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cydanite · 2 years ago

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Theatrics of Deception

(Ao3 Link) EDIT I almost forgot! Credit to @the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers for helping me proofread this one, thanks love!!! <3

—

‘This has gotta be the worst state I’ve woken up in in a long while’ Martyn thinks with begrudging sentience. There’s an unpleasant fog clouding his mind, discouraging him from opening his eyes. His eyes in turn thrum back aches of muted pain in agreement, threatening the start of a headache if he dares try taking a peep. The discomfort in his head is only superseded by whatever surface he’s decided to sleep on jutting uncomfortably into his back. Honestly, the whole situation reeks of some bad decision he’s made. Some all nighter he’d tried to pull to catch up on work, or a party he’d spent way too long at. Slowly, he persuades his eyes to open, and a dark unfamiliar room unfurls before him as his vision adjusts.

‘Well that’s one point towards the latter.’

He starts moving to get up, before noticing his hands are stuck, somehow. Weird… He runs through a few next steps: trying to clear the brain fog preventing him from remembering what he did last night, running his thumb along whatever’s catching his wrists, searching for some kind of give, and taking in the room he’s in. It’s dark, real dark, he can only really make out the edges of sparse furniture and the small LED glow of a couple appliances, as well as- oh jeez is that a person over there? There’s a figure a few meters in front of him, their form hard to make out by the minimal light, and they’re just… standing there.

The hair on the back of Martyn’s neck stands on end, the situation just sobering enough to jog his memory, reminding him that he was neither pulling an all nighter writing in his apartment nor partying hard enough to ruin him completely the next day over.

What he was doing last night�� he was furthering his investigation on The Red King.

Shit.

“Your audience is awake, my liege!” A gleeful voice emits from the figure as the lights in the room all blare on at the same time, blinding Martyn for a moment. He can now fully make out the confines of the small room he’s contained in, its windowless walls and concrete floor, as well as the wooden chair he’s sitting in, hands and feet tied up. He can also make out the figure before him, one he’s seen plenty in photos but never in person.

Sir Cadian is blanketed, near-entirely obscured by a thick carpet of moss, tiny blood-red flowers speckling its surface like stars, or blood splatter. It would make for a strange ensemble on its own if not for the shiny golden armaments it contrasted with. Gleaming against their lush backdrop close to a dozen golden watches, in a litany of sizes, orbit a long chain strung over his shoulder. Metal gauntlets, one larger than the other, catch the light at the sharp ends of pointed fingers. Most decorated of all is the golden helm he wears, a glittering visage of the sun where his eyes should be and the silver crescent of the moon covering his mouth with a faux-smile. He stands straight, before giving a deep bow and stepping dramatically to the side. And then, standing before him, is The Red King himself.

The Red King, a figure clouded in equal parts mystery and panache. A supervillain who first made his presence known six months back. He’s since enacted a variety of schemes that threatened the safety of the city, earning him a swift rise to infamy. To date, none of them have worked yet. He’s never even killed a person, directly or indirectly, as Martyn has pointed out in his writing. But thus far The Red King hasn’t needed to. His force of presence always spoke for itself and, regardless of what his actions might convey, the people feared him.

He’s dressed in a fine regalia decorated with fur trim and vicious, claw-like tears in equal adornment. A tarnished bloody crown rests between two pointed canine ears atop his head. Below, his eyes are obscured by a blood-red mask, the edges of which feather and bleed into his matching dark hair and massive cloak, trailing behind him like a stain as he slowly approaches Martyn. He’d also only seen him in photos before this moment, but aside from his nerves firing the main detail he registers now is just how The Red King towers in person. He finally stops a few feet away from him, his teeth gleaming like daggers as his mouth twists into a wicked smile.

“Martyn Littlewood.” His voice drips with an accent both archaic and modern. “Ye’re brazen to think we wouldn’t catch ye snooping.”

Martyn tries to keep his face stoic, staring The Red King straight in the bloody imprint where his eyes probably are. It’s the one skill he swears gets him all his top stories. Fake it ‘till you make it, when you’re found out you’ll have at least learned something. Plus the alternative right now would probably involve him passing out right now. So he steels himself instead.

“I, uh. I didn’t think you’d mind is all. Plenty of articles have been written about you already.”

“Yes… and several of them yours.” The Red King waves his hand, and behind him Sir Cadian grabs a leaflet of papers from atop a wood desk standing next to the door.

“Ahem. ‘The Red King; New Villain Emerges in Metropolis Area.’ ‘Expert Analysis on The Red King; Motive, Methods, and Powers - Lycanthropy Confirmed?’ ‘Hostage Situation at Red King Lair; Soup Group Saves the Day!’ ‘Hotguy and Cuteguy - Assault at The Monolith; What We Know.’ ‘Top 10 Villainous Fits; Who Does Bad While Looking Good. The Red King - Number Four’.” Sir Cadian lowers the papers from his face. “Wow! This guy’s a bonafide freak!”

“Never writing sensational periodicals again. I stand by what I said there though.” Martyn states, yet his voice is merely a whisper through his teeth.

“The point remains.” The Red King bellows. “Ye’re… prolific in the field. To be honest, fer someone as knowledgeable as ye are, I'd have thought ye’d have thought up a plan to evade us. Luckily the good Sir doesn’t disappoint.”

Sir Cadian twirls one of many pocket watches by the chain. “Next time include me in the headline!”

Martyn scoffs. “Well I’m here now either way. Not sure what you would want with a simple reporter like me anyways, unless you need a ‘you’ expert for some reason.” He turns his head to face away from the King. The Red King smiles, giving a hearty chuckle, before beginning to circle the room, walking away from where Martyn is looking.

“I assure ye, I understand myself perfectly fine. Just as well as I understand your justified fear of me right now.” He’s made it halfway around the room now, standing behind Martyn. Just out of his field of vision. The back of his chair is thinly scraped by the sharp tips of clawed fingers. “Ye can stop worrying. Fer right now at least, my plans for ye aren’t malicious. I actually have a favor to ask.” He stops and folds his hands behind his back, standing in front of Martyn once again.

“ …Go on.”

“I have a message. A message I wish to tell to everyone in this wretched city. I want it to carry through the streets like wind, to stick to the mind of people like frost.” Martyn flinches back best he can as The Red King suddenly jolts forward, their faces now inches apart. “My message will be the front page headline tomorrow morning, Mr. Littlewood. Do I make myself clear?”

The Red King’s breath wisps across Martyn’s face as his smile grows, widening into a toothy maw full of impossibly long rows of canines. The dark jagged shadow of his hair bristles across broad shoulders. A sharp sound emanates from below, and Martyn can hear the wood of the chair he’s in crack and splinter where razor-sharp claws press into its arms. Right now, the face staring at him looks like the nightmare a kid has after being read a fairy tale not fit for their age, constrained only by the imagination of their fear.

Martyn takes a breath. Fake it ‘till you make it…

“Alright, but only if you do something for me.”

The Red King’s smile, his bravado, for only a moment, falters.

“You have no right to make requests at The Red King’s orders, you-” Sir Cadian begins to storm over from the sidelines before The Red King raises their hand to stop him, smile returned.

“Sir Cadian, ye forget the position we’re in allows us to entertain and, in turn, be entertained.” His hand lowers as his gaze locks onto Martyn’s once more. “Tell us now, what would you request? Your Majesty?” He ends, voice dripping with ichor.

“Allow me to interview you.”

A beat, and then the king rumbles in a roaring, deep-bellied laughter, Sir Cadian following in suit with a falsetto wheeze of glee. Martyn waits for the two to finish their raucous laughter before continuing.

“As you said previously, I am something of a resident expert on you. You’re one of the main topics of my articles. Being able to talk to you, in person no less, is like a dream come true for me. You want me to spread your message, let me ask a few questions and whatever answers you give I’ll spread those as well, reporter’s promise.”

The ghost of laughter still haunts The Red King’s mouth, its edges curled into a smile. His eyes, however, study Martyn with a deeper curiosity now, searching for any kind of trap in his offer. After a few seconds his smile fades into a more serious look.

“If ye know me as well as ye say, you know I value my secrecy. But you’ve put me in a fair mood, so~!” He sits on top of the wood desk, almost casually. “I’ll allow ye one question and one question only for me to answer as I see fit to. Understand?”

Martyn nods, eyes fixated.

His smile widens. “Then shoot.”

“...How are you?”

When he looks at The Red King, he’s sitting in front of him, ears pressed against his head, eyes furrowed in a mixture of confusion and scorn, and one clawed hand curled against his lips in thought. And Martyn knows that, if only temporarily, he’s just killed The Red King’s act. The two stare at each other, waiting, the rising tension begging someone to make a move. Martyn doesn’t falter, and it’s The Red King who backs away first, standing up and turning his back to Martyn, arm’s crossed.

“How am I.” He taps his foot, mulling the words over in his mind like one would an object. “How am I.” He rolls his head around his shoulders. “How… am I.” The tapping stops.

“I… am growing impatient, Martyn. I have been for a long while now. The people of this city have forgotten the true meaning of fear. They’ve grown soft, placid. Emboldened.”

The Red King turns back to face Martyn with all the ferocity of a blizzard, the empty void of his eyes now glowing a cold white light as his claws grip his shoulders.

“When you tell those people: ‘Red Winter is Coming.’ When you tell them those words, Martyn. Then, and only then, will my patience be rewarded.”

The Red King turns away with a flourish of his cape, marching towards the door and yanking it open, Sir Cadian meekly following behind. The Red King turns his head, staring back at Martyn one last time.

“Don’t fail me.”

And the door slams shut with an echoing boom, rattling the few freestanding objects in the room. He’s alone now, and despite his heart racing at a mile-per-minute pace Martyn gives a quiet smirk to himself. He can’t help it.

He’s always been a damn good listener.

—

It’s dark out when Martyn wakes up from another overly oppressive sleep, slumped against a wall of some abandoned alleyway on the outer edges of the city. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he reaches into the messenger bag his captors had thankfully returned to him. It takes a couple of minutes for his phone to wake up from the total inactive state it was placed in, but eventually he can start returning a couple worried texts and figuring out where the closest station is to get home. And then he takes a deep breath, stands up, and taps his boss’ number. As it rings he braces for how hard he’ll have to fight to change tomorrow’s headlines so late.

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lilmadorange · 2 years ago

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This Is How She Get You

I am ugly. I don’t know why you still want me here. He said it gently when you sat on top of him.

You are a hunter of the heart.

You saw some glitter in his eyes. You knew that he was speaking his mind. You got off him quietly and slowly, conceiving you were disgusted by his weakness. He just surrounded his to you, and you lost interest quickly,

You told your girlfriends that he was an architect and their eyes lit up. You showed a picture of him to your homeboys and they said their heart started racing too. He wore a sports t-shirt a size smaller to show his muscle lines. He wore the classic Adidas sweatpants with three golden stripes that perfectly defined his long legs. He put on a silver ring on his index finger to twist around sometimes while thinking. He listened to you while looking profoundly afar, occasionally nodded to agree with what you said. He said “wait,” and opened the car door for you all the time. He made plans for your dates. He was on time for every one of them. He didn’t mention a thing when you were twenty minutes late.

In the summer, he took you to Brooklyn Bridge Park for a walk. Planned the whole date so that you were sitting on a bench facing the Manhattan skyline, chewing one of the best New York pizza in your mouth, and he said, we made it just on time --- the miraculous sunset presented itself to you. A breeze blended the baby blue of the sky into the pink and purple of the evening with butter white clouds, spread across from the Statue of Liberty to the Brooklyn Bridge.

In the fall, he took you to a picnic in the park and put the blanket on top of the orange carpet of nature under the lively alley of autumn trees. He opened up a bottle of white wine you mentioned once you preferred and told you all his adventures with twists and turns. Before you noticed, the moonlight arose high on top, bright but secretive, creeping onto your skin.

I like your red collar shirt. He smiled warmly like the sun and pulled your neck to him, starting kissing you. You tried to kiss him back, but he paused and choked you, gazed deeply into your soul and knew that you were craving this kind of masculinity. Then he put one hand into your black laced skirt, reached the other into your shirt.

But these weren’t all the reasons that teased your desire to hunt him down. You see, he only texted you when he was planning the next date. If you texted more than two sentences long, he left you on read. He hung out with you, and he disappeared for two weeks and more. He told you that all his exes pursued him aggressively, and he was always the one less in love. He told you he was a cheater by nature, without shame. He said he would not consider dating you seriously because you were a Chinese foreigner. Not only that, but he made it clear that your appearance did not worth all the effort for him to overcome the cultural differences and legal difficulties involved. Plus, he added that you did not know how he felt as a Muslim living in society after 9/11, making it hard to connect with you.

You started to study what he said to depict his type. He liked the most feminine K-pop stars, so you threw your black tiger-print shirt and pointed boots into the back of your closet and wore a white crop top with the short pink skirt. You usually looked mean and cold in your Instagram pictures, but you posted a new one looking cute and harmless, waiting to be dominated. You followed all his date plans and let him feel like he was in control.

You let him help you. What will I do without you? You held one of his hands with both of yours and told him with admiration.

He walked into your trap. He started spending more time with you. He went to the gym with you, helped you edit your writings all day, and cooked with you.

Everything was going perfectly as planned, but you knew you were still far from retrieving your trophy.

Sometimes after morning sex, his ex called him, asking his professional advice for work. He walked away from you into the bathroom and didn’t come back for another twenty minutes. You heard I love you, and he whispered it back.

You see, to his ex, you were only the girl that he fucked when she couldn’t be in town. And one time, he went to the bathroom, accidentally left his phone, which had been buzzing the whole night. You peeked, and there were ten new message notifications from Hinge and twenty-five from Tinder. He had one arm around you, and he was replying to all the messages with the other.

But you didn’t confront him. Instead, you waited patiently until he put his phone down, said, where were we? You let him throw you onto the bed and tore your shirt down.

You were the real predator.

You were waiting for the right moment to prey.

You waited, and he started to ignore all the other girls at parties, left right after 12, and came straight to you. You waited, and he started renting all his problems out to you and telling you all his darkest secretes he told no one before. He held your face, said to you that you were precious, and kissed you all over. You waited, and he came to you after work, asked you to help him choose Christmas presents for his coworkers, and carried all your grocery bags on the way back. You waited, and he gave you Christmas gifts with meanings.

I bought the scarf last year when I went back to Bangladesh and thought I would give it to her if I met “the one.” And I found you. He explained with a shaky voice.

It was a rough quality scarf with a tiny price tag still stuck on it. You couldn’t help but google it, it was around ten dollars.

You gained his trust, and you knew it was time to reveal some of your true nature. You pushed him onto the bed and started licking him from his face to the end of the curve right above his hip, telling him, you are so hot. He tried to push you away and said, stop it, I hate that. You stopped, and he said shyly, don’t stop, I was lying.

You were reading a book. He cuddled you and tried to kiss you. You ignored him. He asked with embarrassment, can you give me some attention, please? After you put your glasses down and gave him the attention, he was happy like a kid. He started calling you his girlfriend or babe here and there, but you pretended that you missed the hint.

