even with her.

. . .

As soon as Beca walks out of the auditorium she knows exactly what her night has in store for her. She needs to get drunk – so fucking drunk that her mind shuts up for one second. She needs not to feel because it's too overwhelming. And she needs to stop thinking, just for one fucking night.

She sits down in a bar stool rather abruptly, which catches the attention of one of the bartenders.

"What can I get you?" He asks, as he approaches her.

"Whiskey. Neat." Beca says, already digging into her back pocket for some cash.

She downs the drink as soon as the bartender hands it over, then asks for another, which he raises an eyebrow at but pours it anyway. Beca does the same for that one then pushes the glass over to him, with only the ice remaining.

"Can I get a beer?"

"Sure." He nods and reaches for one of the bottles under the bar, cracking it open before passing it to her. She hands over enough cash to cover the three drinks and then settles back in her chair.

She doesn't stop at three, but after five she stops counting.

Beca is a very big lightweight so it doesn't take her long to get absolutely wasted.

The very reasoning for getting drunk in the first place is actually the reason she leaves the bar. Chloe is still all she can think about, the redhead is possessing her mind and she can't stop her thoughts.

"I'm so fucking stupid!" Beca mutters to herself as she drags her feet towards the Barden University campus. She still has her laptop bag fitted on her shoulder, which she guarded possessively at the bar, not letting it out of her sight in case someone spilt a drink on it or attempted to steal it.

All Beca can think about right now is how she wishes she was back at the Bellas house, in Chloe's arms.

Most people have that one person they think about when they're drunk, and for Beca, that person is Chloe. But it's not just when she's drunk, Chloe is in her sober mind constantly. She wishes she could fixate on something else for once but all Beca seems to think about – to care about – is Chloe.

She needs Chloe right now – not even really in a sexual way – she just wants Chloe to hold her and kiss her and run her hand through her hair. It isn't badass at all but Beca doesn't give a shit about her badass reputation anymore. Chloe saw through it right from the beginning.

Her thoughts are still drilling through her mind when she walks up the steps of the Bellas house. She's been so distracted that she hadn't even realised she got here; she can't even remember walking across campus.

Luckily, the door is still unlocked so she slips inside but it slams rather loudly when she closes it.

It's definitely the alcohol talking when she whispers to the door to 'shut up,' because it's 'going to wake everyone up.' Beca manages to stumble across the kitchen until she barges into the table, knocking over a chair which slams to the floor. She jumps backwards, kicking the table leg in the process.

"Fucking motherfucking shit." Beca hisses as she lifts up her foot and hobbles around the room whilst cradling her foot in her hands.

"Um...Beca? Are you okay?" The voice startles her so her body jolts upright. She snaps her head behind her and meets Stacie's gaze. She's standing in her very revealing pyjamas with her phone in her hand.

"Just peachy." Beca says, with a chuckle.

Stacie steps forwards and glances down at the chair lying on the kitchen floor. "Are you drunk?" She questions as she stands the chair back up.

"No. I am Beca."

That is all the confirmation Stacie needs, "Where have you been? This isn't like you at all."

"Who the hell even am I, dude? Who even am I when I'm not with her? Or who am I when I'm with her? Am I me with her or is she me with her...no, wait? I am me with her, but I don't know if I like that. It scares me how real I am with her, that is the real Beca Mitchell."

Stacie's eyebrows knot in confusion, "Beca, what are you talking about? I didn't understand anything you just said."

"I think I love her." Beca blurts out.

"Oh shit." Stacie chuckles, but stops when she acknowledges the pain on the small brunette's face. "This is all because of a girl?"

Beca lets out a loaded sigh, then nods, "Yeah. She's a girl. But I'm not gay...or maybe I am. Who knows?"

Stacie opens her arms, "Come here," she says, whilst holding back a laugh at Beca's expression. She's frowning and her face is all creased up.

"Why?" Beca groans.

"You could do with a hug." Stacie shrugs, "And you're pretty drunk, I don't want you to knock over anything else."

The smaller girl crosses her arms over her chest. "I don't want a hug. I want a hug from...but I keep on fucking up."

"No, you don't." Stacie says, which doesn't seem to reassure Beca at all. The taller girl follows her over to the couch and they take a seat at either end.

"She's beautiful, she's a beautiful panda and I...god, what am I doing?" She rakes her left hand through her hair whilst letting out a shaky breath.

This is a side of Beca that Stacie has never witnessed before, and it's kind of making her nervous. Whenever Beca is stressed or freaking out about something – it doesn't happen that often because Beca is pretty chill – Chloe is always the one to comfort her, so Stacie has no idea what to do.

She decides that sleeping it off is probably the best option. "Beca?"

"Hm?"

"Maybe you should get some sleep, think this over in the morning. Your beautiful panda will still be here in the morning." Stacie's attempt doesn't completely fail but mentioning Beca's 'beautiful panda' is probably not the best thing to say.

"She is really beautiful." Beca mumbles, her tone so soft as she talks about Chloe.

"So you've said." Stacie nods, with a smile. She's always known Beca's badass exterior was just for show and now she finally has a reason to believe that Beca is a big softie. She's falling in love.

Beca stands up rather suddenly, "I think I'm going to tell her."

Stacie groans at Beca, standing up too, just in case she has to be prepared to chase after the small brunette. "Have you just ignored everything I just said to you?"

"No." Beca grunts in response.

"Go to bed, Beca." She demands. Her tone is rather authoritative – she learnt a lot from Aubrey in her freshman year, including how to sound like a bitch in charge. "You can talk to her in the morning when you're not drunk."

Stacie helps Beca up the remaining stairs leading to the attic room. Luckily, she's as light as a feather because Beca was practically leaning her whole weight on Stacie so she was basically carrying her up the flight of stairs.

Fat Amy is already in her bed asleep, which is a surprise because most nights she disappears until the morning, claiming she was on a night time hike, which nobody believes because Amy is not one for exercise – she only vertical runs when she is escaping cardio, which is pretty ironic.

The small brunette flops onto her bed, making no attempt to change out of her jeans into something more comfortable.

Stacie places her hand on Beca's lower back and the other on her hip and tries to roll her over but Beca groans and kicks her legs about frantically. "Get your hands off, dude. I'm not the mega bitch."

"Mitchell, shut up!" Stacie whisper-yells, then pauses when she acknowledges what Beca has just said. "Wait, how did you know about-"

"Posen isn't exactly quiet."

A smirk appears on Stacie's face, "I know."

"Dude. Ew!"

"Where are your sweatpants?" The leggy brunette questions as she kneels down next to Beca's dresser, pulling out her first and second drawers but still not finding the clothing she's looking for.

"Second to bottom drawer." Beca mumbles, as she watches Stacie search through her clothes until she pulls out a pair of sweatpants that used to belong to Chloe before Beca borrowed them and never returned them to her.

Stacie launches the sweatpants across the room, and they land close to Beca's head. She grunts out a "Thanks," as she slips out of her jeans, too drunk and too tired to care that Stacie is still in the room. She slides into the sweatpants and strips her bra, then nestles under the blankets, ready for the sleep to overtake her thoughts.

Beca is known to disobey orders, especially from those giving her demands, so Stacie stands at the top of the stairs until Beca is consumed by sleep.

"You're in quite the shit my friend." Stacie whispers before disappearing down the attic stairs, heading towards hers and Emily's room.

- - - -

also on wattpad: @writteninbechloe 

[justasparkwritings]

Merry & Bright {28}: Too Early in the Game

Previous: Glitter on the Floor

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Rating: R

Warnings: Swearing! 

Summary: Namjoon wants to know if you’re free New Years Eve. 

           Namjoon twirled his phone in his hand, unsure what his move should be. He knows the obvious answer, but in his mind the obvious answer isn’t obvious. It’s layered with subtext and context, decisions and moves he’s not sure he’s ready to make. Which seems ridiculous, you’d been in his arms after your dinner date, you’d texted him throughout his MMA and MAMA performances… and yet, Namjoon couldn’t bring himself to just fucking talk to you.  

           “Just call her,” Yoongi says, eyes staying locked on his computer screen. 

           “I don’t know what to say,” Namjoon replies, setting his phone on the table.

           “I hope that goes away by the time you’re in the booth,” Yoongi mutters, separating their vocals into individual lines.

           “Text her and ask,” Ho-Seok suggests, sitting down on the couch next to him, notebook bookmarked with his index finger.  

           “She has a million offers, she won’t accept mine,” Namjoon tells them, attempting to find any way out of this.

           “Oh, she does? Then wouldn’t she have made it clear she wasn’t interested the last time you saw her? Or was she too busy making out with you to decline?” Yoongi asks. He pushes the bill of his hat further up his forehead before adjusting his posture.

           “I don’t know,” Namjoon shakes his head again.

           “You’ve been dating for a few weeks, it’ll be fine,” Ho-Seok reminds him.

           “But, what if she-

           “Just call her! You’re hypothesizing based on nothing. She’s clearly into you, you’ve gone on many dates, just fucking ask her,” Yoongi snaps, eyes moving from Namjoon’s back to his computer where he had been busying himself with trying to amplify his vocal line while simultaneously not diminishing Namjoon’s under him, while creating a fade of Ho-Seok’s in and out at the appropriate syllables.

           “I just,” Namjoon sighs.