It was time for a test. You released him from your trap back into the free nature that he once belonged to. You told him you were not interested in seeing him anymore. He wrote long text messages trying to talk you out of it. You knew you were not serious about not seeing him. Not yet. But you acted like it was your final decision and didn’t talk to him for two weeks. He was sad during the two weeks, but he was convinced that he would get over it in no time. Instead of grieving over your relationship, he already went on some new dates the first weekend. But, Goddamn, after those dates, he got more depressed and missed you even more. When you told him you missed him, he came right back, hugged you tightly, and kissed you all over.

You were now the one in charge. When you fucked him, he cried to the lord and screamed quietly, yes, mama, please fuck me. He told you that the women he met in these two weeks were not half as special or attractive as you. One day he texted you and recalled the message. It was a petty move. You had to ask him what it was. He said that you were his soulmate, and he hoped that you felt a deeper connection with him too.

Maybe to you, we are just fucking... He added “...” at the end of the message like a teenage girl.

He said to you all the sweetest things that he never told anyone before. You rolled your eyes and said that many had said more than that to you. He smiled sadly. A lot of women will appreciate me saying these. You genuinely pissed him off with your attitudes, but he knew he couldn’t leave you.

You are so out of my league. Why are you compromising? He said it with frustration.

Now. You knew you tamed him. He grounded himself to you, begging you to put a chain on him so he could feel safe. He presented his heart to you.

You were disappointed that he did that. You wanted to steal a heart. A trophy is no longer worth its value if it was presented to you so freely.

You were bored. You didn’t bother to taste your victory. You had to get away. You acted out and told him all the hurtful things he did to you. You said that you would never work because you didn’t want anyone that already broke you once.

I wish you weren’t such a player in the first place. Maybe we would’ve worked out. You sobbed fakely and said.

Everything played out just like you planned. You walked away easily.

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whataboutmyfries · 3 years ago

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Russian Roulette

Okay, okay. I am fully aware that it has been an absolute AGE since the last chapter but Life(tm) got in the way of this one and I'm so sorry it's getting to you so late.

Additionally, I hope you guys are aware that minimal editing has happened here.

@lumosinlove thank you so much for letting us mess around with your characters!!

Chapter 5

Logan slammed another cup of coffee to the table, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “Shit,” he breathed. “This is….this is probably enough for us to completely wreck their operation”

Finn leaned further back in his chair, blinking at the stacks of paper spilling onto the desk; about as much surprise as he’d show in front of Leo. “It is.”

Leo looked utterly unfazed as he sipped from his cup, closing his eyes at the feeling of the hot caffeine sliding down his throat. He rubbed at his eye, fixing the other one on Finn, then on Logan. “Will you do it then?”

Logan and Finn exchanged a glance. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Leo studied the two of them before dipping his head in a nod of thanks. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “Thank you. For all of this.”

Finn waved him off, taking a long sip from his coffee. “Mm, I was wondering if you’d ever come around and show us that brilliant magic of yours.”

Logan laughed. “Forget magic. How would you feel about a game of cards?”

Leo’s eyes glittered “oh darlin’, I’m going to beat your asses.”

And damn if Leo didn’t deliver on his promises. An hour later, the three of them were sat around the table, staring intently at the cards spread over the wood. Finn tossed his knife, the blade making complicated swirls around his fingers as he caught it.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that to win nutty.” He chuckled; not even turning his head as he threw the knife at the dartboard.

Leo didn’t have to look up from his cards to know it’d hit the bullseye.

“Remind me again, which one of us is the magician here?” Leo drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief as he threw down his card.

Logan and Finn groaned, slapping down their cards in exasperation. Leo had won. Again.

“How does he do it?” Logan groused, pouting at the table, pulling one of Finn’s knives free of the wood.

Leo laughed, reaching behind Logan’s ear. And with a complicated twirl of his fingers, he unfurled a fan of cards

Piercing blue eyes looked over the top of the cards and Leo winked at the both of them.

“Magic.”

Three am found them sprawled around the room fast asleep. Mugs and cups and pots of coffee on every imaginable surface, papers spilling onto the floor. Leo blinked his eyes open to warm sunlight, shoving his face off the desk. Disoriented, he blinked his eyes frantically, trying to make sense of his surroundings. His eyes landed on a halo of red, and the memories of the previous night came back to him; only to immediately be ignored in favour of the beautiful boy in front of him. Finn’s head leaned back against the couch, exposing the column of his throat, the freckles there mapping constellations onto the creamy skin. Leo wondered if maybe Finn would ever let him trail shapes into those stars; if he tried hard enough, Leo was sure he could trace a wonky version of his namesake onto the alabaster skin. Unable to help himself, his eyes trailed upwards, crimson eyelashes fluttering against high cheekbones like trapped birds searching for a freedom he wasn’t sure he could offer.

He ripped his eyes away, his traitorous heart beating furiously against his ribs. It proved an even bigger mistake to look away because his eyes found smooth tan skin instead. Logan was almost devastating in his beauty when he slept, Chocolate-y hair shimmering in the early light. Sunshine dripping like honey from aristocratic cheekbones and hazel curls. Leo’s thoughts went into overdrive, his brain offering him vague snippets of poetry and literature in a futile attempt to describe the beauty of gods. The sunlight threw shadows across their faces, casting them in stark relief, and Leo’s heart all but crawled out of him to repent.

His heart was beating so loud it honestly surprised him that the two of them hadn’t awoken. This was a mistake. He never should’ve come here, let alone stay the night. Cursing his idiocy, he got up on cat-soft feet and gathered his things, chiding himself for letting down his guard so easy. He saw himself out, sparing one last look for the ethereal beings asleep on the couch. And as Leo let the door fall shut; he failed to realise that he’d been so caught up in cursing his mistakes; he hadn’t noticed hazel eyes trailing him on his way out.

Logan— on the other hand— woke to Finn’s feet sliding out of his lap. He knew he was home. He was safe. The syrupy darkness of sleep pulled him back under. Finn woke him again with a hand to his shoulder, the distinctive smell of coffee taking over his senses. Still drowsy, he grinned, a hum rumbling through him. Finn laughed, ruffling his hair.

“I don’t remember adopting a cat, but I can’t say I dislike it.”

Logan shoved at his knee with a socked foot, grumbling incoherently, though the smile on his face rather took away from it.

“Shhhhh it’s too early for your stupid face.”

“So no coffee for you then? More for me I guess”

“Touch my coffee and I’ll punch you”

“Oh shut up, you like my face too much to punch me.”

Logan blinked one eye open. “Who said I was punching you in the face?”

Finn laughed, nudging Logan’s cup closer to him. “Touche.”

Logan took the mug, nursing the warmth of the ceramic between his palms. “You know, that may be the only french thing that sounds halfway decent in that accent of yours.”

Finn flipped him off over the rim of his mug, drinking deeply. “Drink your sugar crash and leave me alone.”

Logan raised an eyebrow “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“It is the sole cause of diabetes in this world and I am willing to die on this hill.”

Logan huffed, shoving papers out from under him so he could shift his feet up onto the couch. The events of the previous night still weighed on him. Lizard had given them….everything. Every detail, every nook and cranny of the snake house was documented. He’d left no stone unturned.

And he’d lost everything, anyway.

“Harz, he’s given us everything we were looking for.”

Finn nodded, “He did, didn’t he?” He gave Logan a look. “What do you want to do about it?”

Logan shrugged a shoulder, staring absently out the window. “We said we’d help.”

“You know you don’t have to follow through, you don’t want to do it, we don’t do it.”

Logan met his gaze, Finn’s sharp edges smoothed into something softer by the early sun. “I want to. It just…..” He trailed off with a vague gesture.

Finn hummed. “I think I know what you mean. But, Lo, we don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do, okay? The second you want to drop it and leave, we leave, yeah?”

Logan swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat. His chest full to the brim with a feeling he’d come to describe simply as ‘Finn’. It was ephemeral and fleeting but felt like warmth; it felt like coming home. It was the feeling of waking up to find a blanket thrown over you, the feeling of a mug of steaming cocoa pressed into your hands on a bad day, the feeling of sunshine after tumultuous storms. It was the feeling of Finn, joyful and constant and forever ready with a bright smile or dry wit.

Logan smiled at his friend, shoving at Finn’s knee with his foot. “Awww, look at that. You might care about me after all.”

Finn shot him a look, the only warning he gave Logan before tackling him to the couch. Logan let out a somewhat aborted choke-squeal as he fought to get Finn off of him, wrestling his tickling fingers away from him. Logan cackled when Finn yelped overbalancing and falling onto the carpet—followed shortly by Logan, who had been too busy laughing to notice that Finn had grabbed him in a desperate attempt to stop his fall. They both lay on the floor, gasping for breath between peals of laughter, shoving at each other playfully.

Finn let his head drop to a side, catching Logan’s gaze. “You know…..It’s not like we have much to do today….”

Logan grinned “Ice cream and movies all day?”

“You know it.”

To put it quite simply, Leo’s brain refused to leave him alone. His smile was more facade than anything else, his beloved cards feeling clumsy and distracting in his hands. His train of thought had derailed almost an hour ago, his body running completely on autopilot as we walked the streets of Gryffindor.

They’d said yes. They’d said yes, and now Leo was going to be working with them. For a considerable amount of time. He couldn’t afford to throw something like this away on some fickle feeling, much less fickle feelings for a mob boss of all people. There was too much at stake.

Leo revealed the card in his hand with a flourish, the gasps of the people around him little more than background noise as he slipped through the crowd, surreptitiously pocketing a couple of fifties he certainly didn’t have before. He strolled unnoticed through the city, checking his watch as he went. He was early. good. He slowed his pace, watching passers-by go about their lives as he marvelled at the busy streets. It never stopped amazing him; the fervour that filled the city. Every street and bend so rife with potential, the possibility of wonderful things just itching to happen.

Like anyone else, Leo was wont to miss his home, the sprawling fields and endless forest of the countryside, but there was nothing quite like Gryffindor, with its skyscrapers shoved next to beggarly hovels and the hum of activity and excitement haunting every corner.

As his thoughts wandered through the city, his feet carried him to a familiar street lined with cafes and charming little stores. He ducked into one of them— a quaint bookshop, the well-worn sign hanging at the door proclaiming its availability to its patrons. The tiny bell above the door announced his arrival, the chime sounding through the magical place.

Leo had always thought that walking into Moony’s was like stepping through a portal to another world. Most bookstores were organised, neat. Books lined from A-Z subject to subject. Not Moony’s. Moony’s was a labyrinth. An explosion of literature and colour and homely comfort in every direction. Books covered every imaginable surface in the store, the shelves full to bursting. Haphazard piles of literature graced the floor, leaning against potted plants and comfy little armchairs scattered across the place. The books were stacked layers deep, some piles reaching as far as the ceiling, teetering precariously alongside narrow walkways. Leo loved it. The smell of tea and well-loved paper wrapped around him like a blanket as he walked to the checkout. An indignant meow drew his attention to the plush armchair, the stacks of books leaning against its arms fashioning it into something of a floral throne.

“Cheshire! How are you, you stinky little muffin?” Leo cooed, scooping up the ball of fur that had taken up residence on the chair. The cat in question purred happily, head butting Leo’s hand demanding head scratches. The blond laughed, indulging the cat and dropping a kiss onto his fuzzy little nose as he walked to the front of the store. A head full of tawny curls shuffled around under the till, clearly looking for something underneath.

“Found that treasure you’re looking for, Loops?”

Remus jumped, standing up with a smile, nearly knocking his head on the counter in the process.

“Missed me enough to come in early today?”

Leo snorted. “You wish. No, I just finished up quicker today.”

Remus raised a brow. “Sure you did. What’s bothering you Nutty? Tell me things.”

Leo’s chest warmed with affection. He sighed deeply; the singular breath seeming to take some pressure off his bones.

“You remember what went down with Pascal a while ago?”

Remus nodded.

“And that I went to the Lions for help like he said?”

Another nod.

Leo took a deep breath. “Well, they said yes.”

#russian roulette #my writing #lumosinlove #lumosinlove ocs #oknutzy #mafia au

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witchern · 4 years ago

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Unfortunately I can’t write or draw or make edits but I would like to give Michael and Adam a fuzzy blanket and a target gift card to celebrate their wedding

The reception is long over, to the point where the sun is starting to crest over the horizon. They’ve opted to wait a week before going on their honeymoon (to the Azores archipelago in Portugal) so they’re back at their little cottage now.

Michael’s in the bathroom desperately trying to wash glitter out of his hair (courtesy of Claire) and Adam is already rooting through some of the gifts that were delivered earlier. Most of them seem to be the typical wedding gifts you’d expect — various checks in multiples of 18, household items, kitchen appliances, stuff to help them start their new home proper — but then his fingers brush over something unexpectedly soft.

With a small ‘ooh’ of delight, Adam carefully pulls the blanket out of its gift bag. A Target gift card falls out of the folds and onto the floor; Adam puts it on their nightstand before he forgets about it, but his attention is fully fixated on the fuzzy blanket in his hands. He buries his face in the fuzzy fabric and sighs, tired and content. He’s been gravitating toward soft things lately — fuzzy socks, fluffy pillows, a ridiculous number of carpets and rugs — and the blanket feels as soothing as it looks.

Michael isn’t even in the bathroom for very long, and yet by the time he emerges with his hair still damp, Adam’s already asleep in bed. He hasn’t even made it under the covers: he’d just wrapped the blanket around himself and passed out.

Michael rolls his eyes fondly, smiles a little, and turns off the lights before sliding into bed next to Adam, arms wrapped around his husband, pulling him (and the fuzzy blanket) close.

#i was just gonna answer this normally but then??? why not give them the gifts 💕#they love the blanket thank u #they're also gonna go wild at target later #midam #midam wedding #jupernatural #Anonymous #asks #my fanfic #otp: between the shadow and the soul #spn #*t

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perpetuallylocked · 4 years ago

Conversation

Tag Yourself: Nancy Drew Game Aesthetics Edition

SCK: opening a new book for the first time, the nostalgia of VHS tapes, coca cola in a glass, remembering your locker combo, letterman jackets, watching true crime documentaries, empty high school hallways, 1950s diners, cramming before an exam

STFD: boxes of chocolates, tape recorders, the click-clack of typewriter keys, catching a taxi, shadows on the wall, stained coffee cups, sitting down to rewatch a tv show, perfume bottles, 1990s fashions

MHM: the sight of dust mixing with light, sightreading old sheet music, crystal chandeliers, old floral teacups, crystal balls, old rotary phones, grand staircases, intricate wooden floors, never-ending house projects

TRT: the glitter of diamonds, worn chessboards, snow-covered gardens, ink-covered hands, butterfly collections, cold tile floors, dull suits of armor, dusty history tomes, footsteps muffled by carpets

FIN: plush red velvet, the scent of popcorn, drawing art deco designs in the margins, worn carpets, old playing cards, the feeling there is still magic everywhere, meeting a childhood idol, movie posters on the wall, catching up with a childhood friend

SSH: jade carvings, steep stone steps, chocolate bars, being the only person in a museum gallery, clean lab coats, amazing sights through a microscope, visiting the hospital, remembering facts you've only heard once, checking the mail for your package

DOG: log cabins, the flapping of bird wings, the distant howling of dogs, the odd sensation when you can see the moon during the day, the scent of pine trees, old glass bottles, strolls along the lake shore, admiring 1920s fashion, long walks in the woods

CAR: antique roller coasters, old postcards, the golden light at dusk, loud band organ music, sounds of a carnival at night, ice cream sundaes for dessert, the delight of riding the carousel for the first time, paint-stained clothes, winning a prize from a carnival game

DDI: a steaming mug of tea on a foggy day, sea caves, light from a lighthouse piercing the fog, messages in bottles, approaching deep water, the sound of seagulls, vintage blue bicycles, spotting a whale on the horizon, crumb-topped blueberry muffins

SHA: worn plaid shirts, sunsets on the horizon, the clip-clopping of hooves, antique blanket chests, forbidden romance, mason jars of flowers, brown and blue eggs, playing piano by ear, faded rugs

CUR: leather-bound books, small potted succulents, curving staircases, old portraits, family secrets, four-poster beds, hearing strange sounds at night, food cravings, spending all day on your laptop

CLK: the ticking of an old clock, pearl and cameo jewelry, the scent of a pie baking, the whir of a sewing machine, reading in a window seat, flouncy dresses, bridges over creeks, driving around a small town, reading Shakespeare for your own enjoyment

TRN: ballet slippers, snow mixed with smoke, faded pastel embroidery, the far-off sound of train whistles, old parchment and wax seals, unwrapping a piece of salt water taffy, quirky local museums, organizing your collections and belongings, light shining through tiffany lamps

DAN: light streaming through stained glass windows, bold red lipstick, freshly baked cookies, tales from your grandparents' youth, long-lost love, twirling in a tulle skirt, the overwhelming desire to visit paris, planning out your outfit for the next day, park benches

CRE: wind in the palm trees, footprints in the sand, rustling in the jungle, small seashells, rope bridges, fruity shave ice, waves tickling your toes, the tangy taste of pineapple, watching surfers from the beach

ICE: frozen lakes, sitting by a crackling fire, snow-covered piles of logs, worn leather ice skates, paw prints, staying in bed after you've woken up, seeing your breath in the cold air, unexpected snowball fights, leather-bound journals

CRY: shadows emphasized by candlelight, dirt-caked fingernails, exploring a cemetery at night, wrought iron fences, the smell after it rains, shelves lined with tchotchkes, going back for second helpings at dinner, moonlight streaming through the window, a grandfather clock at the end of the hall

VEN: gelato cones, orange and brown buildings, soft italian songs, gold lockets, buying flowers for yourself, cobblestone courtyards, leaning over the balcony rail, the overwhelming desire to reinvent yourself, dancing like no one is watching

HAU: ocean waves hitting cliffs, hanging herb bundles, old stone fortresses, white lace and promises, wilting flower bouquets, whistling to keep yourself company, distant celtic music, simple diamond rings, sitting in a peaceful garden

RAN: old gold coins, wading in the cold ocean, a slow-moving hourglass, seeing where the sky meets the sea, old pirate legends, sand between your toes, looking down through clear water, buying yourself new clothes for vacation, eating fruit salad for breakfast

WAC: exploring a college campus, old trophies, distant cello music, milk and cookies, cardigan sweaters, texting your friends, bare tree branches, anthologies of stories, school supply shopping

TOT: wind rustling through wheat fields, creaking wooden staircases, white curtains on the window, golden hay bales, old fences lining the road, watching a storm from the porch, buying a new camera, hanging out in your favorite professor's office, sitting on a tire swing

SAW: the faint scent of cherry blossoms, origami cranes, taking a bath, hearing a new language for the first time, shards of glass, seeing your reflection in the water, buying a new stuffed animal, trying a new food on vacation, listening to your grandmother's stories

CAP: rereading favorite fairy tales, blood-red garnets, red hair in braids, mist in the forest, local legends, playing board games on rainy days, remembering your make-believe games of childhood, puffy-sleeved blouses, watching glassblowers make magic

ASH: blue roadsters, rapidly melting ice cream cones, white picket fences, pastel shop awnings, hand-lettered signs in front of shops, the act of simply being with your friends, revisiting your childhood bedroom, spending all day in an antique shop, visiting your friend's house for the first time

TMB: wind-blown sand, straw sun hats, the warmth of the afternoon, chipped statues, well-used research books, having an egypt phase as a kid, planning your next adventure, drinking cold water on a hot day, pushing your hair out of your face

DED: pencil-covered hands, well-oiled gears, the crackling of electricity, eating your favorite flavor of gummy bears, group projects, keeping to yourself at work, unironically wearing ugly sweaters, publishing your research, organizing your messy desk

GTH: peeling paint on a once-grand house, angel statues, sheet-covered furniture, porch swings, lit matches, lace masquerade masks, grand ball gowns, drinking a hot cup of tea and lemon, looking for treasures in the basement

SPY: old leather suitcases, distant memories, the lingering touch of your true love, piano keys, adrenaline rushes, popped trench coat collars, hugging your mom after not seeing her for ages, looking out the window on a train ride, hearing movie soundtracks in your head

MED: the view from the top of a mountain, the rushing sound of waterfalls, freshly dyed hair, shooting stars, wandering off the trail, vintage comic books, philosophical thoughts, binge-watching reality tv, feeling the sense of deja vu

LIE: hands coated with clay and paint, laurel wreaths, pomegranate juice, books of Greek myths, gold sandals, memorizing a monologue, flowing white gowns, spending all day in a museum gallery, exploring ancient ruins

SEA: the twinkling sound of old music boxes, a night shining with stars, cozy knit sweaters, curling up with your dog, model ships, old barrels, learning your town's history, watching gently falling snow, the beauty of the aurora borealis

MID: the dark colors of herbs, edison bulbs, copper kettles, slowly changing leaves, road trips with friends, carving a jack-o'-lantern, exploring cemeteries at night, small shops surrounding a courtyard, thinking you saw a ghost out of the corner of your eye

#I'm definitely CLK and ASH with a touch of WAC and a little SPY #Nancy Drew #Tag Yourself #**general

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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

Text

Male changeling fae x female reader (sfw) - Part One

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.

As I said to my patrons, I'm still sorry I took so much time off in March, but I really needed it for all sorts of reasons I won’t go into on here. I hope this will appease you though! It's 4769 words of fluff with a slight dash of angst thrown in, and with a Part Two on the way. I dropped one or two hints as to where it's going, so it'll be interesting to see who picks up on that...

As usual with me, the reader's gender or body isn't really mentioned much, except in a passing comment, so I hope it's not too offputting to have a specifically female reader again.

This was up on Patreon on early release last week for my Pixies and Goblins, and is now up on here for you.

Content: female reader, (past) death of father, (past) ill mother, changeling, memories, nostalgia, realising that the fairytale stuff is true... Wordcount: 4769

The cabin was in far better condition than you’d been expecting, given that it had been well over a decade since you’d last seen it. Dank and a little musty, it was now tidy in a way that it never would have been when your father had lived there. Of course, all of the things that had made it your father’s home, plus all his tracking and hiking equipment, had long been removed, either by your uncle or by the local park service, but the cabin technically belonged to you according to his will. You’d never made so much as a spare moment to come back up here, fearing that the return would bring back a wash of memories that would be too powerful to withstand.

You almost laughed to yourself as you stood in the doorway of the old wooden hut, the creaky front door knocking gently against the wall in the soft breezes that seemed to slink curiously in like a house cat returning from a day’s hunt. You could hear your boss’ voice in your head again; “If you don’t take some holiday, I’m going to fire you.”

“You wouldn’t!” you’d blurted, completely missing the glittering, playful light in his eyes.

The vet had snorted and shaken his head, taking his gloves off and making his preparations to leave the surgery at the end of his long day. “Of course I wouldn’t fire you, but I am serious about you taking some time off. Didn’t you say your dad used to have a cabin up country?”

“Mm,” you nodded, not really listening, the scents of pine and mossy rocks already flashing with startling clarity across your mind. “It’s more of a bothy in the woods, but yeah.”

“Then go there. You need some time off. You haven’t taken any holiday in over a year.”

Just like that, you’d mused; just ‘go there’.

It had been so long since you’d been unexpectedly packed off back to the city that long, hot summer. What had followed had been endless months of hospital visits and uncertainty, living with your maternal grandmother while your mother fought her illness with dogged determination. As you shoved those memories aside, a wave of fresh ones surged in to replace them. Images skittered falteringly across your memory of a barefoot young boy about your own age, with sun-freckled skin and dusky brown hair. Piercingly blue eyes the colour of a midday summer sky blinked from the recesses of your memory.

“Dunnock,” you murmured aloud in the perfect stillness of the cabin. You'd never forgotten your summer holiday friend. Year after year when you’d gone to stay with your father, Dunnock had been there, with grubby knees and a ready smile.

That little boy’s laughter among the evergreens; bare feet that hadn’t seemed out of place on the carpet of rusty pine needles; a playmate all summer long while your father watched from the porch of the cabin, coffee cradled in his hands, muscular forearms arms resting on the wood and watching you with his steady, patient gaze.

All of that had vanished in a single summer, to be replaced with city life, school, exams, college, study, work, rent… Your mother had survived her illness, but you’d never returned to the cabin before your father’s death some years later.

“Dunnock,” you repeated, looking around at the bare wooden walls and the simple wooden bed in one corner. “I wonder what happened to you?” After a pause you added, “Or who you even were…” You’d been so caught up in the moment, in seeking frogspawn and catching moths, that you’d never spoken about his family or his life outside of your play hours.

Somehow none of it had never seemed strange to the eight year old girl that you had been then. Wiry, ‘boyish’ - whatever that meant - with nondescript hair and an ordinary face, you had felt instantly at home in the trees with that little boy’s rough, grubby hand around yours. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world to let him tug you into the forest that bordered the heathland to show you the worms in the muddy dell or the deer fauns staggering on spindly legs in the glens where the bracken glowed translucent in rare shafts of sunlight.

“Dunnock,” you murmured one last time, and it felt like a charm, a chant, an invocation, calling up the sight of his wild greyish brown hair shivering as he laughed, tossing his head back, careless and wild as the bird after which he was named. You seemed to recall that you had actually been the one to name him that, after seeing the tiny little hedgerow birds with the same colouring, darting about near the cabin on the feeder that you had helped your father build the summer before. He had accepted it without question, and you’d never called him anything else.

With a sigh, you dumped your weekend bag down on the smooth floorboards and went back to the car to fetch the bag of groceries you’d picked up from the nearby hamlet of Iska’s Well. Unbidden yet again, you heard Dunnock’s voice, full of laughter, telling you that ‘iska’ was the ‘old world’ word for water in these parts, whatever that meant. Everywhere you turned, the whole place was saturated with memories of him - more so than of even your father.

“That’s stupid,” you’d huffed at Dunnock when he’d told you the origins of the hamlet’s name. “‘Water’s Well’? That’s a stupid name for a town.” Dunnock had only laughed and dragged you off to poke and poggle at frogspawn in the dewpond on the heath that began about a mile from the cabin.

You’d driven over the heath that afternoon to reach Iska’s Well, with blushing heather and stoic, rocky bluffs, and had marvelled at how short the journey had seemed this time. As a child, it had seemed like a journey to the edges of the world, with the sandy tracks and purple heather rushing past in an endless blur while the radio played softly in the background and your father’s curly hair lifted off his forehead in the breeze from the open window.

With everything finally settled, and your sleeping bag unfurled onto the surprisingly healthy looking mattress that definitely should have gone mouldy after all this time, you turned your attention to the heavy cast iron stove in the corner. No dust had gathered on the surfaces, and there was a stack of fresh, dry firewood piled up beside the stove.

Was someone living here? When you’d asked about the cabin in the quaint village shop, the owner had laughed and told you how good it was that someone would be staying there again, and that as the former ranger’s daughter, you were only to ask at the shop if there was anything you needed. “We pull together in this little community, and if there’s a leak in that roof, or if something isn’t working, you just come back here and someone will come up and help you, alright?”

You’d laughed gratefully and nodded, glimpsing a flyer on the wall for the spring equinox festival on a noticeboard as you left. ‘Bonfire, live folk music, hog roast, and dancing - experience the magic beneath the moon…’ seemed surprisingly appealing to you and you made a note of the time. It was only a few days away.

Wondering whether you should start a fire in the burner now so that the cabin would warm up enough, and the last of the lingering damp burn away before bed, you frowned. Was someone squatting here then? Panic flared, white hot and suddenly all-consuming, and you whipped around, as though expecting some wild figure to come stumping up the stairs into the cabin and savage you.

But all you heard was the soft, hushing whisper of the wind in the pine needles outside and the alarm call of a jay in the trees.

As the sound of the bird’s fear refused to die away, your scowl deepened. The harsh, scraping calls filled the trees and you edged out of the door and onto the small, covered porch of the wooden hut, heart hammering in time with the desperate calls.

Nothing moved between the trees and there was not a breath of air between the trunks. It seemed as though the whole forest was holding its breath. Something about the depth of the shadows called invitingly to you and your unease melted away with each step you took into the once-familiar pine forest.

After perhaps fifty paces, you caught a flash of bright blue in the branches above and watched as a jay bobbed desperately, hopping from one branch to another and squawking constantly. “What is it?” you asked, feeling suddenly foolish.

As if in answer, the bird took off with another volley of calls, flitting along the deer track that you’d been following, before dipping low in its flight pattern and vanishing behind a larger pine with another flash of blue feathers.

“What am I doing…?” you muttered, on the point of turning back. Then you heard it.

A low, pained rumbling shivered out between the sussurating foliage.

Your body went still and rigid as you heard it again, and you barely dared breathe. “What the…?”

Sadly, you’d heard plenty of animals in pain at the surgery where you worked, but there was something unusual about this; the apparent size of the creature for one. As you nibbled your lip, torn between hurrying to investigate and turning on the spot and calling the national park service, you heard it again; a whining growl carried the depth of its agony and torment straight to your chest, and you acted instantly, instinctively.

Rounding the corner of the tiny trail where the jay bird had disappeared, you found the source of the noise, and nearly bolted on the spot as adrenaline surged through your body once again. A dark creature as large as a bear lay on its side with a hind leg caught in the glinting metal jaws of a vicious steel trap. Beside it, the jay was hopping on the ground and fluttering its wings, the pale down of its belly flashing in the dimness of the forest.

The creature which lay on its side, however, was not a bear. Your brain helpfully supplied that there were no bears in these parts anyway. It didn’t make processing what you were seeing any easier, however.

Tall and, upon closer inspection, surprisingly slender, with lean, well-defined muscles evident beneath the thick, matted, dusty-black pelt, it was like nothing you’d ever seen. Its eyes were closed, but you got the distinct and primeval impression that it had sensed you. For one, it had fallen silent, save for the wheezing huff of its breath. It was exhausted then, and had clearly been struggling to release its leg from the trap, if the scuffed earth and blood-slickened needles around the vile device were anything to go by.