           “She already likes you,” Ho-Seok reminds him, eyes drifting from the notebook he’s been jotting lyrics in to Namjoon. “She wants to be more than friends, what are you so afraid of?”

           Joon does’t have an answer, because he’s not really sure what he’s afraid of. It’s not that you’ll say no, and turn him down completely, but maybe it’s that you’ll say yes, and this thing between you will become something real and solid, something he’ll have to make time for, will want to make time for… Someone other than his six brothers to fill his time. It’s all he wants, but it’s uncharted territory for him, and he’s truly terrified.

           “I’ll be right back,” Namjoon decides as he turns towards the door and walks out of Yoongi’s studio. He loves being in Yoongi’s studio, it’s stripped back, simple, modern, so very Yoongi. Namjoon’s is cluttered, plants, photos, ARMY memorabilia sprawled around the room. It’s refreshing getting out of his space and spending time elsewhere, even if it’s only a few meters away. But now, in search of a quiet place, Namjoon is typing his code into his studio door and walking in, lights automatically turning on.

           He finds your contact in his phone easily, like he hasn’t spent copious amounts of time staring at it, and presses CALL. It rings once. Then twice. On the third time, as his confidence is immediately shattered by your voice.

           “Hey Joonie B Jones,” You say laughing, a lighthearted trill that sparks a flame in him.

           “Hi Y/N,” He says, voice soft in your ear.

           “What are you up to? I thought you were going to be in the studio all day?” You ask, reaching for your TV remote to turn the volume down, your favorite Christmas movie playing in the background.

           “What are you watching?” He asks, trying to ascertain the film from the snippet.

           “While You Were Sleeping,” You tell him.

           “You’ve mentioned that one before,”

           “It’s my favorite,” You inform him.

           “Mm, we should watch it together,” He offers.

           “A movie date?” You ask.

           “Yeah, something like that,” He exhales, this didn’t have to be so complicated.

           “It’s a date,” You respond.

           Namjoon swears to Yoongi and Ho-Seok that he’ll ask you that night, during your movie night, that he’ll muster up the courage. And he will. He swears.

           But in the three hours he’s been at your place, arm draped loosely around your shoulders as you watch your favorite Christmas film, Namjoon continues to be nagged by the feeling that he’s going to let the entire night pass without asking.

           “This is one of my favorite parts,” You say, pulling him out of his reverie. “Pay attention!”

           Namjoon’s eyes refocus on the screen as Bill Pullman begins his epic monologue on the difference between hugging and leaning. Namjoon’s trying to focus, but out of the corner of his eye he sees you, lips moving as you say the words in time with Bill, eyes wide, body leaning out of his grasp to get as close to the screen as possible.

           “Isn’t it so romantic?” You ask, eyes turning to him. He smiles, dimples and all.

           “Yes, it is,” He responds before he’s leaning towards you, hand cupping your cheek, lips gently hovering over yours. “It’s about wanting, and receiving,”

           You nod your head, eyes closed in anticipation, willing to receive him in any way. It’s excruciating, waiting, though its no more than three seconds, you’re already feeling needy and far more turned on than seems necessary for such a small gesture. Nevertheless, you’re hungrily reaching for him, closing the space between you. It’s his hands in your hair and his teeth tugging your bottom lip that begins to unravel you.

          Admittedly, you can’t get enough of him, of his mind, of his hands, of his thoughtfulness, of those mother fucking dimples. You’re constantly hoping for any form of contact from him, a text, a call, a date, anything that allows you time in his presence, a gift he can’t always give. If you were honest with yourself, you’d tell yourself to get a damn grip. You’d remind yourself that you were falling down a slippery slope… and by falling you really meant alpine skiing down it, no sign of stopping. All you wanted was more. More of this, more of his hands, more of his time, more than a casual date here and there.

          Pulling away from him, you blush, swollen bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes try to read Joon’s expression.

          “April, May, Joon, what are you thinking about?” You ask, your playful names eliciting a toothy grin from him.

          “I know that this is, maybe too early in the game, but I just thought I’d ask you, um,” Namjoon shakes his head, lust has filled it and he’s trying to get a hold of himself.

          “Joon-Bug, just ask,” You say, hoping he can’t hear your heartbeat increasing rapidly, nerves over what he’s going to say beginning to flood your mind. Does he want to stop seeing you? Does he want you to be his girlfriend? Does he want to fuck you over the end credits to your favorite movie? Are you moving to fast? Though how could he constitute the handful of dates you’ve been on after years of friendship moving too fast? Couldn’t he just fucking say it?

          “Hey, come back,” He whispers, eyes gleaning the stress in yours.

          “Sorry, you just, you’ve got me worried,” You say, eyes cast down on your hands, which are still tight in his.

          “Nothing to be worried about,” He says, hand leaving yours to nudge your chin up, eyes level with his. If you’re not mistaking, he’s still leaning ever so slightly over you.

          Namjoon exhales, locking himself into this decision and speaks, “I was just going to ask, what are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

Next: Till the Morning Light

[otterskin8]

Stable

It had started as a punishment.

Loki no longer remembered just what it was he had done to earn it. It had been many millennia since, of course, but in truth, it was likely the sheer scope of his little mischiefs that made identifying a specific bit of discipline for a specific bit of fun near impossible.

Perhaps it had been for turning Thor into a frog. He recalled Odin saying something along the lines of ‘If you have such an interest in animals, you can study them closer up.”

That was how he came to be ankle-deep in horse manure.

It was dirty work - a lot of mucking out stables, treating infected hooves, plucking off ticks and scrubbing and oiling the tack. Yet Loki could not wholly resent the tasks, as it did allow him time closer up with the animals. He’d always liked beasts - often preferred their company to that of the court. They did not expect much of you, and there was no sense in putting on airs. You could be honest with a horse in ways you could not be honest with yourself.

His favourite part was grooming. Sleipnir would press his nose against his chest and snort, and Loki would stroke his cheek with one hand while the other, clad in the brush, he’d pull down the horse’s neck. It brought him a great deal of peace to do this.

Which is why he didn’t at all appreciate it when he was interrupted by a boy his own age telling him “You’re doing that wrong."

“This is how Sleipnir likes it,” Loki had said, stubbornly. “I think I know my father’s horse better than some random stablehand.”

The boy had sidled in to stand beside Loki, and to the young prince’s irritation Sleipnir didn’t at all seem to mind.

Looking sideways at him, the youth said with a smirk “What nobles know to do on horses is the same thing they know about everything else, because it's all they ever do.”

“And what might that be?” Loki played along.

“Sitting.”

That had actually made him laugh. “Did you work that one out a while ago and were just waiting for the right opportunity?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve used it before; never had the chance to tell a nob themselves, though.”

He’d frowned, it suddenly occurred to him that there had to be a reason this servant thought he could get away speaking thus to the son of a king. “And you figured I was in such a powerless position that you could risk it?”

“Yes. Any complaint you could make about a rude stableboy at this point would likely be seen as you trying to get out of your punishment, or cause further trouble. And it is hardly an offence worth hanging me for; I am the best stableboy you’ve got, and that’s not nothing.”

He reached out a dusky hand and took Sleipnir’s nose from Loki, blowing into it gently. Sleipnir puffed his own breath back in his face with a friendly snort. “I am one of the only people around here the king’s horse likes. And the king probably has a better opinion of his horse’s opinion right now than yours.”

“For a moment, I almost liked you there. Thank you for curing that in such short order,” The prince sniffed.

The stableboy brushed that aside. “It’s impressive how much this horse likes you, despite how badly you brush him.”

“I am not doing it wrong -“

But the youth then materialized a series of different brushes from his belt and spent the next hour lecturing Loki on the use of each one, the order he was meant to go with, and how to untangle the mane and safely comb the tail.

Loki hated being told what to do, but he hated not knowing how to do something even more. So he had listened. At one point, the boy had slipped his hand on top of Loki’s inside the brush to show him the correct amount of force to apply to the brushing. It wasn’t as simple as following the hair. It was about flicking the dust loose, sweeping and much as stroking.

That had been the first time he’d felt it. The smallest flutter, in some gangly, unformed part of himself. A spark that would soon light a shameful flame in the lowest parts of his guts.

But, at the start, there had been no shame.

“My name is Sialfi,” the boy had said.

Loki met him two weeks into a three-month punishment. Oftentimes he wished they’d met sooner, that they’d had that time as well.

But at least they’d had time at all. So much wasted on his part - halting, nervous. Unsure of himself or his feelings. It was near the end that he had at last kissed Sialfi.

Allowed to go riding after a day of hard labour, they’d taken a lonely path long past the boundaries they were meant to stay within. When they’d finally reached a vantage point where they could see the edge of the very planet, they were gasping and sweaty, as were their horses. Manure was still stuck to their boots, a few stray pieces of hay in their hair, and a particularly dogged fly ignored their every attempt to shoo it off.

It only made the kiss all the sweeter.

Sialfi. He could remember the name; he could remember his deadpan sense of humour, often mocking and aloof. He could remember the way the sun used to hit his hair, absorbed by the center but always diffused around the edges, creating a halo about his head.

But he could no longer truly remember his face, or what he had tasted like.

After his discipline was over, Loki found every excuse he could to go to the stables. He went riding often, or would claim to be going elsewhere and slip away. Like this, he managed to have a few more weeks with Sialfi. A few more clandestine kisses. A few more moments where they pressed against each other as they groomed their horses together, hands joined in the brush.