Its head had elements of both a wolf and a bear. While a long, deadly snout and powerful jaws decorated with savagely long canines marked it as a predator, its ears were like those of a deer, tufted with ash-grey fur. Its pelt was thick and shaggy, the colour of slate or smoke, and matted with moss and tangles and, on its lower leg, thick, black blood. Its hind legs were short, stocky like those of a bear, but the paws were more like those of a wolf, its forelegs had a strangely… human conformation to them, with large, hand-like paws that ended in the thick, deadly claws of a bear.

“Easy,” you whispered, shuffling experimentally closer. “I won’t hurt you…”

The moment it heard your voice, the creature’s eyes flickered open and you sucked in an astonished breath, reeling back. The searing blue of those eyes was a hue that you’d never forget.

“Impossible,” you breathed, wondering if you’d inhaled some hallucinogenic compound from a mushroom or something. This simply couldn’t be…

The creature let out a long, deep, excruciatingly heartfelt whine, ribs heaving, and it lifted that strange, shaggy head to look dolorously at the steel trap before weakness washed over it and it let its head fall back to the leaf litter beneath.

“Can… you understand me?” you asked before you’d really thought about how stupid your question was. The intelligence that you’d glimpsed in those eyes had told you as much already, improbable as this all seemed.

The enormous creature huffed softly and twitched its muzzle downwards.

“You can?”

It repeated the gesture.

“If I let you out of this, you promise you won’t hurt me?”

Once again, it nodded and you closed the distance between you to kneel beside the trap.

“Ok. Here goes. This… This is probably going to hurt. I’ll try my best, but…”

Another little chuff emanated from its barrel chest, which you took to be a reassuring noise of encouragement, and you got to work.

“Who the fuck sets traps round here anyway?” you snarled, cold steel beneath your fingers. “This is a national park. Hunting is forbidden, and it’s not like there are even bears here anyway! Well…” As you released the mechanism and carefully cranked it back, you looked up at the strange creature which it had ensnared, and shrugged, “Right?”

“Mmph.” The noise the creature made was almost like speech as it agreed with you, lifting its hind leg out of the jaws of the trap and letting it flop to the ground with another rumbling whine.

“There,” you said, securing and making the trap safe before sitting back on your heels and staring at the unbelievable being in front of you. After taking some steadying breaths, with your gaze all the while fixed on those intensely blue eyes, you found something intimately familiar about the set of those features, the tilt of its head and the slow blink that didn’t quite sync up. “I know you,” you finally breathed.

The creature continued to stare at you, but after a few more pounding heartbeats, it lowered its dark muzzle slightly and gave the slightest, almost imperceptible nod.

“It… It’s not possible… You can’t be who I think you are though…” you said, your mind refusing to accept the blindingly obvious truth.

Blink.

One ear flicked slightly.

“Can you?”

Blink.

Slow nod.

“No way…” You sat breathing for a little while longer before daring to voice it aloud. “Dunnock?”

The nod this time was so barely-there that you almost missed it.

“I don’t understand…” you hissed, levering yourself to your feet, staggering slightly, and gazing down at the injured creature. “The ‘Dunnock’ that I remember was a little boy…” your words sputtered out and you swallowed thickly. “Can you talk?”

The creature licked his lips with a surprisingly delicate, pink tongue and nodded, blinking slowly. “Yes,” he rasped, voice deep and rough with obvious disuse. “But it… has been a… long time.”

“How are you… this?” you asked, gesturing at his body. Before he could answer, your attention darted back to his leg. “I should probably tend to that,” you added.

He shook his head, retracting his leg away from you. “No, it will heal soon. Now that the iron is gone.”

“Iron?”

“Mm.”

He seemed so subdued, so altered from the happy child you remembered that, had it not been for those astonishing eyes, you would never have believed that he could have become this. “What difference does the iron make?” you asked instead.

Dunnock lifted his head slowly and studied you. “You never knew, did you?” he murmured.

“Knew what?”

With a huff that might have been an amused chuckle, he said simply, “Changeling…”

“Changeling?” you asked, frowning, mind spinning. “Like… Like in the fairy tales?”

“Literally,” he said. “I am fae. They left me here to die when they stole a human child in my place. Iron… Iron is like a poison. But it will heal now.”

Your mind reeled, the barrage of revelations leaving you dizzy and sick. “Wait… Stop… What?” you faltered. “They left you here to die? Your own parents?”

“Mn.”

With a blank, spinning mind, all you could do was croak, “Dunnock… I…” Suddenly it was all too much. You’d come here to get away, to rest, to reconnect with nature, not to discover that fairy tales were true. Looking back on it, you probably should have known that there was something abnormal about a young boy being allowed to roam the forests, barefoot night and day, but it had never really crossed your mind.

“Did my father know about you?” you asked in a hoarse croak.

“Mm. He helped me in the winter. He was a good man.” After a short pause, Dunnock sat up, bracing his weight on his forelegs while his hind legs remained splayed to one side. He looked like a lounging hound - domestic, almost tame - rather than a wildly impossible being from folklore.

A moment or two of silence hung between you before he shifted again, drawing his legs under him and heaving himself to his feet. One huge, clawed hand rested on the rough bark of a nearby conifer to prop himself up as he stood unsteadily, keeping the weight off his injured leg. You inhaled slowly, eyes widening. He must have been easily eight foot tall. He extended his free hand towards you as you swayed, and you stared at it. His touch never connected with you and he curled his fingers self-consciously inwards to hide the talons, and then dropped his hand back to his side.

“Steady,” he said with a gentle smile. “Must be a shock…”

“I don’t understand,” you bleated pathetically. “What happened to you? You used to look… human…”

With a hollow chuckle, he looked away from you. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I could always change into this. Never did it around you. But… as I grew older, the shift to human became… harder. Now I can only shift on the full moon.”

Snorting, you said, “Like the opposite of a werewolf.”

He didn’t reply, but he did turn his blue eyes back to your face. “It’s been so long,” he murmured. “I… I never thought I’d see you again. And then…” his gaze dropped to the trap still glinting innocently at a distance and he growled, the rumble of it echoing in your ribcage. “Just when I thought I’d never get out…” those eyes darted back up to meet yours, “You’re here.”

“Like fate,” you breathed awkwardly. “You want to come back to the cabin and rest?”

Something complicated passed over his face but eventually he nodded. “Alright.”

Just as you set off, you paused and looked back over your shoulder at him. “Was it you who’s been caring for the place?”

“Mn,” he grunted, leaning heavily on the next tree along. Perhaps you shouldn’t have encouraged him to move so soon, but he seemed to be doing alright. Dropping down to all fours, he nodded up the track and said, “Go ahead. I’ll be… right behind you.”

His footfalls were heavy and deliberate; a solid presence on the path while your mind reeled with the revelation that Dunnock, the lively, lanky boy, bright as a buttercup with a face full of freckles, with whom you’d played in these very woods as a child, was now some monstrous-looking beast, and in fact had been that all along…? You shook your head as if clearing stars from your vision, and pressed forward through the shadows until the cabin came back into sight, with your car just visible in the distance.

It all seemed so painfully normal up ahead, but when you turned around to glance behind, there, faltering almost shyly at the edge of the trees, was the strange, half-bear half-wolf creature with Dunnock’s eyes. A quiet, private thrill of panic shot through you and you turned and stared back at him. “Dunnock?” you asked in a voice that sounded steadier than you felt.

He paused with one front paw hovering gently, just on the point of being set down onto the soft carpet of needles. “Mn?” His doe-like ears flicked and his head tilted. He seemed to be making himself as small as possible for you as you stared him down like a stag in a meadow.

You had to make sure that it really was him though, and not some creature pretending, with a pair of stolen eyes and a deep, lullingly gentle voice. “Tell me something…”

With another vaguely canine tilt of his head, he grunted. “Mn?”

“Do you remember what the last thing was that you said to me?”

He froze and then looked away. The answer he gave was almost too soft to hear, but you just barely caught his response. “I’ll always be here. You’re like the moon, and I’ll always feel the pull of you…”

Water blurred your vision, and without much warning, you burst into tears. “It really is you, isn’t it?” you sobbed, striding back over to him and flinging your arms around his neck.

Dunnock went stiff with surprise, but quickly relaxed. A heartbeat later, his heavy arms enclosed your body and he tugged you close to his chest as he sat back on his haunches. “Yeah,” he croaked. “It’s me.” And then he added, “I missed you so much.”

“I thought about you a lot,” you sniffled, tears still rolling down your cheeks and into his thick fur. He smelled like moss and petrichor, and you clung to him as all the stress of your job and the frenetic strain of the city bled out of you in a disorientating rush.

With a huge hand caressing your back with the hesitancy of the inordinately strong, he rumbled something that you didn’t quite catch, and then leaned back a little. “Why did you come back?” he asked.

You snorted and stepped back, swiping at your face with your cuff and turning a little away from him, embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion that seemed to have come from nowhere. “My boss told me I needed a holiday.”

“And so you came here?”

“Yeah. I think I needed to come back, you know? Put old ghosts to rest,” you added as you stared at your father’s cabin. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” As you set off for the cabin again, you asked, “Do the locals know about you then?”

When he didn't immediately speak, you looked back and saw him shaking his head. “No,” he said. “I go into the village once a month or so - when I can turn human - sometimes not even that often. They know of me, and I think they know I live in the woods nearby, but they don’t know that I’m… this.” There was an unpleasant, sour note to his final word that made your gut churn.

“Are you the only one of your kind living here?” you asked as you stepped inside and held the door open for him.

As he passed you, he said, “As far as I know. I think there are some other… non-humans… but I’ve never met them face to face.”

“It’s incredible,” you breathed. “I had no idea that that kind of thing was real, you know?”

With Dunnock now sitting on the floor beside the cold iron stove, you had the chance to look at him properly. The longer you looked, however, the more uncomfortable he grew. His ears swivelled to lie flat against his head, and he looked away.

“Dunock…” you said, stepping closer. “Are you sure you don’t want me to look at your wound? I’m not a doctor, but I could at least clean it. I’ve got a medical kit in my car…”

He licked his lips. “Alright,” he admitted. “No iron though…”

“You don’t need stitches anyway,” you commented, stunned when you looked at it again. “You’re already healing up.”

The feel of his fur beneath your fingertips was like nothing you’d experienced as a nurse at the veterinary practice. It was a struggle not to let your hands wander. However, when he saw the way you dealt with the wound, he asked, “You’re a healer of some kind?”

With a shake of your head, you set him straight. “No, I work at a vet clinic. I’m a nurse, so I help prep the animals for surgery and take care of them afterwards, and assist the vets during any procedures…” There was more to it than that, but it would do for now.

When you looked up and met Dunnock’s stunning gaze, you found that a light had kindled in his ice blue eyes. “I always said you had a knack with animals.”

“You did,” you chuckled. “Remember that red squirrel that basically became my pet for the summer?”

He nodded.

“And the deer that was eating out of my hand…?”

“Mn.”

Reflexively, as you tied off the bandage, you petted his leg, and he let out a long, soft moan, head tipping back.

“Alright?” you asked without lifting your hand from his thigh.

“Mn,” he nodded, ears flattening themselves once again.

A thought occurred to you and you asked, “Are you alone a lot up here?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze locked unseeingly on your bag nearby. “Mn,” he finally hummed. “The forest is full of life though.”

You splayed your fingers deliberately through his pelt and took note of the solid muscle beneath. “Yeah, but it’s different… I don’t imagine that the earthworms offer particularly scintillating conversation…”

Dunnock laughed at that; a long, low, delighted chuckle that sent tingles running down your whole body. “No,” he agreed. “But I can’t seem to get the magpies to shut up.”

At the mention of the black and white birds, you recalled the jay and asked, “When I got here, there was a jay that was acting strangely…? It’s how I found you to begin with.”

He huffed another brief laugh and said, “Yeah, they’re all meddling nuisances…” There was no sting to his words and a surge of fondness rushed in to replace the panic that had been swirling through you since you’d first stepped off the veranda and into the forest.

“Will you stay?” you blurted, and he looked up at you. “I mean… I don’t have loads of food, but… I’d love to…” what, catch up? “To hear about what you’ve been doing since I left…” you finished rather lamely.

With a sarcastic little snort, he met your eye and said, “I’d rather hear about your life. Your father told me why you left so soon… Did your mother…?”

“She survived,” you said. “Tough as an old boot, that one. It was rough though. I lived with my grandmother for a long time, and then I went to university…” You stared at him as he sat there, listening to you attentively. “I never came back though. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I just left…”

He shrugged expressively. “Like I said, your father was always kind to me. I missed you though.” He shot you a sidelong look and added, “You’re even more beautiful than I thought you’d be by now…”

You flushed hot at that and laughed, diffusing the situation by beginning to sort the bag of groceries. The house had no electricity any more, not since your uncle had taken the solar panels down. You had half a mind to ask him to come and reinstall them, but you knew you wouldn’t be here long enough for it to be worth the long journey for him.

Over the course of the evening, Dunnock told you about the forest and its ebbing, flowing seasons; how he spent winter curled in a cave, dozing while the rabbits and the other wildlife drifted around him, and how in the spring he had woken to find the air fresher and full of pollen, with birds squabbling and bickering, and buds slowly unfurling from the branches. The way he spoke of the forest as one interconnected being enchanted you to the point that you forgot about the constant, enervating drone of the city, about car horns and pollution, noise and mess. That old familiar ache to return here and never leave surged stronger than ever.

As your eyes drifted closed that night, sitting on the floor, buttressed up against his weight, you sighed. “I want to stay, Dunnock,” you admitted in a whisper, right on the border of waking and sleeping. “I want to stay…”

Part Two

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

#changeling #fae #fae x reader #changeling x reader #exophilia #female reader #male monster

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lostcybertronian · 5 years ago

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The Author’s Night Vale- Part One

A collab between me and @thepoolofthedead! An AU where the Author created Night Vale, and all who live there.

This part was written by Taylor, edited by me. The next part will be by me. Enjoy, guys! We’re both pumped for this project.

---

Dr. Iplier watched as his companion dragged a stick through desert sand. The two had been there, off the side of an interstate, for hours. He moved to sit inside the car to escape the sun's unbearable, scorching heat, resting his head on the dashboard to watch his companion through the windshield.

He only closed his eyes for a moment before he felt the Author's abilities wash over him; he glanced up wearily.

The Author twitched. Whether it was from the heat or the drugs, he wasn’t certain. Sun-burned and drenched in sweat the Author stared at his sand-writing, then at the city that was beginning to materialize like a mirage through the heat waves. A cackling laugh escaped him as the town materialized before his eyes.

Definitely the heat, he thought, as his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the sand.

---

The Author groaned as he opened his eyes, recognizing nothing. He had no idea where he was. No recollection of the ceiling above him, of the bed below him, or of the soothing voice coming from the radio. He stared in distaste at the peeling wallpaper, glad, at least, that he knew the man sitting in the chair across from him.

“You’re awake,” Edward said, stating the obvious. He waved at their surroundings. “Care to explain this?”

"How about . . . hotel?” Author grumbled, sitting up. He could see the gaudy pattern of eyes and stars on the wallpaper now. And the matching green-- it wasn’t even a nice shade of green-- carpet on the floor.

"No, you created a civilization while high on playing god, you dolt. They have a history!" Edward hissed. "You created something that shouldn't exist in the real world!”

Author blinked. Then he blinked again, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Huh," he said, considering this. “Neat.”

"Neat? That’s all you have to say?” Edward’s voice rose to a shout, and the Author winced as it hurt his pounding ears and his throbbing head. The doctor sighed, getting up from the chair and plunking a glass of water and a few pills onto the nightstand. "Drink some water. Take some Advil. You're going to fix this before we go home."

"What did I take?" Author automatically reached for the pill, almost moaning with relief as the cool water soothed his parched throat.

"If I had to guess, LSD and maybe even horse tranquilizers," Edward shrugged as if he didn’t give a damn, but the way he raked a hand through his hair said he did. His looked to the radio, faintly playing a jazzy tune, then to the curtain covered window. Behind the curtains, the sun was setting.

They both startled as the voice on the radio suddenly returns "Listeners, I'm back, and I have just spoken with Hotel Manager and Reverend Carbine about our esteemed guests. One is even a doctor. How neat is that? A real-life doctor. No fangs, no pale glittery skin, he was even seen walking in daylight. You know listeners, other than that old Ford Escalade, I saw no phone-box, no razor scooter, no other possible way for him and his companion to have found their mysterious way into our town. Now his companion-- you know, the unconscious one-- is apparently an author! It takes a brave man to do such a thing. I mean-- writing books! Can you believe we have such daring adventurers in our little town?”

The Author and Edward stared at each other in horror.

"No," Edward warned, in the hope of cutting off the other before the excitement could catch up to him. He watched as the Author got up, making it halfway across the room before shaking his head, rubbing at his temples, and throwing the hotel door open.

---

Author stared in awe at the purple-orange sky above him. It was more beautiful than anything he could have ever thought up. Even on a good day. It also hurt his eyes to look at, and he quickly averted them, looking instead to the town.

The air was still warm even now, and the setting sun framed buildings of all colors and people of all races, casting dramatic shadows across golden sand and cracked pavement.

This would do nicely. He grinned, twisting to glance back to Edward.

Edward only crossed his arms over his chest. "We have to go back, you know. The others will be looking.

"Then go. I can find my own way back." He turned back to the town. "How do you not think this is extraordinary? I mean, look at this place!" His eyes roamed over people milling about in the street, over hooded figures and shadowy beings, then up to the vast sky filled with stars and glowing lights. The moon hung heavy, shining silver.

"I'm sorry, but are you trying to get yourself killed? If- If Dark loses us…." Edwards's voice jolts him from his musings.

Author nodded. "He’d have our asses.”

"We've been here too long already-” Edward started, only to stop when the air filled with high-pitched whining.

"I need to find a pen!” With surprising speed the Author whipped around, darting back into the room, Edward on his heels. Together they tossed the room about, frantically searching until the Author pried one from the dust bunnies under the bed. Immediately he started writing, scrawling in chicken-scratch across the note-pad left by the maid. 'The Author and the doctor find that their hotel room has mysteriously attached to Ego Inc. However, this door goes unnoticed; the Author is the only one with knowledge of the town of Nightvale.'

The words immediately cemented into reality: the radio playing only static and the lights flickering dangerously as the room rewired to attach to Ego Incorporated. The door swung open once more to reveal familiar sterile-white walls and long, seemingly endless hallways.

Author pocketed the notepad and pen as he looked around, spying Edward lying unconscious on the bed. He stood, gathering the doctor into his arms and leaving. He would fix the door later.

Just as it shut behind him, a monochomatic figure manifested near the end of the hallway, signet ring gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, eyes glittering with some other source of light unknown to anyone at all.

“You’re late,” Dark said, mouth curling into a sneer.

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setsailslash · 5 years ago

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Congratulations on reaching 200 subscribers! That’s amazing!!!! ❤️✨ for my ask, can I request an earth-3 Jason Todd where he is used as a fuck hole but owlman and talon? Like after a meeting or a mission, they come home to a boy tied on the bed (sleeping or no) bare bottom facing them and they just take off their suit and start playing with him TT Thank you! I hope it’s not too much. Congrats again!!!!

first things first: i’d just like to say i know nothing about earth-3 but i couldn’t get this prompt out of my head so i read like three earth-3 dc wiki pages and smacked this together. minimal editing but also this got way longer than expected, please do not expect this speed or fic length (200w who???) 😂

tentatively titled a pound of flesh, pairings: thomas wayne jr./jason todd/dick grayson, a touch of thomas wayne jr./bruce wayne, rated: E.

A hard day’s work makes Talon a dull boy if there isn’t any fun to be had at the end of that day. And Owlman agrees.

There is always time for some play time even if the man has to physically carve it out of the day for his pound of flesh.

Jason is in their bed. Not quite centerfold.

But he’s got the dark mob of his hair hiding most of his face, cheek turned against the sheets, stark naked and lying on his front with his legs folded neatly under him.

It can’t be a particularly comfortable position but he holds it perfectly.

After this many nights, after all those early ones where Jason learned the consequences of going against Owlman’s words, he can now hold it without twitching a muscle for hours, eyes sliding shut, his breathing easing out as seconds and minutes and hours trickle by.

Jason wakes at the first touch. He doesn’t startle, nothing that violent. He comes to with the tip of Talon’s fingernail dragging almost dauntingly up the raised bumps of his vertebral column, going from his coccyx to his lumbar to his thoracic spine before slowing right down at the vertebrae of his cervical spine.

Talon’s fingers curl over the nape of Jason’s neck, turning his head so they can watch the way his eyes blink open. Bleary and just a bit bloodshot.

There is no hint of trepidation to his gaze, his mouth pulls thinly into a smile that is a slow crawl to reach the pretty blue of his eyes when he truly registers their figures in the room.

“Slim pickings tonight?”

Because it’s early by their count.

“Picked off all the ones we needed to so we can come back to you, little wing.” Talon answers, already halfway out of his costume, every move made carelessly smooth, like the slide of silk just before it is pulled into an impossible knot. “Couldn’t have you warming an empty bed all night.“

Talon is Owlman’s partner, or that was the intention anyways.

Jason is not quite that. He is a Talon in training with plenty of other uses, much sweeter uses that get used much more often.

Out of these sheets, Jason’s a heavy hitter on the streets owned by the Syndicate. Knuckles all rough, scars running like tendrils over his hands, callouses building up on top of each other when he swings and he swings and he lands every last one on the intended target with a resultingly solid thud.

In them, his knees sink into the mattress with considerable weight, he spreads his legs for them without being asked.

And there’s the rush of blood beneath his skin, flushing him all pink, his cock hanging hard, having dripped precum to stain a patch into the sheets where he settled in their bed long before they came home to him.

“The Man gets first picks and he wants to fuck you just the way he likes you, y'know. Until your hole is all sloppy and loose,” the pad of Talon’s fingers pushing gingerly against his rim, “it’s going to be fuckin’ messy when he comes inside. Probably once or twice, or however many times he’s going to until he empties his balls out in you."

Talon doesn’t go by Richard even if that is the name his parents gave him. He goes by Dick, in love with the obscenity to it, especially when he gets Jason begging him for dick.

He barely pauses for breath.

"And then I’ll have you bouncing in my lap, working yourself on my cock, going up and down and up and down,” and Dick says this with a rhythm in his voice, like a wave washing into shore, undulating and slow when he is barely pressing a fingertip in, “either until I can feel you wrapping your tight little ass around me again or the sun comes up.

Whichever comes first, okay?”

Jason likes an outline of how his night is supposed to go, it provides expectations that he can go about fulfilling.

Even if some requests are impossible ones because how is he supposed to be able to tighten up when his body doesn’t get a break. It’s unfair when it’s daily where they use him, sometimes with him taking both of them at once.

He is a warm wet hole to sink their cocks inside when they want and how they want, one to put away once he is a perfect picture of debauchery: He is dripping their semen down from between his ass, the imprint of their teeth bloody on his inner thighs, bottom lip split, hair sore at the roots from how hard they like to pull, jaw aching something painful, and sometimes his cock is still hard between his legs.

Thomas comes up on the bed with them, and he’s still in most of his Owlman costume, the cowl pushed back to reveal his face, his pants undone, cock jutting out, hard and curving and red at the head.

Jason nods to any demand they can make of him from where his face is turned to them. Dick smiles, showing teeth, reaches around and spreads his cheeks wide apart, brandishing a slick pink hole for Thomas to fuck him from behind.

Like this, the sight of Jason sparks something terrible in Thomas. Reminds him of his little brother with his black hair, blue eyes, that last touch of remorse in that shaky moral center.

Bruce was, after all, the one he loved most.

It feels like a prelude that Jason will break at his hands too. Blood soaking into the carpets, blood splattered against the walls, a cold black hand gun pressing against the bright red of that mouth goes blindingly hot when he finally pulls the trigger.

If that comes, it’s an end that Thomas can live with. He pushes in to the hilt on the first thrust, slams home without pulling any strength with the full expectation that his boy will take him whole.

And he does, beautifully.

The short little rasp of a scream that rips out of Jason makes it perfect.

Thomas curls one arm around Jason’s waist, drags him bodily up from the mattress to his chest so the line of Jason’s spine is pressing against the front of the Owlman costume. Every catch and hidden zipper rub starkly against the expanse of skin on every thrust, leaving lovely little scratches.

Ah-ahh, ah, ah.

Each gasp and moan and whine and mewl to fall from the plush of Jason’s mouth, Talon swallows down. And he is sincerely diligent with it too when he savours every last noise like it could be Jason’s last. Dick sinks his teeth into the tip of Jason’s tongue, bites until they can taste rust.

Like fresh blood in the open waters, it gets them both in a bit of frenzy, especially when Thomas isn’t swayed, keeps going at that same brutal pace.

Thomas pulls out until just the head of his cock catches at the rim of Jason’s hole, the thickest part stretching him out for a second he feels keenly, and then Thomas is shoving right back in, sheathing himself all the way inside the clench of Jason’s body, feeling the way he squeezes down, all soft and wet and fever hot, pulsing perfectly all around him.

While Thomas keeps his other hand at Jason’s hip, pinning him still against him, Dick’s hands don’t stray far.

His fingers fleet from the bob of Jason’s Adam’s apple to the hollow of his throat, leans in with a swipe of tongue to catch the sweat pooling while he pinches a nipple between finger tips. Dick lets his nails pinch into the tender flesh, pulling it harshly until it stands erect.

Dick feels himself harden painfully at the eager tilt as Jason pulls his head back, bares his throat like an open invitation, eyes squeezing shut while his jaw clenches down on a wince when Dick yanks again.

Dick cannot wait. For how Jason’s voice breaks the prettiest when he is subdued and sobbing between them. It’s the sight of Jason’s pupils blown wide, glittering wetly when Thomas leans down and tastes shared blood in their kiss.

This is a prelude for all the tears to come.

#jaydickthomas #thomas wayne jr #jason todd #dick grayson #dc #earth 3 #anonymous #kuro's 200 subs promptathon #can i just say thank you to anon because asdfhgjk this prompt would not leave me alone until i broke and speed wrote this #prompts still open (approx 8-9 spots still i think if i can count) so keep em coming :)))

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tibbinswrites · 5 years ago

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Suptober Day 1 - Autumn

If asked, Dean would say that summer was his favourite season. He liked the heat of it, the light. Fewer opportunities for something to sneak up on him when the dry grass crunched underfoot and the hours of darkness were few. Hunts were easier in summer, he’d say; everything was just a little bit lethargic, a little less careful, a little more prone to mistakes; of course, they were too, but that just increased the thrill.

He also felt like doing more outside of hunting when the weather was consistently good. He’d drag Sam and Cas out on picnics and plan barbecues, inviting everyone in his contacts list that he actually enjoyed socialising with to spend the day enjoying good food, beer, and each other’s company.

He liked seeing trees full of green, and the strongest flowers that could hack the heat. He liked being dry in a state where it was prone to drizzle. He liked the way large expanses of water glittered in the sun, it reminded him of Cas’ eyes, and he liked the way the sunlight brought the chestnut out of his almost-black hair. He liked going for walks with Cas at dusk and not stopping until past midnight; seeing the stars felt more special in the summer, as though by making the effort to stay up later to see them, they twinkled all the brighter.

Everything felt long in summer, fixed, permanent almost. He liked that, the consistency of it, the slow drag of days full of laughter and experience. They’d take the less direct routes on the way to hunts, stopping off at tourist traps and museums and scenic places that caught their eye on the pretense of needing to stretch their legs.

Summer also meant July 4th, which meant calling a reluctant Rowena to enchant the positive armoury of fireworks he’d accumulated for his annual party.

“I’m not Gandalf,” she’d complain every year, but she never once refused, and always insisted on staying to watch the show and soak up all credit for how spectacular it inevitably was.

He always kept a few fireworks back though, and he’d wake Sam up in the middle of the night a few days later to complete the show. If Cas noticed, then he was gracious enough to not intrude, understanding that this was a tradition for the brothers alone.

Yes. If you asked him, Dean would be adamant that summer was his favourite season.

***

Sam, at the other end of the spectrum, would insist that winter was his favourite. He liked going jogging on crisp winter mornings, feeling the air sharp in his lungs, pushing himself faster, only receiving the warmth he earned by his movement. He liked curling up with a book and too many blankets, a mug of hot chocolate at his side.

He liked coming in to a bowl of his brother’s homemade vegetable soup, which he only made in the winter because “This bitch-ass weather is the only thing that can justify eating something so green.”

He liked the hush that fell over the world in winter; fewer people left their homes unless they had to, especially when it snowed. Sam liked snow; he liked how it made everything fresh and clean, how paths that he’d walked all year suddenly seemed new. Hunting was easier in winter too, he’d say, snow made tracking less difficult and the radius of hunting grounds shrank dramatically as even monsters wanted to stay closer to home.

When they celebrated it, Sam liked Christmas. For Christmas Day itself, Jody would invite them to hers for a good meal, an exchanging of gifts and a gathering of friends. There was no tree, because Cas refused point-blank to top it with a crude imitation of his kin, and no religious aspect at all because they all agreed that it was just too weird to praise Chuck, but that didn’t matter; there would be mulled wine in abundance and Claire poking fun at Cas’ text speak and the swapping of stories and a roaring fire in the grate. Dean and Donna would ‘help’ Jody in the kitchen (by which of course Sam meant that they would try to avoid Jody’s spatula when she caught them sneaking pieces of turkey or mini sausages) and Sam would find himself in an armchair by the fire, talking with Patience and Alex until he was called to help serve.

They celebrated on their own too though, and Sam liked those days just as much. The date changed each year, depending on what time they could get between hunts but it would usually be mid-December if they could manage it. Dean would whip up a special dinner (which always included an apple and cinnamon pie) and they’d drink beer and swap presents between themselves, taking the time to relax and spend time together that didn’t involve an apocalypse or a strange murder or any kind of dire news at all.

Yes. Winter, Sam would say firmly, was most definitely his favourite season.

***

Castiel would say that it was important, therefore, that his favourite season was autumn; though he’d say it with a smile and an insistence that he didn’t need to bridge the gap between the brothers, but that he was glad that he did anyway. It had taken him a long time to accept that his place of belonging as a fixed thing and he always felt it more keenly in autumn. Though autumn wasn’t fixed by any means, it was the season of change, which is what Castiel liked about it best.