Then had come the day he came to the stable and found Sialfi missing. Sleipnir had been agitated; no-one was soothing him. There was no point in searching the place - Sialfi would never have allowed Sleipnir to be in distress. He’d spoken immediately to the stablemaster. All he would say was that Sialfi was a lucky boy, so very lucky, to have been promoted like that. How unexpected. He was lucky to have met you, the King’s son, and gotten a chance to so impress. Odin himself had asked after him, and next thing you know, along came a chance to squire for the Lord Dagur himself. Of course, Lord Dagur was such an itinerant - never in one place for long, always travelling the Nine and beyond, never in one place for long. Off to Vanaheim already, and likely not to stay there for more than a day after that. He never rested, that Dagur.

But how had Sialfi, a boy from such a low family, managed to catch the eye of Dagur?

He wanted to run to his father’s study right then and there, bang on the door, accuse him - accuse him of what? What could he have said that wouldn’t have admitted…did that mean he knew? Or merely suspected?

What if it were purely chance? Dagur had one of the most magnificent mares in all of creation. Skinfaxi, with her mane of light, twice as many hands as the tallest horse - that would surely have caught Sialfi’s attention. Perhaps he’d taken good care of the beast, as he always did, his affection and talent plain for Dagur to see. And on a whim, the Lord had requested him, and who would Sialfi be to refuse such an honour?

After all, it wasn’t like he and Loki would ever be able to continue as they were. Why would he sacrifice his future for a few more moments with the stringy second prince, risking his life for the simple pleasure of besmirching royalty? Why even risk telling Loki, who might be expected to sabotage everything out of spite?

Perhaps it was as simple as that.

So he had waited. In a few more months, he had brought it up at the end of a family meal when it happened to be just him and father left at the table. Asked casually after that stable boy he’d gone riding with a few times. What had ever happened to him?

“Ah,” Odin had said. “I heard that you were close with that boy. I should have said something sooner. Lord Dagur dropped by quite unexpectedly one day, you know how he is. He needed someone to help with his horse; his last squire got himself kicked in the head, and then fell in love with his nurse. No-one quite wants to volunteer their highborn children to a traveller like Dagur, and few of those are any good with horses. But I recalled you once mentioned your friend and spoke highly of his compassion for Sleipnir, which the stablemaster confirmed. I knew that if he were a friend of yours, Loki, he would be of good temperament and sound mind, nevermind his low birth. Such individuals deserve the chance to rise above their station. When Dagur asked for such a companion during that brief stay of his here - I wonder if you even had a chance to notice, he didn’t even stay for the evening feast - I recommended the lad, though I never did hear if he’d accepted.”

“Oh,” Loki had said.

He had lain awake that night wracking his brain for a memory of having ever mentioned Sialfi to Odin, even off-handedly. Yet he was sure he’d only ever said he wished to go riding and take a companion servant along. Sure he’d kept Sialfi’s name obfuscated.

But perhaps all Odin had to do was ask the stablemaster.

And perhaps Lord Dagur would return soon.

He did. Eventually. Many decades later, when Loki had nearly forgotten what that should mean.

He’d stayed for the feast that time, and when he saw Loki he’d clapped his back and told him what had become of his old friend. “Natural with horses, you’d think he had a centaur for a grandfather! I’ve never had a better squire. That is, until he and my sister’s squire ran off with Skinfaxi and Hrimfaxi's foal. But knowing your growing reputation, my boy, I should’ve assumed any friend of yours would be a wily one! I almost admire his gumption. I’m glad Odin asked me to take him on, in the end; a foal is a small price to pay after his years of excellent service. Though he’ll truly need her if he ever shows his face around here. Can’t be letting the small folk get away with such behaviour, or we’ll hardly have a single horseshoe between all of us in a century.”

Dagur had wandered off after that, leaving Loki to wonder about what he meant by ‘glad Odin asked me to take him on’.

He never confronted his father about it. Perhaps Dagur had simply meant to imply that Odin had mentioned Sialfi, perhaps asked Dagur to give a lowborn boy a chance he would not otherwise have. Perhaps that was all it meant.

Or perhaps…perhaps his father had known. And sought to protect Loki from himself.

Loki was old enough to hear how people talked of such things now. Old enough to know to bank that hideous flame and quell half his desires. It wasn’t like all of him was bent like this; there were avenues yet that were perfectly acceptable.

Really, he should thank his father.

He should be grateful.

He should.

[mattzerella-sticks]

You Do, a Sam-centric, Dean/Castiel coda for 15x06 “Golden Time”, 4.9k

Sam feels like he's the only one that cares about defeating Chuck. Dean, while physically present, cannot bother to lend a hand. And Cas is willing to help, but would rather do it on his own.

After Cas lets slip that the reason for his voluntary exile begins with the letter 'D' and rhymes with Mean, Sam puts Chuck on the back burner to deal with the more pressing issue of reuniting Dean and his best friend. Only with how stubborn Dean is avoiding research, it'll be ten times worse to make him talk to Cas.

Luckily Sam has a few new tricks up his sleeve now that he embraces an aspect of himself he never allowed himself to try. Will he help his brother do what needs to be done? Or will his plan bring forth an entirely unexpected outcome?

Sam waits until Dean leaves to sag against his seat. He scrubs a hand down his face, hoping he can wipe away the pent-up frustration caused by Dean’s visit. Unfortunately its roots sunk deep and cannot be torn so easily.

The worst part was Dean barely did anything to warrant such powerful irritation.

Dean strolled in for all of five minutes, robe sweeping behind him, asking where his slippers were. Sam glanced away from the page of his book to find his brother barefooted. Toes wiggling underneath the wide curtain of his cowboy print pajamas. A welcome change from the hot dogs glued to Dean’s legs, except Sam can’t stare at the pants for too long without blushing. Always stumbling across one cowboy or another that looked inappropriate.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said, “Why don’t you check the last place you wore them and start from there?”

He thought that would drive Dean elsewhere. Instead Dean took his suggestion as an invitation, lounging across the table from him with a bag of chips on his lap. Forcing Sam to listen while he checked off every memory with his slippers present in them. Chomped on his snack with crumbs spewing every couple of words, a few shooting so far ahead they land on his book.

A blood vessel in Sam’s forehead twinged with the need to burst. “Dean,” Sam cut him off, interrupting his retelling of when he used one of his slippers to kill a spider in the dungeons. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of busy…”

“You are?”

“Yeah,” he said, wagging the book, “Research… to take down Chuck?”

A dark shadow crossed his expression, surfacing briefly only to disappear in the next moment. “Right…”

Sam arched a brow. “Y’know, you could forget about the slippers and join -”

“I think I just remembered where they are,” he said, standing. “Thanks for the help, Sammy.” Dean shuffled towards the exit, a cowboy riding a stallion with back arched in pleasure the last thing he saw.

He marks the page he was on, shutting the book. Too bothered to continue researching. Pointless even trying since there’s a more pressing problem that persists, an obstacle better dealt with before facing Chuck. Because if there’s any chance of beating God, Sam needs his brother and not the sad, soft shell wearing his clothes and eating his food.

Eating all their food. They don’t have the money to support Dean’s void-like stomach. Sam almost purchased an array of healthy snacks during the last grocery trip. Only rejecting the idea when he imagined how bad of a fit Dean would pitch if Sam returned with peapods and gluten-free wafers. Or, worse, his brother accepting the food with indifference.

Dean’s spiral spun so far down Sam wouldn’t put it past him. It frightens Sam to see his brother like this, especially since he figured it was over after their milk-run to Rowena’s. After Sam broke past Dean’s walls with his plaintive speech and offered a hand to help him out of his darkness. Like he did for him when Chuck’s betrayal and Rowena’s death were still fresh wounds.

But where Sam let Dean pull him to safety, it seems Dean left Sam hanging.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sam confesses, his soft voice echoing in the cavernous library. He taps his fingers on the book, gnawing on his lip.

There were only so many options to choose from, and Sam exhausted most of them. Space only gave Dean’s depression room to grow. Confronting it hadn’t worked either. Giving Dean a target to focus his anger, confusion, and sadness failed for the first time in a long while. And Sam’s Hail Mary never answered his messages.

Still… Sam looks to his phone, wondering. The next call could be the one. That spark of hope pushes him to grabbing his phone and redialing Cas’s number.

Unlike every other time he tried, Cas picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Cas!” Sam sighs, an ounce of relief pouring into him. “Cas, man, it’s so good to hear you.”

“It’s… nice to hear from you as well.”

“Where have you been?” he asks, “It’s not like you to go so long without at least checking up. We were worried about you.”

“I… I’m sure you were worried, Sam,” Cas says, tone immediately curdling the relief in Sam’s stomach. “I was away. After everything with Chuck and Jack and De… and it all, I needed some time to myself.”

Sam nods, frown marring his face. “Understandable. Wish you could have told us -”

“I expressed my intentions clearly to Dean,” Cas says, “Has he not told you?”

“Now that you ask…” Fear plucks a frightful chord across Sam’s heart. “Dean hadn’t mentioned it at all.” Thinking back, Dean doesn’t talk about Cas anymore unless prompted. Gone were the hours he would spend telling Sam pointless stories of times he and Cas were together. Mentioning the angel when something reminded Dean of him. Staring at his phone with a tiny smile on his face, in deep conversation with Cas.

“Of course.”

There’s an empty space Cas tiptoes around, an event not mentioned. “What -”

“So,” Cas interrupts, “Chuck is picking up where he left off?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “But -”

“But we will do our best to stop him,” he finishes for him, “I’m already on my way towards Heaven, to see if there might be anything there that he forgot. That might detail a weakness of some kind.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sam shrugs, “but I could really use you here…”

A harsh breath blows through the speaker. “I… I’m already halfway to Heaven’s gate, Sam. Turning around now would be… it would be a waste of my usability.”

“That doesn’t matter Cas,” Sam tells him, “Right now Heaven can wait. You’re more important. What with you leaving so suddenly after the hellmouth, we never got the chance to check in.”

Silence. Sam waits for Cas’s response, checking every now and then to make sure the angel didn’t hang up on him. “Sorry,” he says after a while, “I… I was distracted. You want to know how I’m feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m… fine .”

“Really?” Sam arches his brows so high they fly off to Missouri. “ Fine ?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because none of us are fine,” Sam scoffs, “I wasn’t for awhile and Dean, he…” He pauses, expecting Cas to jump in and demand he continue. Only it never comes. “Dean, he,” Sam fumbles awkwardly, “He’s kind of let the whole thing get to him and… it’s bad over here.”

Cas hums over the line. “I see… this call wasn’t about Chuck. It’s about Dean.”

“Cas -”

“If Dean truly has need of me ,” he says, voice wet and thick, hoarse from keeping something at bay, “than Dean should be able to call and express this himself. But per my last conversation with him, Sam, I highly doubt I’m the solution you seek. I’d probably just… make everything worse .”

“What? No - Cas -”

“I have to go, Sam,” Cas sighs, “there are patrol cars lined up along the highway, and I’d rather not be pulled over for talking on the phone. Goodbye.”  He hangs up despite Sam’s protest, a flat beep ringing in his ears.

Sam taps the end button, mulling over the conversation. Uses the few minutes spent with Cas to shed light on weeks observing his brother. Rethinks his earlier judgments about the root of his problems. Whenever life slights Dean he focuses all his anger and fury on it. It helped them countless times during hunts or facing powerful enemies. Except if Dean’s target is himself, all that destruction turns inward.

Which explains absolutely everything about Dean’s behavior.

“Dammit, Dean…” Sam tugs at his hair, annoyance flaring up at his brother’s actions. Whatever they were sent fissures into the foundation of his and Cas’s relationship. The shockwaves wrecking everything else around them. Worse, Sam only realizing too late.

Now Dean haunts the Bunker’s hall, the only ghost left, and their friend keeps his spirit tethered with his anger.

“There’s got to be a way to fix it…”

Sam knows what has to happen, and how unlikely it will come to pass. Dean would rather spend twenty hours surrounded by books than take steps towards repairing his mistakes. Even with the years of growth under his belt. Because when it comes to Cas, Dean is too short. And Cas followed his lead.

Meaning neither have ever finished a fight, preferring to drop it and sweep a rug over what happened. Neglect the necessary fixes until, apparently, the wood under their feet rotted through and sent them crashing into the shit they buried.

“Not this time,” Sam says, standing, “This time they can’t ignore it.”

His passion wanes when he thinks about forcing two of the most stubborn people to do things they aren’t ready for. While he may have wounded God, Sam lacks the necessary power to switch up the script.

“Or,” he thinks, glancing at a nearby box, “maybe I don’t?”

It’s not any of the stuff they carried in from Rowena’s study. Instead one of the two they scrounged from the truck where the coven they ganked hid. Sam digs through the hex bags and books to find what he needs. A needle. String. Buttons, hay, herbs, and lots of tarp.

There’s one ingredient missing though. Sam sneaks over to Dean’s room, hoping his brother hadn’t nested there yet. Luck shines on him. It’s empty save the empty cartons, bags, and bottles scattered around the room. He quickly sifts through all of it for a single hair on Dean’s pillow. Then Sam races back to the library to set to work.

Unfortunately with all the technical knowledge, Sam isn’t the craftiest witch. His thread zig-zags unevenly in the overstuffed doll’s body, and the button eyes are placed crookedly on the ‘face’. One of its arms are longer than the other, and the legs disproportionately half the size of the body.

“That’s not important,” he says, scanning his handiwork, “it’s a vessel for the spell. Nothing more.” Clutching the doll tightly to his chest, Sam moves onto the next stage in his hastily thrown together plan. Find Dean.

If not in his room, Sam knows the only other place he will be.

Peeking into the kitchen, hidden by the shadows, Sam sees his brother chomping on a massive sandwich. Headphones affixed to his ears, another break that lessens the difficulty of Sam’s work.

Sam brings the doll to his lips, almost an inch of space between it and the head. “Dean,” he says, “eating isn’t going to fix anything. You’re being a stubborn idiot, hurting Cas and yourself in the process.”

Dean stiffens, cheeks puffed out with food. Swallowing, he looks at the sandwich in his hands. Then places it on the dish in disgust.

Smirking, Sam continues. “You can’t do this anymore, pretend that you’re okay. Because you’re not. There’s only one thing that can fix this - Cas . Don’t be afraid, anymore, Dean. You know what to do… now give it to him.”

A slight rustle in the kitchen forces Sam to press himself against the hallway, doll smothered in his stomach. With the limited vision he has, Sam watches Dean shuffle towards an exit. His .

“The other way,” Sam suggests to the doll, “go the other way!”

Dean pauses, brows scrunching for a moment until they disappear with a turn. His brother retreats the other way, Sam breathing a sigh of relief.

With the kitchen abandoned, Sam claims the space for himself. Wraps Dean’s grotesque creation to preserve it if he wants and grabs a beer for himself. Takes Dean’s place and drinks in victory.

When the bottle hits the table Sam feels an unnerving stare tickling his chin.

The voodoo doll stares at him from its resting place, reminding him of the steps taken to achieve success. Without annoyance or excitement distorting his thoughts, Sam reviews what he did with a clear mind. How he used magic to influence his brother’s actions. His brother who confessed how much he struggles with identifying which were his own choices and which were those of a higher power.

His beer tastes flat. “What did I do…” he sighs, leaning on the table. Sam cannot stop Dean, probably on the phone with Cas. Helped across the final obstacle with Sam’s magic.

“It’s all for the best,” he reminds himself, “it was a one-time thing.”

Unable to take the judgmental glare from the expressionless doll, Sam snatches it and heads to his room. Hides it in his nightstand drawer and leaves for the library again.

Hoping his ‘help’ didn’t drive the wedge deeper.

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

All day, Sam stalked Dean’s every movement. From breakfast in the morning to cautiously snooping around the corner when he went to the bathroom. Curious to see if his suggestion from yesterday carried over. However nothing seemed too bizarre.

Actually Dean fell into normalcy, yesterday’s magical shove exactly what he needed to climb from the hole he wallowed in. Dean changed into actual clothes and set about doing chores. Cleaning floors, folding laundry - while it wasn’t research Sam took the signs as symbols of recovery. Dean moves at his own pace, and will research when he feels ready. Given the unburdened state of his shoulders, it could be any day.

By the time night rolls around, Sam lulled into easy comfort.

Suddenly the Bunker door slams open with the force of a hurricane, echoing throughout the cavernous building. Sam, on his way to the kitchen, spins on his heel. Drops his book to reach for his gun. Freezing only when he notices the recognizable figure gazing down at them. Chest heaving with words he stutters to speak.

“Cas?” Dean asks, hold on his gun limp, “Cas… what are you?”

“Did you mean it?”

Dean stiffens in his seat, cold metal of his weapon clattering to the floor. Sam, thankful it was on safety, finds his nerves fraying further after noticing the tense way Dean holds himself. “What?” he asks, breaking his and Cas’s stare.

“Did… you… mean it?” Each step carries a blow more powerful than any amount of Heavenly wrath. Dean flinches with each point of contact between the stairs and Cas. Retreats into his shell the closer Cas flies.

Sam rushes between them before Cas lays a hand on Dean. His mind races with an apology, heart sinking at how his plan soured. “Cas, it’s -”

“Quiet,” he tells him, “This doesn’t concern you.”

“But -” “Dean,” Cas says, softer now. Like they’re in the eye of his storm. “Dean, you left me a message. Did you mean it?”

His brother drags the answer out. Rubs his neck, then his shoulder, and finally squeezes his cheeks and releases a puff of air. “Look,” he starts, “if you’re reacting this bad -”

“That’s not what I asked.” Cas’s lip trembles when he asks again, “Did you mean it ?” A shine catches Sam’s eye, and at first he thinks it’s his friend’s blade. Only, on closer inspection, he realizes it’s Cas’s phone. “Dean, please -”

“Yes, I did.” Dean keeps his lids closed shut, wrinkles layered over each other on his face while he braces for impact. “I… I always did, Cas,” he admits. A whisper Sam strains to hear.

“Dean…” Cas pushes past Sam and lunges for Dean. Sam shouts, lost in the clatter of the chair and the other’s yelps. He strides over to pry Cas off his brother, and nearly trips over his own feet when Sam sees Dean’s arms wind tight around Cas’s midsection. Hears the familiar sounds of an almost-not fight that makes his ears burst into flames. Peeking at their faces, Sam confirms his suspicions.