The temperature didn’t really affect him, but he knew that Dean was grateful that he no longer had to change his shirt and shower twice a day and that Sam was pleased to not yet need to put on a hat and gloves in addition to his sweater.

He wasn’t convinced that autumn had any particular benefits for hunting either; it was hard to walk quietly with dry leaves and squelching mud and the rain mingled with the adjustment to the darkening days made visibility difficult.

But there was just so much colour.

In the woods outside the bunker, everything was highlighted with gold. Evergreens stubbornly clung to their virescence while the rest changed to varying shades of red, yellow, brown; trembling stems gave way until the ground was carpeted with the same, sinking into the softening ground to provide nutrients for the next generation of flora while the final rays of summer’s warmth covered them all, making Dean’s eyes sparkle and the auburn in his hair more visible and his freckles more prominent. Small animals were out in force, preparing for the winter to come, rabbits grazing, squirrels endlessly planting their nuts, foxes scavenging for what they could find. It was a time of fervent activity, and a time of peace too. Everything had a purpose in autumn, and yet it was peaceful too.

It was the season of transition, and Castiel and transition were old friends.

Castiel liked how the season seemed to act like a glue, bringing the occupants of the bunker together, not that they were distant at other times of the year but while Dean still retained his frenetic energy from the summer and while Sam’s excitement for the holiday season was growing and while Castiel was perfectly content, they made more time for each other; and while Cas enjoyed the larger get-togethers of their extended adopted family, he was even more fond of the simple game and movie nights that were held far more frequently in autumn, just the three of them.

It was in autumn that he had first saved Dean Winchester from Hell, and his unofficial Earth birthday, as termed by Dean, was a day that never passed without acknowledgement.

And then there was Thanksgiving, which had quickly become Castiel’s favourite holiday. In between hunts and visiting friends the three of them would find a day; the morning would be dedicated to a small swapping of gifts and movies, Dean would whip up a special dinner/lunch, complete with pumpkin pie naturally, and after eating (because the brothers were too impatient to wait and there always leftovers for later anyway) they would each recite list of ten things that they were thankful for and the reasons why. It was important that they make a list, without one it was all too easy to fall back on the generic things. Castiel knew that each brother added to and edited their lists throughout the year and he did the same, there was something truly special about bringing back a moment thought forgotten.

Castiel’s first item was always a list of each time that Dean had said he loved him, much to Sam’s glee and Dean’s embarrassment.

What Castiel loved most about the tradition was that they never thanked God for whatever influence He had exerted over them to bring them these things or these moments. No, they thanked each other: for staying together, for overcoming the odds, for apologies accepted, fights resolved, comforts given. They thanked each other for sharing their lives another year.

And regardless of the fact that only one of them would admit it, it was always this day that made every member of Team Free Will certain that autumn was their favourite season of the year.

If you liked this, please consider buying me a coffee.

#suptoberart2019 #spn fanfic #prompt #day 1 #autumn #destiel #team free will #TibbinsWrites

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over-a-new-leaf · 4 years ago

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things that fill me with serotonin: nature edition

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/761812093202634609/

Forgive the title, I’m not a scientist but as far as I know it’s either dopamine/ serotonin or a combination of both that promote happiness. Point is, here’s a list of things that make me happy - nature style!

- doggies approaching you and warming upto u

- the way the dark sky slowly gets brighter as the sun rises (i’ve been up too late recently)

- cool evening breeze at dusk

- noticing a new flower blooming in the garden

- plucking a fully grown fruit off a tree

- making (or trying to make) daisy chains

- trying to blow off all of a dandelion’s fuzz in one go (bonus: succeeding!)

- watching the clouds slowly glide across the sky

- walking through a flowery field

- and brushing your fingers against flower petals as you walk

- lighting a bonfire / campfire on a summery night

- or warming your hands over a hot fire in the winter

- the sound of rain pattering down against our conservatory

- the sound of a storm at night

- flashes of lightning across a dark sky

- how the outside smells after it’s rained

- a rainy day in the middle of a sunny spell

- waking up in the morning to see it’s rained the night before and there’s lil puddles everywhere

- sticking your tongue out and catching drops of rain on the tip of your tongue!

- just sitting / standing in the rain

- RAIN, period

- watching lil bees go in search of just the right flower

- plants swaying in the breeze

- noticing a previously dried up plant slowly recover and bloom again

- paying attention and noticing ants carrying things 10x their size to their lil homes

- grass when it’s grown too long and is this vibrant, luscious kinda green

- when the moon is particularly big and bright in the night sky

- the moon and the sun out together in the sky - hey! you’re not meant to be doing that 🤔🤔

- starry nights - cheaky blog ref ;)

- squirrels scurrying around, thinking they’re so sneaky

- birdsong in the early morning (do people find it annoying? i love it sm!)

- when a ladybug lands on you and someone says ‘oh it’s a sign of luck!’

- finding a smooth pebble!

- walking through a forested area after it’s rained

- and feeling the mud squelch underneath your boots

- skating your fingers over tree barks

- or over wet leaves

- the leaves rustling in the wind

- the smell of the damp ground

- the chill that crawls up your spine at a particularly strong gust of wind

- or when you walk through a forest and come across a random pond/ lake

- or a carpet of bluebells!

- standing over the edge of a lake and looking into the water

- noticing how the days get brighter and longer as we enter summer

- the sky still bright at 9pm in peak uk summer

- sinking your feet into the sand at a beach

- running towards the ocean and then away from it when a wave almost engulfs you

- the first feel of freezing cold water gushing over your toes on a hot beach day

- picking up fistfuls of sand and watching them run through your fingers like grains in an hourglass

- and then finding grains of sand in your hair and clothes and shoes later

- watching the sunset at a beach

- sitting outside in the sun on a nice, balmy sorta day

- long evening or night walks along a beach

- skipping stones across the water

- or flinging a stone as far as you can and watching out to see how far into the sea it lands

- the first swim in summer - whether it’s a public swimming pool or a salty ocean

- watching the waves die down towards the evening and night

- the sea glittering in the moonlight

- the sound of the ocean / sea

- looking down at the sea from a great height

- the feeling of walking towards a beach and hearing the waves crash against the shore and the seagulls squawking as signs you’re getting closer

- dipping your fingers in any water body, especially the sea in summer!

- fluffy ducks paddling around in ponds

- daffodils and other small buds springing up at the start of spring

- big piles or wide carpets of crimson-orange leaves in the autumn

- lying down against crunchy leaf piles

- walking barefoot through these leaves

- walking barefoot in damp sand

- walking barefoot through dewy grass

- holding snow in your bare hands (till it gets too cold)

- trying desperately to warm up your icy, burning hands after holding snow in your bare hands for too long

- the crunch of snow under your feet

- watching snow fall so much that the pavements disappear under thick white blankets

- the giddy feeling that bubbles up in you as you try and walk carefully across icy ground without slipping

- the cold, damp feeling of snow sliding down your back after someone ambushes you with a snow attack!

- shaping snow in your fingers to form angular, oddly shaped snowballs

- shaking trees or bushes and watching snow fly off the leaves (bonus points if it lands on you!)

- lying down in the snow and making snow angels!!!

- just doing your own thing when someone notices it’s started snowing

- and suddenly feeling all excited as you run to the nearest window and watch the snow fall

- or when it’s a false alarm and turns out to be hail - still fun!

- just everything mother nature does really

And there’s the list!!! Comment anything you think I missed! :)

Picture credit

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/761812093202634609/

#mental health #optimism #self love #self care #self healing #positiveenergy #nature #mother nature

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thevampireauthoress · 5 years ago

Text

One-shot fic: Decaffeination

The good doctor slouched over his desk, bullets of November rain pelted against the window and the glaring light from the screen was making his head ache. His chest heaved in a sigh as his head lifted to look at the clock. The numbers swam as he squinted, it was past eleven. His hand shook as he reached behind his laptop and found a host of forgotten mugs in varying states of emptiness. Drawing one out, he peered into the ageing liquid, the smell made his stomach turn. Pushing it hastily away, he took a moment for his gag reflex to settle before he reached back again. Grasping as many half-finished beverages as he could, he rose and strode with as much purpose as a newly risen corpse across the moth-eaten carpet.

The kitchen was lit by a stark, unshaded bulb, accentuating the white paint and cracked linoleum all around him. Watching the rancid brew swirl down the drain; he thought back to his vacation, it seemed so long ago. Listening to the dull, continuous stream of droplets against the windows, he wondered if he covered his ears just enough the rain would sound like waves. Perhaps if he turned on all the lights and the oven he could recreate a portion of the sun he had lounged in. He could sit on a raggedy deckchair he’d brought in from the balcony before the miserable weather set in and block it all out, at least for a while.

With a sigh that made cheap blinds clatter; the doctor dismissed the lingering longing, what was the point? It would only affect his electricity bill. Switching on the kettle, he reached into the cupboard, scanning labels for the instant liquid life he craved.

It wasn’t there.

He’d forgotten it.

A groan welled up from the depths of him, a mournful howl for his productivity. He snatched the next best thing and slammed the cupboard door, ripping open the box of tea like an animal.

While it brewed he stared at the mug. No.1 Best Teacher Doctor, it proclaimed. Chase had given him the mug as a gift, on his better days it could make him crack a smile. Sighing again, he lost track of how much sugar he spooned into his tea. Removing the teabag and adding the last of the milk, he went back to his desk. The words on the screen danced a tarantella in front of his eyes, his vision protesting his destructive work ethic. An annoyed growl rose in the back of his throat as he snatched up his tea and opened the door to the outside.

Exiting onto the balcony, his breath misted the glass for a moment. The precipitation had cleared somewhat, enough to lean on a balcony door without worrying about wind direction. Sliding the door shut behind him, he gazed across the skyline, lights winking over the city.

Something caught his eye on the street below, it was about the size of a large bird and a shadow was hot on its heels. It took the doctor a moment to realise what the object was as the strong winds carried it. It was a hat and a man who clearly belonged to said hat, desperately chasing it through the rain. As the doctor watched the cat-and-mouse game the man and his hat seemed to be playing, he found himself smiling, the man’s exaggerated physicality reminded him of movies from a bygone era.

Henrik stifled a cheer as the gentleman caught his flyaway headwear and dashed off into the night.

He continued to look down at the street. The city already had the decorations out, tiny fairy lights flashed in the bare trees, glittering like diamonds on the pavement.

A lighted banner with WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS was hung over the street, as it had been every year since Henrik had moved here. The good doctor did not celebrate Christmas himself but his ex-wife and children had loved the season.

He wondered idly, as he sipped his cooling tea; if he cleaned and put up the few decorations he had, whether his children could spend Christmas with him. Were they too old now for toy stethoscopes and fake thermometers? Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get the big day off. Roast a crown of turkey, and some frozen potatoes and parsnips.

Or if that was beyond his cooking capacity, he knew of a bagel place run by a Jewish family who were (rightly, Henrik noted) proud of their salt beef, he could teach them about Hanukkah in the process, maybe... maybe...

Doubt seeped into his mind, the hospital was already short-staffed and his vacation had used up all of his holidays. Stress creeped up his shoulders as he set down his half-empty mug and fell back into his habit of pacing, remembering the holiday accidents that happen without fail every year.

Henrik shook the thoughts from his head before they could take root, even if he couldn’t have his children for Christmas, Chase would probably be up for a stiff drink and a game or two after he finished work at the ER. They could order a pizza and shoot the shit until one of them fell asleep on the sofa, that would suffice and it would keep Chase out of trouble.

In his absentmindedness, the good doctor found himself in the doorway of his bedroom. He considered going back to work, but stopped himself; the unmade bed looked comfortable and the pillows soft and inviting. Pulling off his clothes and stepping into flannel pyjamas, he collapsed onto the mattress. No matter how much caffeine and sugar may have been in that tea; the good doctor fell into a sleep that was deep and, for the first time in so long, dreamless.

......

Jameson / Jackie / Marvin / Chase / Anti(?)

......

Okay, I’ve never written fanfic before (and this was longer than I intended); I’m so much more confident using my own characters, but it was good practice for sticking to characterisation. I’ll be honest, Schneep isn’t my favourite ego, but I tried my best using what I knew for sure about him. I’m 4 weeks too late for his week and I haven’t edited properly but I’ve been very busy... so there!

(Schneep doesn’t mention Jack being in a coma because I couldn’t figure out in my 3am writing sessions how to make it work without being super sad)

..... get ready for other ego one shots coming soon, any constructive feedback you could give would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Um... I’m tagging everyone who said they’d like to read it/liked the post asking if people would read it, so Geronimo I guess: @kate807 @drunkpmacultist @sptgd @lilakennedy @kcarrollworld @khushiudasi @luvstoriesatstoplights2 @flamingarbagecan @rozapast @aaliyah-j-hall

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye community #jse egos #henrik von schneeplestien #youtuber egos #fanfic #ego fanfic #the good doctor #jacksepticeye fanfiction #the vampire talks shit #the vampire writes #schneeplestien #dr schneepelstien #scheep appreciation week #decaffeination one-shot

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emperorsfoot · 5 years ago

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In this chapter, the colonizers think unseasoned chicken has too much flavor.

...and some other stuff happens.

...

The office walls were bare. Lord Hode could say what he wanted about other species and hanging useless pictures on their walls. But Zero-Zero-Three preferred to work without the distraction, and since Lord Hode had abandoned him on this Host forsaken rock, the recently demoted Captain felt he was entitled to ignore his Lord's opinion on the matter. So, the abstract paintings came down. The blood-soaked carpet was ripped up and replaced with dull gray floor-panels.

Zero-Zero-Three took over rule, as he was commanded. Set his forces to rooting out and destroying the last remnants of the native's rebellion, and re-solidifying Imperial Horde control of not just the planet but the system.

The short lived native revolution and subsequent Imperial backlash and takeover had left a large percentage of the population's young parentless. Unlike Horde clones, these naturally hatched creatures (or naturally born, in all honesty Zero-Zero-Three was unclear on how non-cloned beings did things) did not possess either the physical ability or the mental capacity to care for themselves. Some could not even walk on their own or feed themselves yet. Apparently, those were things that came with time out of the –uh, egg. Without adults to care for them, the care for these orphans –orphans being a new word Zero-Zero-Three learned, meaning an offspring without living parents- the care for these orphans fell to the ruling body. Fell on the Empire. Fell on Zero-Zero-Three as the Imperial Territory Captain ruling the planet in Horde Prime's name.

Massaging the side of his head, Zero-Zero-Three suppressed the urge to groan. Why couldn't all beings just hatch from tanks? Artificially grown. At a physical age resembling adulthood. With the knowledge and understanding they would need to be self-sufficient already programed into them. Why did other beings have to be so… primitive?

No clone trooper could be expected to care for these orphans. But without care they would most certainly succumb and expire. That would not do, since the Empire relied on the populations of conquered worlds for labor to support their clone armies. The job of child care would have to be delegated to their own people. But to prevent another generation of rebels to be raised, Zero-Zero-Three had to offer incentives to those who remained loyal to the Horde Empire.

All the property of the rebels was seized by the Empire. Dwellings of appropriate size were repurposed to house hatchlings orphaned by the battle –or just orphaned in general. Why limit it only to the offspring of dead rebels. All hatchlings had the potential to grow up into useful adult units that could support the Empire. Adult natives who worked to care for these parentless hatchlings were given room and board in the dwelling with them, plus double rations. If they already had homes of their own, or families of their own and still took care of the Empire's orphans, then their whole family was given double rations.

Since Lord Hode had said that their culture placed importance on children and the family unit, Zero-Zero-Three felt it necessary to make a show of offering relief to those with offspring and families.

Hode often liked to repeat that if one understood a species, one could control a species. Zero-Zero-Three wasn't sure if he believed that entirely. But, he did have to admit that local aliens –across multiple worlds, over average- were less discontent, and less likely to revolt when the occupying Territory Captain made concessions in favor of local interests. Here, local interests were children and families. So, Zero-Zero-Three implemented policies that would ease the hardships of children and families.

He must have been doing something right. Because by the time the planet completed a single rotation around its sun, the previous uprising was a thing of the past. If it was spoken of, it was along the lines of 'hey, remember that thing that happened?' 'Yeah… but it's better now.' With no mention of recent decent.

Zero-Zero-Three walked down the main street that lead out from the capitol building. The same street that, one planetary year ago, had run green with native blood, was now clean and almost sparkling. Paved with a composite stone made from local aggregate minerals. It was overall a muted and neutral gray color. But when the sun hit it just so, tiny flecks of the aggregate in it reflected the light and shone with multiple colors. Like the facets of a prism, or ombre tones of a pearl. It was actually quite pretty. (Not that Zero-Zero-Three would ever admit out loud that he found the literal ground beneath his feet pretty.) Hode would have liked it. He would have made some comment about the aliens choosing to use a sparkly mineral for utilitarian purposes like paving was 'whimsical' –whatever that meant.

It wasn't just the literal street itself that was brighter.

The buildings that lined the way –most of which were businesses- were open, full, and thriving. Nearest the capital building were stores for convince. Which sold an eclectic collection of bottled water, speeder fuel, domestic coolant, adhesive bandages, poor quality chargers for mobile communicators, lighters, and any manner of other items one might need in a pinch. Then there were the eateries. Local restaurants and cafes that served local foods. Overall, the Horde did not eat local foods no matter what planet they were on. Overall, most clones preferred the bland and flavorless ration bars that were provided for them. Alien cuisine held too much flavor and was overpowering to the clone pallet.

"Captain, hey, Captain, you gotta try this!" But every now and again, one clone trooper would diverge from his brothers and develop a taste for local fair.

Looking across the plaza, Zero-Zero-Three saw the brother that was trying to flag him down. Sitting in the outdoor seating area of a café was a clone trooper like himself. Identical in face and pigmentation. But wearing the zero-suit of a wing-pilot. Ugh. Wing-pilots. Zero-Zero-Three would be lying if he did not admit that he was not fond of them. Those that piloted the batwing-class fighters did not comport themselves with dignity and restraint as befitted the clones of the Emperor of the Known Universe. Wing-pilots, were energetic, flippant, liberal, and impulsive. It was rumored that they got different programming and conditioning in the tanks, and that was why their behavior was so… abrasive to other more conventional clones.

Suppressing the urge to groan, Zero-Zero-Three crossed the street to silence the brother that was trying so animatedly to make a scene.

"Be silent!" He snarled. "And behave yourself as if you were made from the most perfect being in the universe."

"Right." Nodded the wing-pilot as if he'd merely forgotten that he was supposed to be a tall scary soldier within a military engine for Imperial colonization and control. He cleared his throat, then in a more controlled tone began again. "Captain Zero-Zero-Three, the locals of this café have made a dish especially for us. You must try it. It's very good! They call it 'unseasoned fowl'."

Zero-Zero-Three peered down at the all white-meat cut of bird on his brother's plate. Unprocessed meats did not appeal to him. He turned his eyes back to his brother. "Eating local cooking is the fastest way to get yourself poisoned." He informed the clone. "See that your batwing is serviced and your bunk is in order before you die."

Zero-Zero-Three continued walking.

After the restaurants and the cafes, were the most useless of businesses: the curios and keepsake shops. Places that sold tiny statuettes, and globes filled with fluid with flecks of glitter that swirled around when you shook them, unnecessary clothing articles, or accessories, highly edited photos. Junk. Stores that sold junk. Clutter.

But then Zero-Zero-Three paused in front of the window of one shot that proudly claimed to sell 'classic art', as opposed to 'contemporary art' –the distinction was something Hode went out of his way to explain to Zero-Zero-Three. 'Contemporary art' was relevant to the time in which it was made. 'Contemporary art' for this planet, in this time, usually featured muted colors, simplified lines, and the winged emblem of the occupying Horde Empire somewhere within the piece. But 'classic art' for this planet was brighter, more vibrant. Featuring almost all the colors of the spectrum and depicting subjects of whimsy and frivolity. One in particular caught Zero-Zero-Three's attention.

In the shop window was displayed a painting of one of the alien natives, sitting in a sunny meadow, with some kind of string instrument laying across their four legs. Zero-Zero-Three did not care for the image as a whole. Not really. He had no love for the cultural clutter that was art. But the string instrument featured in the image reminded him of his Lord. Since Hode had chosen to reminisce about their first meeting before he left Zero-Zero-Three on this world, the younger clone had often recalled that same meeting often since his Lord left.

A mission briefing. The first mission briefing Zero-Zero-Three attended since being promoted to a sub-Commander, and an unorthodox briefing as far as he could tell.

Lord Hode gathered all his Force Captains and their sub-Commanders into the Gallery Deck of the Vinyl Hood, and after explaining that their targets were Randor and his brother –who's name escaped Zero-Zero-Three now- they were deposed princes from an already conquered world, and had turned rebel leaders. Hode insisted on playing a song from that very same already conquered world. That was when Zero-Zero-Three asked the relevance, the question that drew him to his Lord's attention. No other clone would have ever dared question a cabinet Lord, no matter how irrelevant they thought his eccentricities were.

'An insight into the enemy mind.' Hode had answered simply. Even back then, he tried to encourage those who served under him to study and understand the races they conquered and ruled. 'If you understand a species, you can control them.'

Zero-Zero-Three had no idea where Hode learned to play an instrument. He found it hard to imagine some terrified native of some conquered world calming down enough to teach a cabinet Lord to pluck the strings in any order that might produce a tune.

The Host knew the Horde did not have musical instruments! The Horde did not compose music, or sing songs. The Horde had no need for such things.

Looking at the painting in the window and remembering that unorthodox mission briefing, Zero-Zero-Three could even almost recall the lyrics to that strange alien song. '…Wielding blades of steel and light, the purest spirit, sealed inside…'

Acting on impulse and surprising himself as much as the shop owner, Zero-Zero-Three pushed the door open and stepped inside. A tiny little bell over the door tinkling to announce him. The poor shop owner looked like they might faint when they saw it was a Horde officer that had just entered. They probably thought they were about to be raided.

"That. In the window." Zero-Zero-Three pointed at the canvas stretched over a wooden frame before the alien could speak.

The shop owner blinked their ocular organs at him, waiting for the Territory Captain to finish his statement. When he didn't, the alien –speaking in heavily accented and broken Imperial Basic- offered, "Would Sir like the painting?"

Then Zero-Zero-Three realized he wasn't actually sure what he wanted. He certainly didn't want it for himself. He had no use for 'art'.

"I could make it a gift for Sir." The alien clarified that they had no illusions about charging a payment from a Horde soldier.

A gift, yes. Not for himself, he had no use for the art. But for Lord Hode. Zero-Zero-Three would never be so weak as to beg his Lord to come back and take him away from this place. To take him back into space. By his Lord's side. Where he belonged. But a gift of art –which Lord Hode was fond of- would at least remind the older clone that Zero-Zero-Three still existed. That he did as ordered. That he did not complain. That he was a good servant. Then, maybe, after being reminded of that, Hode might return to this world, collect Zero-Zero-Three, and take him away from this place.

"Yes." Nodded Zero-Zero-Three, arms folding behind his back in a rest. "I will take it."

…

But Zero-Zero-Three did not hear back from Hode after he sent the gift to his Lord. Not even a short message wave over the extranet to thank Zero-Zero-Three for the gift. Of course, cabinet Lords did not need to thank those beneath them for paying tribute. But Hode usually tended to make an effort to acknowledge the efforts of those below him. He said he received a high quality performance from subordinates that felt recognized. So it was odd to Zero-Zero-Three that he never even received a message from his Lord confirming that he even got it.

Such an occurrence was so out of character for the older clone, that Zero-Zero-Three hunted down his logistics officer to make sure it was even sent in the first place.

The logistics officer looked downright insulted that his Territory Captain thought he was so incompetent as to march down to his office and demand a follow-up report. "Yes, Captain, I sent the package to Lord Hode aboard the Vinyl Hood." He insisted. "I can't presume to know why the Lord hasn't responded to you yet. I'm sure he's very busy. He is a Lord after all."

Maybe you're just not as important to him as you thought you were.

"Where is the Vinyl Hood now?" Zero-Zero-Three asked instead. Maybe with the ship were within a hundred lightyears or less, he could just call Lord Hode directly over the com-set and ask if he received the painting and if he liked it.

The logistics officer huffed. Actually huffed. As if following the order of his Territory Captain and commanding officer were a great inconvenience for him. As if Zero-Zero-Three were being absurd and the logistics officer was only humoring him because he was the other clone's commanding officer.

He punched the request into his terminal, then paused. Confused by what it told him. "Huh. That's odd."

"What is? What's odd?" Demanded Zero-Zero-Three.

"It says here the Vinyl Hood's been decommissioned." He explained.

"That can't be right." Zero-Zero-Three insisted. "The Vinyl Hood is the flagship of a cabinet Lord. They don't just decommission those out of the black on a whim."

The only time in his own living memory that Zero-Zero-Three could recall a cabinet Lord's flagship being decommissioned was after that cabinet Lord had died.

Remembering that, a horrifying thought occurred to Zero-Zero-Three. Lord Hode was very old. The oldest clone he knew of. He had never known a Horde clone to die of 'old age' before. Almost all clones were killed. 'Natural causes' was not a thing within the Horde military machine. But if anyone was going to die of 'natural causes' it would be the oldest one.

He looked back at the logistics officer. "Does it give a reason?"

"No, Captain." The other answered. "I don't have the appropriate clearance for that. And it's not pertinent to my duties."

"Let me see." Zero-Zero-Three pushed the other officer out of the way and keyed his own clearance and access codes into the terminal. Apparently, as a Territory Captain and former-Force Captain working under the direct command of a cabinet Lord, he still did not have the appropriate clearance either. Zero-Zero-Three growled in the back of his throat, baring his teeth at the screen. How dare it deny him.

Next to him, the logistics officer seemed unconcerned. He sipped a mug of caff –an alien beverage from another world that was strong and unpleasant in flavor, but high in caffeine. "Are you done, Captain? Because I would very much like to get back to work now."

Zero-Zero-Three snarled at him too, but said nothing. Storming away, he returned to his own duties as ruling Imperial agent of the system. He had other things to concern him besides what may or may not have happened to the Lord who abandoned him here –even if his Lord's fate was very concerning.

As he watched the Territory Captain stomp away, the logistics officer just continued to sip his caff.

…

Responsibilities as a Territory Captain kept Zero-Zero-Three busy. While the decommissioning of the Vinyl Hood did concern him greatly, he could not afford spend too much time thinking on it. He didn't have the appropriate clearance to inquire about it, so there was no point in trying. All he'd succeed in doing would be to irritate his Lord –assuming Hode was even still alive to annoy. Zero-Zero-Three didn't know, and that was also a concern he tried not to spend too much time thinking on.

Then a memo crossed his desk informing the Territory Captain –him- that the Velvet Glove, the Emperor's flagship was enroute to the system and due to arrive at the planet within the week.

Zero-Zero-Three almost fainted when he read that –and it had nothing to do with his defects.

The Velvet Glove! The Emperor's flagship! Was Horde Prime coming? He rarely entrusted his personal ship and pride of the Horde space fleet to anyone else. Horde Prime, the Emperor of the Known Universe was coming to his system, to his planet.

In a bit of a panic, Zero-Zero-Three opened up a conference call between all the pertinent departments. Himself, his chief security officer, the wing squadron leader, communications secretary, and the asshat from logistics (whom slurped at a mug of caff loudly through out the whole video conference).

'Within the week' meant 'less than a week'. Horde Prime did not give them much time to prepare, arrange accommodations appropriate for the Emperor of the Known Universe, organize a suitable welcoming with all the necessary displays of loyalty and reverence. As Lord Hode taught him all those years ago, that's all it was. A show. A show of loyalty. A show of power. Zero-Zero-Three didn't need to be shown how powerful his Big Brother was. But he desperately wanted his Brother to know how much he revered and adored his Emperor and genetic template.

All Horde clones revered Horde Prime. He was their creator. The Horde did not have gods, but Horde Prime was definitely 'god-like' to them.

Standing on the covered platform of the spacedock, Zero-Zero-Three felt a lump of nervousness form in his throat.

The last report, from when the ships came out of hyperspace, was that it was not just the Velvet Glove and its escorts. It was the Velvet Glove, the Linen Cloak, the Lycra Pant, and the Leather Vest. Three of the four cabinet Lords' flagships. All but the Vinyl Hood, which Zero-Zero-Three already knew was decommissioned.

Why would the Emperor and his whole cabinet –minus Hode- come to this little world he'd been marooned on? This little world who's only trait of value was that it was an almost equal distance between Capitol Core and Old Revenan.

Zero-Zero-Three stood nervously at parade rest. He was all the more aware of how tight the high collar of his uniform was. He wanted to reach up a talon to unclasp one of the fasteners and allow himself some breathing room, but he the highest ranking officer on the planet, it was his duty to greet the Emperor's party. He was about to meet the Emperor of the Known Universe, actually meet him, not just glimpse a triangle of fabric from his cape from across the room. Zero-Zero-Three was going to see him. He did not want to look disheveled in the presence of his Emperor. His Brother. The Brother of all.

The capitol ships remained in orbit over the planet. Horde Prime and his cabinet came down in shuttles. Three shuttles and one batwing painted a non-standard shade of red –that one would be Lord Hordwing, it was said he was a Wing Captain before being elevated to cabinet Lord and refused to let other brothers pilot for him.

Lord Red Hord's shuttle landed first.

But the hatch did not even open until Emperor Prime landed and exited his.

Only then did Lord Red Hord and Lord Hordren disembark from their own crafts and join their Emperor on the platform.

Sinking down to one knee, eyes on the floor, the flat palm of his right hand going over his heart, Zero-Zero-Three executed the bow he spent less than a week practicing. Every clone was programed with knowledge of the correct etiquette for meeting their Emperor and Brother. But none of them ever felt the need to practice said etiquette. There was over three billion of them, and only one Horde Prime. Most clones went their whole lives and never met their Brother.