They’re kissing. Through tears, smiles, and laughter, they kiss. Cas pulls back, gasping for breath. Forehead against Dean’s, he asks, “All this time?”

“Of course,” Dean says, “I might not have known it but… looking back, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Aware of how their lips drift toward each other again, Sam clears his throat. Dean tears his gaze away and remembers Sam’s presence. He sits up, Cas in his lap, and smiles with too much innocence. “Hey Sam…”

“Hey,” he says, looking between them, “so…” “So…” Dean shrugs, “so this is a thing?”

“Apparently…” “My apologies Sam,” Cas says, standing. Offers a hand to Dean and when he rises to full height does not let go. “I was a little… focused on my mission.”

“Your… your mission,” Sam frowns, ache surfacing from the depths of his consciousness to nudge at his temple. “You mean to Heaven -”

Cas flushes a worrisome crimson. “I… I almost forgot…”

“Forgot what?”

“I had parked outside Heaven’s gate when I noticed my phone,” he turns to Dean, “after listening I forgot all about Chuck, about -”

Dean shushes him, gently running his thumb across Cas’s cheek. “It’s okay. You can go to Heaven some other time. Right now it’s more important you’re here and we can…” His gaze briefly flits over to Sam. “We can discuss what was said… in private?”

“Private?”

“My room,” Dean clarifies. The words hissed under breath as if speed could muddle their intention. Sam and Cas understood regardless.

“Of course,” Cas beams. Twitches while he tries to measure the amount of joy he shows on his face but unable to fight the curl of his lips. “Much more important things to talk about.” He follows Dean out of the room, Sam left behind with an upturned chair, Dean’s gun, confusion, and a phone.

Cas’s phone.

Sam snatches it without hesitation. Righting the fallen chair, he opens the phone with no hesitation. Concern for his friend’s privacy very low on his radar, overpowered by the burning curiosity to figure out what Dean said to inspire an action like Cas’s embrace. And why he returned it.

Since Cas doesn’t have a password protecting his phone, it takes a few seconds to find the evidence he needs.

Sam hovers over the play button, conscious finally kicking in. Wonders if he truly needs to hear an obviously intimate conversation that, in the grand scheme of their life, does not involve him. But then he thinks about the voodoo doll he has sitting in his dresser, and begins the voicemail. Knowing that none of this would be possible without his interference.

He listens, and sees the whole picture for what it is.

“Hey Cas, it’s… it’s me, Dean. I’m - uh… I’m calling because I, well, because I thought about praying and then I thought about how Chuck could listen in on that like some perv…” Some shame oozes into Sam. “But this, it feels like a prayer. You’re probably feeling a little twinge, right now, aren’t you? Probably not now, because you didn’t answer the phone. But whatever you’re doing you might… and prayer or no prayer, Chuck seems to know what goes on in our lives anyway so… I guess I got to get over it. It’s not like this is a dirty secret. Even though I’ve kind of… kind of felt like it was. For a long time. Too long. When I… when I should have been not doing that.”

“Cas, I… I love you.” The bombshell explodes without prompt, Sam nearly losing the rest of Dean’s voicemail in the whistling fallout. “I don’t really say it and when I do, I… it comes out all wrong. Because you look sad afterwards like I don’t mean it the way you think I do. But I do. I love you in the purest sense of the word, man. For so long I’ve been afraid of you knowing that and of… of loving you, but I shouldn’t be. If I’d said all this sooner I… maybe you wouldn’t have left. Or it would have hurt more when you did. Don’t know how it can hurt more than it is now… I already feel like there’s a crater in my chest because when you moved on you took my heart with you. Even though I tried to not let that happen. Thought that us, everything that happened was because of Chuck because you’re his kid and… you have to admit, it’s a hell of a story…” A wet chuckle rasps over the line, followed by a labored breath. “S’why I kept you an arm’s length away during the ghost-pocalypse. Why I’ve been struggling since then I… I don’t know what’s real and what’s your Dad. Figured I could sort my life out but Chuck putting himself back on the board sent my already shaky sense of self into a tailspin.”

“But him being back also… I think I’ve gotten a sense of how he writes us. On what he forced on us. Everything he ever wrote has been about bringing the maximum amount of pain. All geared towards driving our family apart. Every cruel act and lie and whisper into my head to do the wrong thing were him. And of that list, Cas… you’re none of those things. You make us whole - make me whole. That… Chuck doesn’t want that. The fact we keep finding each other after all we’ve been through, what tries to keep us apart, from demons to God, that’s all the proof I need that we’re it for each other. We… we’re real. ”

“And I let Chuck feed me a crock of shit and I spiraled. Been spiraling since mom died and Jack… I, I can’t blame Chuck for all of it, though I’d loved to. He threw all of that at me and I swung exactly like he planned. I’m sorry, Cas, for not treating you the way you deserve. Showing you exactly what you mean to me. I can’t change the past but I want to fix the future, so you’ll be in it. It might be too little too late… and for once we can’t make all the pieces fit like they used to. Knowing that, I don’t regret telling you I love you. Because if we’re gonna be able to beat Chuck, we need all of us together. Working as a unit. A family. I won’t be much help to anyone if I can’t be in the same room with you, choking on all these feelings. After he’s gone, if you still want to move on… I won’t blame you. All we’ve been through, you deserve happiness the same as us. If it’s with someone else… then they’re a right lucky bastard or bitch, whoever they are. So… yeah, that’s it. I’m gonna, I’m gonna hang up? Yeah, bye -”

It cuts off, the answering machine’s voice speaking over Dean’s about how there’s no more room left on Cas’s phone for the rest of his message. Not that it matters since everything that was supposed to be said found its way out of Dean’s mouth.

Sam wipes at his eyes, smiling at the phone. Chest filled with happiness for two of the most important people in his life. That they were able to wade through the never-ending flood and reunite again. Cards laid fully on the table, nothing in their hands.

With a little help. The voodoo’s vacant stare flashes in Sam’s mind, reminding him of how he whispered into it to bring about this confession. His stomach churns at the thought. The guild he swallowed down returning with a vengeance. But then it all settles as he considers his exact command.

Worded with no intention of romance, Sam wanted Dean to grow up and realize Cas held no fault in what went down with Chuck. But his brother went the extra measure, shoveling part of his repressed, forty-year old bullshit into the furnace as a grand gesture to show his angel that there was more than one endgame to be had.

Laughing, Sam places the phone down and stands. “Dean and Cas…” he says, years of memories coloring themselves anew given the necessary context. “How could I’ve been so blind…” He squints, lips thinning. “Chuck… that’s why.”

He flattens his palm against his wound, the skin dully flaring giving Sam the impression that his nightmares will be extra bloody tonight. “At least one of us will have sweet dreams,” he sighs, shuffling to his room.

Sleep is far from his mind, especially given what awaits him when his head hits the pillow, but Sam walks with purpose. To tie up the last loose end of this misadventure.

The voodoo doll hadn’t moved since he used it last. Resting against a well-worn spell book, awake. Sam picks it up and pinches the thread tying it together.

“Nothing’s ever going to control our lives again, Chuck… you hear me?”

The string stays where it was, the doll still whole. Sam rubs it between his thumb and finger, wickedness striking in the final hour before the doll’s demise. An impish grin unfurls across his face. “After this,” he amends, “After tonight… I already helped Dean make one healthy choice, who’s to say I can’t suggest a few others.”

Sam replaces the doll in his hand with the spell book, reclining on his bed to wait. Reads until the clock ticks closer to midnight and then beyond. When his eyes can barely hold themselves open any longer and the neon green numbers glow in single digits, Sam grabs the voodoo doll of his brother once more. Whispers the prank in a scratchy voice, mirth poking through. Finished, he sets both items down and readies for bed.

Looking forward to sleep and what awaits him in the morning.

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

Sam stretches on his path to the Bunker’s exit, readying for another late morning jog. A road block appears, however, in the form of his brother in similar dress. Yellow hoodie snug over his chest and a pair of sweatpants with dried stains by the pockets. Sneakers Sam wasn’t sure Dean owned tied tight over his feet. “Dean?” he starts, “you going out?”

“Hey,” Dean says, eyes brightening, “I’m glad I caught you.”

“You are?”

“Yeah…” His brother rubs at his neck awkwardly, a ketchup-colored blush staining his cheeks, complimenting his mustard hoodie. “Yeah, I… I wanted to see if you’d let me come jogging with you?”

“You… want to go jogging?” A question not really framed like one. Sam already knowing the answer.

Dean nods, “Yeah, I… I don’t know. Last night, Cas and I had this talk about unhealthy habits and what I could do to stop them. When I woke up I… I guess it bled into other aspects of my life, because I couldn’t get the idea of jogging out of my head!” He chuckles, dipping up to gaze at Sam for a brief moment. “Weird, right?”

Sam finds it the exact opposite. Because after giving his brother and angel a few hours of privacy, he snatched the Dean voodoo doll from his nightstand and whispered a few things to it. Incepted the idea of wanting to jog with him into his mind. Still he agrees, since Sam didn’t expect there to be a logical narrative supporting his prank. “You’re always welcome to jog with me, Dean,” he says.

“Perfect.” They continue their trek, Dean mirroring Sam’s stretches with a few second-delay.

At the foot of the stairs, Sam stops them again. “Wait, did Cas want to join us?”

Dean shakes his head, giving Sam hope his other message wormed its way in. “Sent him out on a grocery run. Had the strangest craving for, uh… veggie bacon.”

“Veggie bacon?” Sam gasps, “In the Meat Man’s kitchen?”

“Shut up.” Dean shoves him, stomping up the steps, “That was so dumb… regret ever telling you that.”

Sam follows with a doggish grin, “At least you realize it now!” Dean flips him off, exiting the Bunker. He watches the door slip close, trailing behind at his own pace.

His brother’s voodoo doll sits in his hoodie pocket, weighing him down. While Sam’s actions were only to Dean’s benefit or boyish pranks, thinking about what he did still makes his skin crawl. His gunshot tingles with a whirlpool of energy. A reminder that he acted somewhat like the very being they want to take down.

“But that was it,” Sam promises, “After breakfast I’ll explain to Dean what I did.” An argument might occur, and he will accept whatever words Dean will throw his way. It won’t be a huge blow up, Sam thinks, since Cas is there. Cas is there and it’s because of Dean. Sam prompted his brother but in no way did he imagine the voicemail Dean would leave. The feelings that he poured into his message. That was all him. Like they’ve done their whole lives, they’ve taken what they were given and fit the rules around them. No matter who tries to break their team apart the three of them come back together stronger.

“Sammy!” Dean calls for him, “You tired? We haven’t even started, man!”

He chuckles, leaving the Bunker. “Says the man who is jogging for the first time today.”

“It can’t be that hard.”

Sam smirks at him, “Just be lucky it’s cold out.”

“Why?”

“Because when the weather’s warm I like to jog barefoot.”

The implicit threat goes over Dean’s head, stranding him in his confusion. “... Why ?”

“Y’know,” Sam claps Dean on the shoulder, “If you decide you want to stick with this after today… I can show you.”

Dean huffs with a familiar grumpy expression, although a twinkle of curiosity glistens in his stare. “Maybe,” he says, “Let’s see how this first jog goes.”

“Your call, man. Your call.” They run, Sam leading ahead of Dean. Not going too fast so he can stay with Dean. Out of breath, bouncing, and at points - between light-hearted jabs shared between brothers - soaring .

[otterskin]

Stable

It had started as a punishment.

Loki no longer remembered just what it was he had done to earn it. It had been many millennia since, of course, but in truth, it was likely the sheer scope of his little mischiefs that made identifying a specific bit of discipline for a specific bit of fun near impossible.

Perhaps it had been for turning Thor into a frog. He recalled Odin saying something along the lines of ‘If you have such an interest in animals, you can study them closer up.”

That was how he came to be ankle-deep in horse manure.

It was dirty work - a lot of mucking out stables, treating infected hooves, plucking off ticks and scrubbing and oiling the tack. Yet Loki could not wholly resent the tasks, as it did allow him time closer up with the animals. He’d always liked beasts - often preferred their company to that of the court. They did not expect much of you, and there was no sense in putting on airs. You could be honest with a horse in ways you could not be honest with yourself.

His favourite part was grooming. Sleipnir would press his nose against his chest and snort, and Loki would stroke his cheek with one hand while the other, clad in the brush, he’d pull down the horse’s neck. It brought him a great deal of peace to do this.

Which is why he didn’t at all appreciate it when he was interrupted by a boy his own age telling him “You’re doing that wrong.“

“This is how Sleipnir likes it,” Loki had said, stubbornly. “I think I know my father’s horse better than some random stablehand.”

The boy had sidled in to stand beside Loki, and to the young prince’s irritation Sleipnir didn’t at all seem to mind.

Looking sideways at him, the youth said with a smirk “What nobles know to do on horses is the same thing they know about everything else, because it’s all they ever do.”

“And what might that be?” Loki played along.

“Sitting.”

That had actually made him laugh. “Did you work that one out a while ago and were just waiting for the right opportunity?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve used it before; never had the chance to tell a nob themselves, though.”

He’d frowned, it suddenly occurred to him that there had to be a reason this servant thought he could get away speaking thus to the son of a king. “And you figured I was in such a powerless position that you could risk it?”

“Yes. Any complaint you could make about a rude stableboy at this point would likely be seen as you trying to get out of your punishment, or cause further trouble. And it is hardly an offence worth hanging me for; I am the best stableboy you’ve got, and that’s not nothing.”

He reached out a dusky hand and took Sleipnir’s nose from Loki, blowing into it gently. Sleipnir puffed his own breath back in his face with a friendly snort. “I am one of the only people around here the king’s horse likes. And the king probably has a better opinion of his horse’s opinion right now than yours.”

“For a moment, I almost liked you there. Thank you for curing that in such short order,” The prince sniffed.

The stableboy brushed that aside. “It’s impressive how much this horse likes you, despite how badly you brush him.”

“I am not doing it wrong -“

But the youth then materialized a series of different brushes from his belt and spent the next hour lecturing Loki on the use of each one, the order he was meant to go with, and how to untangle the mane and safely comb the tail.

Loki hated being told what to do, but he hated not knowing how to do something even more. So he had listened. At one point, the boy had slipped his hand on top of Loki’s inside the brush to show him the correct amount of force to apply to the brushing. It wasn’t as simple as following the hair. It was about flicking the dust loose, sweeping and much as stroking.

That had been the first time he’d felt it. The smallest flutter, in some gangly, unformed part of himself. A spark that would soon light a shameful flame in the lowest parts of his guts.

But, at the start, there had been no shame.

“My name is Sialfi,” the boy had said.

Loki met him two weeks into a three-month punishment. Oftentimes he wished they’d met sooner, that they’d had that time as well.

But at least they’d had time at all. So much wasted on his part - halting, nervous. Unsure of himself or his feelings. It was near the end that he had at last kissed Sialfi.

Allowed to go riding after a day of hard labour, they’d taken a lonely path long past the boundaries they were meant to stay within. When they’d finally reached a vantage point where they could see the edge of the very planet, they were gasping and sweaty, as were their horses. Manure was still stuck to their boots, a few stray pieces of hay in their hair, and a particularly dogged fly ignored their every attempt to shoo it off.

It only made the kiss all the sweeter.

Sialfi. He could remember the name; he could remember his deadpan sense of humour, often mocking and aloof. He could remember the way the sun used to hit his hair, absorbed by the center but always diffused around the edges, creating a halo about his head.

But he could no longer truly remember his face, or what he had tasted like.

After his discipline was over, Loki found every excuse he could to go to the stables. He went riding often, or would claim to be going elsewhere and slip away. Like this, he managed to have a few more weeks with Sialfi. A few more clandestine kisses. A few more moments where they pressed against each other as they groomed their horses together, hands joined in the brush.

Then had come the day he came to the stable and found Sialfi missing. Sleipnir had been agitated; no-one was soothing him. There was no point in searching the place - Sialfi would never have allowed Sleipnir to be in distress. He’d spoken immediately to the stablemaster. All he would say was that Sialfi was a lucky boy, so very lucky, to have been promoted like that. How unexpected. He was lucky to have met you, the King’s son, and gotten a chance to so impress. Odin himself had asked after him, and next thing you know, along came a chance to squire for the Lord Dagur himself. Of course, Lord Dagur was such an itinerant - never in one place for long, always travelling the Nine and beyond, never in one place for long. Off to Vanaheim already, and likely not to stay there for more than a day after that. He never rested, that Dagur.

But how had Sialfi, a boy from such a low family, managed to catch the eye of Dagur?

He wanted to run to his father’s study right then and there, bang on the door, accuse him - accuse him of what? What could he have said that wouldn’t have admitted…did that mean he knew? Or merely suspected?

What if it were purely chance? Dagur had one of the most magnificent mares in all of creation. Skinfaxi, with her mane of light, twice as many hands as the tallest horse - that would surely have caught Sialfi’s attention. Perhaps he’d taken good care of the beast, as he always did, his affection and talent plain for Dagur to see. And on a whim, the Lord had requested him, and who would Sialfi be to refuse such an honour?

After all, it wasn’t like he and Loki would ever be able to continue as they were. Why would he sacrifice his future for a few more moments with the stringy second prince, risking his life for the simple pleasure of besmirching royalty? Why even risk telling Loki, who might be expected to sabotage everything out of spite?

Perhaps it was as simple as that.

So he had waited. In a few more months, he had brought it up at the end of a family meal when it happened to be just him and father left at the table. Asked casually after that stable boy he’d gone riding with a few times. What had ever happened to him?

“Ah,” Odin had said. “I heard that you were close with that boy. I should have said something sooner. Lord Dagur dropped by quite unexpectedly one day, you know how he is. He needed someone to help with his horse; his last squire got himself kicked in the head, and then fell in love with his nurse. No-one quite wants to volunteer their highborn children to a traveller like Dagur, and few of those are any good with horses. But I recalled you once mentioned your friend and spoke highly of his compassion for Sleipnir, which the stablemaster confirmed. I knew that if he were a friend of yours, Loki, he would be of good temperament and sound mind, nevermind his low birth. Such individuals deserve the chance to rise above their station. When Dagur asked for such a companion during that brief stay of his here - I wonder if you even had a chance to notice, he didn’t even stay for the evening feast - I recommended the lad, though I never did hear if he’d accepted.”

“Oh,” Loki had said.

He had lain awake that night wracking his brain for a memory of having ever mentioned Sialfi to Odin, even off-handedly. Yet he was sure he’d only ever said he wished to go riding and take a companion servant along. Sure he’d kept Sialfi’s name obfuscated.

But perhaps all Odin had to do was ask the stablemaster.

And perhaps Lord Dagur would return soon.

He did. Eventually. Many decades later, when Loki had nearly forgotten what that should mean.

He’d stayed for the feast that time, and when he saw Loki he’d clapped his back and told him what had become of his old friend. “Natural with horses, you’d think he had a centaur for a grandfather! I’ve never had a better squire. That is, until he and my sister’s squire ran off with Skinfaxi and Hrimfaxi’s foal. But knowing your growing reputation, my boy, I should’ve assumed any friend of yours would be a wily one! I almost admire his gumption. I’m glad Odin asked me to take him on, in the end; a foal is a small price to pay after his years of excellent service. Though he’ll truly need her if he ever shows his face around here. Can’t be letting the small folk get away with such behaviour, or we’ll hardly have a single horseshoe between all of us in a century.”

Dagur had wandered off after that, leaving Loki to wonder about what he meant by ‘glad Odin asked me to take him on’.

He never confronted his father about it. Perhaps Dagur had simply meant to imply that Odin had mentioned Sialfi, perhaps asked Dagur to give a lowborn boy a chance he would not otherwise have. Perhaps that was all it meant.

Or perhaps…perhaps his father had known. And sought to protect Loki from himself.

Loki was old enough to hear how people talked of such things now. Old enough to know to bank that hideous flame and quell half his desires. It wasn’t like all of him was bent like this; there were avenues yet that were perfectly acceptable.

Really, he should thank his father.

He should be grateful.

He should.

[fireteam-dauntless]

A Tale of Two Guardians XIII

Part 1 of the Destined Series. Chapter 13 : Capture and Release masterlist

word count : 3.4K [I know, it’s a big one] tag list : @mail-me-a-snail @basically-nacl send me an ask or a pm to be added to the tag list!

I don’t know how long it was before I woke up, but when I did, my Ghost floated up in front of me.

“You’re awake!” She exclaimed.  “Thank the Traveler.”

“Where am I?” I asked softly and rubbed the back of my head.  I had a killer headache.  I blinked a few times and realized I was in a white room, nothing in it, no windows, and the vaguest outline of a door that had no handle.  I could feel my heart sinking as the realization sank in. 

“You… You’re in total lockdown," Dawn confessed.

I didn’t say anything in response.  I was afraid this would happen.  The moment I stopped running, they would have found me.  “Do you know what happened to Maverick?”

“He protested, but there was nothing he could do.  The people that caught you were Zavala’s bounty hunters, nothing gets in the way of their missions.  They had their orders.”

“Is he alright?”

“He should be.  They told him he would have to take it up with Zavala before they caught hold of me and put me in here with you.”

Rage sparked through me at the thought of someone touching my Ghost.  Someone who wasn’t Maverick, a stranger with malice in his intentions.

I close my eyes to refocus and sighed heavily.  “So what happens now?”

“Now?” My Ghost paused before responding.  “We wait.  Try not to go insane.”

I crossed my legs and closed my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly.  I could still feel Arc energy flowing through my veins.  “I am the storm,” I said softly.  “I am the calm in the eye of the hurricane.  I will not falter.”

I let my body relax, and entered a meditative state.  Nothing could distract me, or cause me to panic.  I simply thought of my Fireteam, thought of Maverick, and thought of my mission.  

I will remain as myself.  I will not falter.

When the door finally opened, my eyes shot open, and I thrust my hands forward.  The thunder strike erupted from my palms and struck the man that stood before me, I jumped up, kicked the back of his knees to lower him and put the man in a headlock before he could sink to the floor.  

“Where’s Zavala?!” I demanded.  

“In the Hall!!” the stranger responded, his shout garbled by the pressure of my arm on his throat.  He sounded like one of the bounty hunters that had kidnapped me to bring me into isolation.  I let the man go, he fell to the ground coughing, then I turned and walked out the door like nothing  had happened.  I had been stripped of my armor and put in a simple white shirt and pants, something usually seen on rogue Guardians when they were undergoing several reevaluations.

I caught glances from almost every Guardian that I passed by, unaware that my blue eyes were almost glowing with the Arc Light that hummed through me.  I walked proudly through the Tower, straight to the Hall of Guardians, but the Vanguard weren’t there.  They must have been in a private conversation elsewhere.  I turned around, and saw Lord Shaxx wave me over.

“Greetings, Guardian,” he said.  

“Lord Shaxx,” I replied with a nod of my head.  “Do you know where the Vanguard are?”

He nodded, then slipped me a small diagram of how to get to the private conference room that was reserved for reevaluations, private meetings, and battle discussion.  A SCIF.

“Thank you,” I said, and took off without much more to say. I followed his map down a hidden hallway, and I could hear the arguments happening on the other end.  I recognized the voices of Ikora, Zavala, and Cayde-6, so I hovered outside the door, listening in on the conversation.

“Genesis Page is a flight risk!” Zavala said.  “We cannot let her out of lockdown until she clears a few evaluations.”

“You cannot believe that,” Ikora stepped in.  “She missed her reevaluation for the sake of trying to save another Guardian.”

“And she helped bring everyone home,” Cayde added.  

“Even still, her revaluation was a necessary part of rehabilitation.  The simple fact that she didn’t return to the Tower afterwards showed that she did not have intentions of receiving the reevaluation.”

“That’s because you labelled her a criminal!”  It was Maverick that spoke now.  His voice was strong and stern, full of anger.  “She was grieving the loss of her fireteam, just like I did.  I know what was going through her head.  You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like, Commander.”

“You went through your eval, Maverick-8,” Zavala snapped.  “She did not.  There is nothing you can do.”

“It doesn’t matter if I got my eval at the time!” Maverick yelled back.  “I disappeared to the Moon for a solid week!  Just to slaughter Hive in the name of my fireteam!  You couldn’t understand the pain of loss!”

“Enough!”  Zavala shouted, and a silence fell over the room.  I couldn’t stand the way that he spoke to Maverick.

“You don’t know what I saw in the EDZ,” Maverick said after a moment of silence, his voice level and calmed.  “She is no flight risk.  Ikora, you were right.  She is one of the best of her age.”

“What happened out there, Maverick?”  Ikora asked.

Before he could speak, I entered the keycode Shaxx wrote on the paper and opened the door.  Everyone fell silent at the sight of me.  “I embraced that storm that has been tormenting me for the last week,” I said simply as I walked up to Maverick and stood beside him.  “In my time in the EDZ’s French district, I followed the path of how I met my team.  I didn’t want to forget them, and it was the only way I could feel them near me.  Not anymore.  There… there was an incident that Gilly never added in his reports.  Adam had dared me to climb the Eiffel Tower, and in my overconfidence, I did.  Well, I only got part of the way before Gilly demanded I come down.”

“Where are you going with this?”  Zavala said, though his frustration of my appearance was clear in his voice.

“Right, anyway,” I said.  “I climbed it… how long ago was it?”

“Two days ago,” Maverick said quietly.

“Oh, wow, I was out for that long?  Anyway, I climbed it.  In the middle of a very bad storm.  Lightning struck the old monument, and I fell off.  But… I found peace in my panic, so to speak.  I embraced the storm.  I embraced both my life and their deaths.”

“You are a Stormcaller?” Ikora deduced with wonder in her voice. 

I nodded and smiled.  “And I have felt like myself again ever since.  Acceptance of what happened.  That I can’t change it, but their Light will always be with me.”

“That doesn’t explain how you even ended up here,” Zavala said.  He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Oh? That little detail.  Right.  I don’t know, mister tough Commander, I was kidnapped by a group of Guardians!  How the fuck did you think I was going to respond when I woke up in solitary confinement without much recollection of how I got there because they knocked me out when I wasn’t even resisting!  You need to teach your bounty hunters to give people a chance to surrender before they knock someone out.”

Cayde burst out into laughter and I heard Maverick stifling a chuckle.  Even Ikora had a smile on her face, though she was trying not to show it.  Zavala was not amused.

“Language, Genesis,” he said lowly. 

“Language yourself,” I said back.  “Look, you can give me your test, you can give me ten of them, or you can let me prove myself through action.  Anyone can fake your tests on paper.  Let me prove it to you.  Give me a chance, please.”

I watched the Titan Vanguard glance at his associates, then glance at Maverick and I before he caved.  “Very well.  Do not disappoint me, Guardians.  You are dismissed.” 

I smiled and nodded my head, and Maverick and I left the room in tandem.  Once we were alone in the hallway, I felt Maverick place a hand on my lower back.

“You really need to get out of those clothes,” he said.  I looked up at him suspiciously and he quickly realized how his statement could be perceived.  “No no no, not like that, I mean, you know, they basically paint you as a criminal and you aren’t a criminal and every Guardian in the Tower is staring at you and…” He sighed and covered his face with his hands.  “Ugh, this is coming out so much worse than I wanted it to.”

I couldn’t help it.  I burst out laughing.  “Oh Maverick, you really need to stop trying so hard all of the time.  But you’re right.  Some of my own clothes would be so much more comfortable.”

He visibly relaxed that he got away clean with his misleading statement, but he slowed down his walk.  “What is it?” I asked softly.

“Well… since you were gone for so long, all of your belongings were put into storage.”

“Oh.”

We exited the hallway into the Hall of Guardians, until we were finally on the main level of the Tower and I walked over to the Postmaster.  I collected my mail and engrams that had shown up in the past five days or so, and started to sift through it.  Maverick leaned against the wall beside me.  I could hear the whispers from Guardians every now and then, some about my clothing, some about what happened to me on the Eiffel Tower, and some were saying that I was one of the heroes that brought the missing Guardians home from Phobos.

“Word floats around fast,” I remarked after I finally got through all of my mail.

He scoffed and shrugged his shoulders.  “Unfortunately, people around here take gossip like it’s free exotic engrams.  Without a fucking question.”

I shook my head and leaned against his side.  “It’s a little… unnerving.”

“Yeah, no kidding.  Do me a favor and DON’T ask me what they’ve said when you aren’t around.  To me.  I think I’ve gotten like eight citations in the past four days for assaulting other Guardians with the intent to harm.  And Skinner has DOUBLE.”

I just stared at him in both shock and awe, and for a split second I thought I was going to start crying.  And I did, and I tried to hide my face from Maverick.  I only choked out a small “thank you” before walking away as quickly as possible.  I slipped into the elevator when two Guardians just came out of it, pushed for the City level, and closed the door before Maverick could follow me inside.  Halfway down, I pushed the emergency stop button and sat down on the floor and pulled my knees to my chest.  The light in the elevator dimmed and pulsed, casting the room in between light and darkness every three seconds.

These two Guardians defended my honor when I was unable to, and they were willing to accept the consequences without caring about their own reputation.  I couldn’t appreciate them more, but I had no idea how to show it.  Their kindness was more than I deserved from them, they were more like strangers to me than anything else.  At least Skinner still was.  I haven’t really known him for long.  And Maverick… Maverick is a guy that I have fallen head over heels in love in that I’m not even totally sure I can stay with.  There are rules around Guardians being in relationships, I’m sure, but I’m not totally sure on the specifics.  And besides, I’m not sure about him, but I haven’t told any of the Vanguard about our relationship.

I shook my head and ran my hands through my silver white hair, and sighed heavily.  This was too much and at the same time, not enough.  I couldn’t understand why they would vehemently defend me, and yet at the same time I couldn’t be more thankful to have them. 

“Guardian?” My Ghost’s voice rang through my head.  “You shouldn’t always question things.  Sometimes it’s just meant to be.  Those two care so much about you.”

“I think that’s the problem.  The last two people that cared for me like that are dead.”

“I know, but I also know that you don’t want to stop moving forward.”

“Yes, but…”

“No but’s there, Genesis.  Just let it happen.  I know you don’t want to lose them, so why do you keep pushing them away.”

“Because I am afraid that I will fail them,” I admitted quietly.  “I am afraid.  Terrified.”

“And that’s all the more reason to keep them closer.  You can’t fail them if you are with them.”

I thought for a moment and finally stood and deactivated the emergency stop, and the elevator started moving again.  “Do you think that Maverick’s offer is still on the table, even after all that’s happened?”

“What offer?  Oh, that.  I’m sure that they still want you on their Fireteam.”

“Hmm…  Maybe I should accept their offer then.”  I smiled to myself and the door opened and another Guardian got on the elevator.  I got off here, then climbed five flights of stairs back up to the level that my old apartment was on.  My keycode still worked, but sure enough, when I pushed the door open, my apartment was stripped of all of my personal belongings, everything from my clothes, to my bedsheets, to my paints and coffee mugs were gone.  Any curious items that I had found in my adventures?  Gone.  All of my walls were covered by sheets hung over them to hide the murals, presumably until they could get a team down here to paint over them if I had been gone any longer.

I walked inside to the living room and collapsed on the couch. Despite all that's happened, I was exhausted.  All I wanted to do was sleep.  Unfortunately for me, there was a knock on my door.  I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and stood.

“I swear Maverick, now is not the best time to talk,” I said and pulled the door open, but it wasn’t Maverick on the other side, it was Ikora.  “Oh. Master Ikora, I’m sorry, I thought…”

She simply smiled at me. “I have an understanding of who you thought I was,” she said.  “I wanted to come by and congratulate you.”

“Ma’am you really don’t have to.”

“Actually, we do,” she said.  “There are so few of us left with the ability to control the storm.  There are fewer who are even able to gain the ability.  I also came to let you know that your transfer to the City has been approved, given that you keep your promise to us to prove that you are ready for the field.”  

“I do intend to,” I replied.  “Is my apartment ready to be moved in?” 

“Yes.  Everything from storage was moved there this morning.”

“Thank you, Ikora.”

“Child, you need not thank me.  Fight well out there, Genesis,” she said as she walked away.  I quickly gathered myself and hurried back down the hallway to the elevator, and pushed for the City level when the door finally opened up.  I couldn’t be more excited to finally start living in the city.  I couldn’t be more excited to tell Skinner and Maverick that I wanted to officially join their Fireteam.

When I finally got to the City level and the doors open, I opened a channel with Maverick.  

“Hey, Maverick, sorry I just kind of left you at the postmaster.  But can you meet me on Crestwood Road, number 46?  I just got my official transfer to the City and I was hoping you might be willing to help me move stuff and get settled in?”

“Oh, uh, sure.  Do you mind if I bring the arsenal?”

“The arsenal?”

“Ha!  Skinner, I mean.  I think the guy would love to see you, since the last time he saw you was on Phobos.”

“Oh, sure!  The extra hands would be good. See you guys in twenty minutes?”

“Sure.”

I cut the channel link and started jogging down the road.  “Hey Ghost, can you direct me to my new place?”

“Yeah…” She started.  “Crestwood Road is two blocks down.  Your duplex is actually at an intersection with Langston Street, which is three blocks down on Crestwood.”

I follow the directions, and come to a beautiful brick building in the more historical district of the Last City.  The side was decorated with several vines of ivy.  The window frames looked old and the paint on them was cracked and chipped, but the moment I walked inside, it was nothing short of modern.  My boxes were lined along the walls in the kitchen, and in my panic, I quickly searched through them for the painting of Maverick that I had started.  I found it and set it up on my easel, covered it, and placed another unfinished painting on top of it.  

I started unpacking, and loaded all of my canvases along the wall by the easel.  I was in the middle of unpacking dishes when all of the sudden the door flew open, and I turned quickly.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” Skinner said as he walked towards me, his arms outstretched, and then pulled me into a hug.  “The AWOL and MIA Guardian returned home a hero!”

I couldn’t help but laugh and I hugged him back.  “You flatter me, Skinner.  I’m just happy to be back.”

“I’m happy you’re back, too, Genny.”

I heard a second pair of steps start walking in, hoping it was Maverick, but Skinner picked me up and swung me around in a circle.  I laughed and hit his shoulders.  “Put me down, jackass!” I giggled, and pushed him in a friendly manner when he finally set me down.  I turned around and surely enough, Maverick was standing there, arms crossed and leaning against the wall.  “Maverick, I’m glad you made it,” I said softly, then went over and hugged him tightly.  He hugged me back, Skinner burst into his signature maniacal laugh.

“Aww, Mav… If you keep looking at me like that you’re going to make somebody jealous.”

Skinner was teasing, obviously, but I couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Okay, you two, I’ve got a lot of boxes to unpack, so let’s get going.”

We started passing boxes out to each other.  I made sure to leave the ones with all of my casual clothing and personal belongings to the side so neither of them would touch it.  But after a while, once most everything essential was unpacked and put away, we found ourselves lounging in the living room, Maverick and I on the couch, Skinner perched on the armchair.  We were laughing, telling stories about our pasts.  When we started, it was about midday, and now the setting sun was casting the room in an orange glow.  I gazed outside for a moment, before I cut Maverick off.  He was in the middle of a playful argument with Skinner about Maker knows what, I had stopped listening after a while.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Huh?”  Skinner stopped talking and just stared at me.

“If you guys will have me, I’m in.  I’d like to ‘officially’ join your fireteam.” 

“You know, I was hoping you would, because for fucks sake you are pretty good with that rifle of yours.  And hell, you’re not like a lot of warlocks around.  Most of them focus on rational decisions and don’t take risks.  You do.”  Skinner was grinning like a madman.

“Good.  We’re happy to have you on the team, Genesis.”  Maverick wrapped an arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug.  I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh.  

“Well, thanks guys for helping me get settled in.  But I really want to hit the sack.  I’m exhausted.”

“Sure, sure, that’s fine,” Skinner said and stood up from his chair.  “Besides, Cayde called earlier and wants to speak to all of us about some favor he wants.  I dunno.  He said he’d explain tomorrow.”

“Yep.  We’ll meet you at the Tower tomorrow morning,”  Maverick said, then stood up and followed Skinner to the door.  I escorted them out to the door, but before I closed the door after saying good night, Maverick turned on the steps and looked at me.  “And, Genesis?”

“What is it?” 

“Welcome to the team.”

I smiled at him and nodded.  “Thank you.”  Then he left, a slight smile on his face, and I closed the door.

I turned off the lights, collapsed on my bed and let out a contented sigh.

“Well, Guardian,” my Ghost said while I stared at the blank walls and ceiling.  “Welcome to your new home.  And your new family.”

“Thanks, Ghost.”