Zero-Zero-Three kept his eyes focused on the ground between them, waiting for the order to rise. Just within the peripheral of his vision were the steel-toes of Prime's boots, and the faintest whispering of the hem of a green cape. It was about as much of the Emperor as the clone got to see back in the Grand Throne Room aboard the Velvet Glove so many years ago.

"You are the Territory Captain in charge of this world." Prime announced. It was not a question. Horde Prime probably had legions of aids to brief him on what Captains were in charge of what planets or troops. The Emperor knew his rank, his serial number, who assigned him his post, and how long he'd been installed on this world.

"Captain Zero-Zero-Three, Your Grace." He answered without lifting his eyes.

"A First Row." Prime commented.

A clone hatched from one of the tanks in the first row of a hundred. There were fifty crèches in total on Capital Core, each crèche held nine-hundred tanks, all divided into nine long rows of one hundred each. The clones in the first one hundred tanks were the first to be hatched in any crèche. There was also a saying about First Rows. 'First out of the tank, first to die'. There was no formally compiled evidence to show whether this was true or not. All clone troopers had high mortality rates. Soldiers tended to die frequently. That was why the cloning factory produced so many. To keep up with turn-over.

The planet he was stationed on had completed one of its local years. However, planetary years were based on planetary rotations around their local sun(s). Standard Imperial Years were measured off a different system and tended to be longer than the average planetary year. Zero-Zero-Three answered in Imperial Years.

"I am eleven SIY." He still kept his eyes down. The Emperor had no given him leave to rise yet.

"A long lifespan." Did Prime sound impressed? Zero-Zero-Three hoped his Emperor was Impressed. Most clones did not make it past their eight SIY.

"That's what I've been told, Your Grace." Zero-Zero-Three didn't know what else he was supposed to say to a statement like that. When he learned of his condition and the handicaps that came with it, he didn't expect to live much longer beyond that. Now, here he was, meeting the Emperor.

Did Hode know this would happen? 'Preform your duties here well, and you just might find yourself elevated above a Force Captain.' Was that what was happening here? Lord Hode was gone and Prime needed a new clone to fill his cabinet. But… if that were true, then Lord Hode was…

Zero-Zero-Three felt his heart hammer against his ribcage, and it had nothing to do with his defects.

"Rise, Little Brother." Commanded Prime.

He called him 'Little Brother'. Zero-Zero-Three was not prepared to the fuzzy, light-headed feeling when the Emperor of the Know Universe –whom was Brother to all- called him 'Little Brother'. He was almost… giddy? Was giddiness a feeling Horde clones could experience? If so, that's what Zero-Zero-Three felt. Horde Prime called him 'Little Brother'!

He kept his eyes down as he rose from his bow. Trailing up the Emperor's body. Steel-toed boots that melted seamlessly into metal greaves. Utilitarian combat tights, nothing fancy or pretentious Horde Prime was a warrior first and a ruler second. One arm hung casually at his side, the other hand rested casually on his hip. Both covered in light plate armor going all the way down to the tips of his talons. It gave the illusion that his arms and hands were made of steel and not flesh. A chest that was lightly armored, the breastplate emblazoned with the red-winged emblem of the Horde Empire. A cape of bright green falling from the armor of his shoulders. Hesitantly, Zero-Zero-Three raised his eyes up to look at the Emperor's face.

He was expecting to see his own face looking back at him. After all, he had the same face as all his other brothers. They were all clones of the same man. This man. Their face was his face.

Prime was taller than Zero-Zero-Three. Taller than all his clones. They were all the same height. But Prime stood almost a head above Zero-Zero-Three. His face was older than he expected too. As old as Hode looked, in fact. With more lines under his eyes, and coming down from his bottom lip, creases on his forehead and over his ears. And scars! Zero-Zero-Three never imagined his genetic template having scars. He never thought anything in the universe could harm his Brother. He was a perfect being! How could he have been injured to have scars?

One long diagonal gash starting from just above his ear on the left side, and cutting down across his face to end at his chin on the right. The scar looked old. Rough skin knitted together unevenly, and darkened with age.

Zero-Zero-Three didn't realize he was staring until Prime spoke again.

"Show me this planet you've been holding for me." He commanded.

"Yes, Your Grace." Zero-Zero-Three preformed an overly theatrical about-face and was about to lead his Emperor off of the spacedock platform.

But before he could take even one step, Red Hord mentioned, "Hordwing is still flying around."

Freezing in his step, Zero-Zero-Three experienced a brief moment of panic. Did he just offend his Emperor and the cabinet by forgetting and excluding Lord Hordwing? Turning his head, the clone looked past the Emperor and Lords to see if Hordwing's red-painted batwing was coming in to dock.

Hordwing appeared to be doing loops and barrel-rolls over the city.

Horde Prime did not even look back to see what his third cabinet Lord was doing in his personal, one-man, fighter. "Leave him be. He will tire himself out, and be presentable by dinner." To Zero-Zero-Three he said, "Lead the way, Captain."

In a bit of a daze, the clone turned back around and began leading the Imperial party without actually knowing where they were going or what he should show them. Zero-Zero-Three wasn't expecting to have to make any decisions during this visit. He was expecting the Emperor or the cabinet to give him his orders. They were his superiors. What did he know about what they wanted?

He decided to begin by showing them the space port. It was the only redeeming thing about this planet.

Trade.

It was equal distances between Capital Core and Old Revenan. Right in the center of the Empire. Center of the Empire, and center of trade. Everything passed through here. Synthetic embryotic fluid for cloning, coaxium, taydenite, and spice. Raw materials like iron, carbon, the steel that was made from them, copper, silver, gold. Clean water. Unprocessed food resources like wheat, barley, rice, quinoa, corn, and the ration bars that were made from them. Also textiles like silks, wool, linen, velvet, vinyl, leather, and lycra. Tiles, and bricks, and glass. Cement, plasters, industrial space adhesives, epoxies.

The spaceport was booming with activity.

Hundreds of different ship designs, crewed by thousands of different kinds of aliens. Loading, unloading, haggling with yet other aliens. A busy center of commerce, teeming with activity.

Prime's expression remained impassive as Zero-Zero-Three pointed out the security check points he added. He was a little reluctant to point out the other non-military changes he'd made, such as a care center specifically for the offspring of those that worked at the docks. Since the native culture placed a high importance on their offspring, they could work for the Empire, and work calmly and more efficiently knowing their children were nearby. Also scheduling breaks and mealtimes, as well as setting caps for how long work shifts could be. Lord Hode tried to teach him that not all races had the stamina that was engineered into Horde clones. Other races needed to pace themselves. Other races needed breaks. Other races needed to stop and sleep after so much activity. (It was a lesson Zero-Zero-Three was beginning to understand himself, as his defects required him to rest more often and consume more calories than his brothers to keep up his energy.)

But then Prime directly asked Zero-Zero-Three how he managed to, not only recover after the revolt, but actually improve on the numbers from the previous Territory Captain prior to said revolt. So, Zero-Zero-Three told him. Showed his the child-care center, the breakroom, the workers only lounge, the barracks for those that did not have pre-existing homes to go back to after shifts. All the while, Prime's face remained an impassive mask. Impossible to read. Not even the curtesy of ear movements to clue the nervous Captain in on his Emperor's thoughts.

From behind Prime, Lord Hordren asked how Zero-Zero-Three could trust the natives to work the shipping yards with so many freedoms so soon after a rebellion had just been squelched. All the changes he implemented looked an awful lot like privileges given to worlds and peoples that remained loyal. What had these creatures done to earn such difference?

Zero-Zero-Three paused, feeling nervous again with all three pairs of eyes on him now. Not just Lord Hordren, but Lord Red Hord and the Emperor himself. A cabinet Lord had asked him a question. He shouldn't hesitate too long in answering.

"Incentive." He blurted out. Then quickly scrambled to give a more eloquent and detailed explanation. "I was not originally a Territory Captain. Before this, I was a Force Captain. I commanded Your Grace's military and kept peace in the Empire. I have put down more rebellions than I can count-" Zero-Zero-Three knew the exact number of rebellions he'd put down since becoming a Force Captain "-and one consistent theme between them all seemed to be that the rebels felt they had more incentive to resist than to accept Imperial rule. Giving them more incentive to remain obedient reduces the chances of rebellion."

Red Hord tapped his chin in thought. He used to be a Force Captain before he was a cabinet Lord. Zero-Zero-Three knew that because he knew Red Hord before he was 'Lord Red Hord'. Back when the other clone was just Captain Four-Zero-Eight. He wondered what opinion another Force Captain might have.

But then Red Hord glanced to Prime, looking to the Emperor for the final word. Hordren was also looking to Prime, and Zero-Zero-Three wondered if they knew something of their Brother's thoughts already. They were cabinet Lords. They were closest to the Emperor. If anyone could guess what Prime was thinking, it would be them.

Zero-Zero-Three felt his ears droop when it occurred to him that Prime might disapprove of how lenient he was with this world. Should he have been stricter? Impose an earlier curfew. Have more frequent sweeps of the city. More surveillance and security at the ports and docks. Did Prime think Zero-Zero-Three was irresponsible and negligent. Or worse, lazy. A failure. Useless.

Zero-Zero-Three did not know how to hold a planet.

There was an uncomfortably long pause in which no one said anything and everyone was looking at Prime.

Finally, the Emperor turned, almost as if he'd lost interest in the space port and the shipping docks. "Be carful, Captain, a being might not have the 'incentive' to remain obedient to you if they get the chance to experience something… else."

Red Hord and Hordren looked momentarily tense.

Zero-Zero-Three blinked, confused. Prime placed so much weight on 'someone else', he wondered if there was another meaning in that statement that he was just too ignorant or too much of a 'slow learner' to understand. His ears drooped just a fraction before he caught the action and consciously forced the muscles in his ears to stand up.

"We'll have to wait to see the long-term results of these policies of yours." Emerald green cape swirling around his ankles, Prime moved to the corridors that would eventually take them out of the shipping dock complex. "I am board of menial laborers. Show me your administrative bases."

So, Zero-Zero-Three took the Imperial party to the capitol building. He drove the landspeeder (that was adapted for urban use) himself.

Hordwing's custom red batwing dove low and zoomed over the streets and between buildings multiple times as they drove. The first couple of times this happened it startled Zero-Zero-Three enough that he thought he might have to take evasive action to protect the Emperor.

But Prime and the rest of the cabinet seemed unaffected. After the third time –when Zero-Zero-Three was just starting to acclimate to the distraction- Red Hord slouched in his seat, massaging the side of his head, and muttered, "By the Host, 'Wing, haven't you calmed down yet?"

For half a moment, Zero-Zero-Three was about to ask what it was that Lord Hordwing might need to calm down from. But reminded himself that Hordwing was a cabinet Lord and it was not any of his business. Then he remembered that the Lord used to be a Wing Captain before he was elevated to the cabinet. Wing-pilots were just… that way.

For the rest of the drive, Zero-Zero-Three tried to ignore the bright red batwing that seemed determined to panic every single being within the city –native, visiting alien, and clone trooper alike.

Overall, Zero-Zero-Three's administrative and clerical practices were not all that different from any other Territory Captain's. All clones were programmed the same in the tank. They all thought, more-or-less, the same, and all organized things more-or-less the same. Horde Prime lost interest in touring the capitol building even quicker than he grew board of the spaceport and shipping docks.

There was one gratifying moment, however, as the party was passing the work station of that asshat logistics officer who slurped his caff loudly. He was sucking on his mug of caff, making those obnoxiously loud sipping sounds, when he noticed the Emperor just walked by him and he spilled his mug of –hot- caff all over his lap. Hearing him holler in pain made Zero-Zero-Three the happiest he'd been all week.

Prime's unreadable stone expression did not change. By the end of the tour, Zero-Zero-Three didn't know if he'd done well in his position, or disappointed his Emperor in all categories.

"I see you've kept the government up to standards." Was all the Emperor said, and the clone decided to take that as a complement. At least, he did not disappoint. He was 'up to standards'. "You may show me to what passes for comfortable quarters on this world then return to your duties. But I expect you to join us for dinner, Captain."

"Your Grace?" Zero-Zero-Three had to make sure he heard that right. Horde Prime, the Emperor of the Known Universe, and Brother to all, had invited him to share a meal? He felt slightly light headed again and had no idea if it was from his defects or not.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Captain, I am not an indulgent man." Prime informed him.

"No, of course not, Your Grace!" Zero-Zero-Three quickly shut up and showed Prime to the rooms he'd had furnished as private living quarters for the Emperor.

The communique only said the Emperor was coming. It did not mention that three of four cabinet Lords would all be in attendance, and so Zero-Zero-Three hadn't prepared anything for them. Once Prime was settled, enjoying the privacy of his rooms, the clone rushed to get three other rooms cleaned, furnished, and ready for Hordren, Hordwing, and Red Hord.

It was a whirlwind of barking orders, motion, carted furniture, flying linens, and many varied alien expletives that Zero-Zero-Three had never heard before. He warned each and every being that used such vulgar language –both alien and clone trooper alike- that such profanity would not be tolerated while the Emperor was in residence. This was the only warning. Make sure everyone else knew to comport themselves with dignity and respect. If he had to repeat himself, there would be no other warnings, Zero-Zero-Three would start taking tongues.

Everything was finally ready by the time Hordwing's batwing finally landed in the courtyard outside the capitol building. One pronged wing of the fighter almost decapitating the fountain statue that Lord Hode had made Zero-Zero-Three study when he first arrived on this world.

He rushed down to greet the cabinet Lord properly.

Red Hord was already down there by the time Zero-Zero-Three came running up.

He stopped short. It looked like the two were talking and Zero-Zero-Three did not want to interrupt what might be an important –if informal- discussion between two cabinet members.

Still snippets of the conversation couldn't help but drift to his ears. All Horde clones had excellent hearing. The pointed shape and long length of their ears didn't miss much.

"…I do my best thinking in a cockpit." Lord Hordwing seemed to be explaining. "I was thinking about what the Old Ghoul was saying before-"

He cut himself off abruptly, noticing Zero-Zero-Three there.

"Do you have something to do, trooper?" Hordwing snapped.

Coming up to the pair properly, Zero-Zero-Three gave the two Lords the exact same bow he always gave to his own Lord. Bending at the waist to the appropriate depth. Holding it for the appropriate length. Then straitening. "Lord, Hordwing, I am Captain Zero-Zero-Three, the Territory Captain in charge of this world."

"Hode's favorite." Hordwing looked him up and down.

Zero-Zero-Three felt a little shock run through him as being called Hode's 'favorite'. That couldn't have been true. If he really was his Lord's favorite, why had he left him here? Why hadn't he kept his by his side? And where was Lord Hode anyway? No one had yet offered an explanation for his absence. Which left Zero-Zero-Three's mind to wander, and his mind could wander to some bleak places.

Whatever Hordwing saw from his once-over examination, he did not seem impressed. "This is the one? He doesn't look dangerous."

Resisting the urge to fidget like a newly hatched clone, Zero-Zero-Three felt insulted. He was a soldier made from the template of the most powerful being in the universe. Trained in combat and military craft since before he could form conscious thought. He was a machine for conquest through violence. He was dangerous. He was exactly as dangerous as any of his brothers. Exactly as dangerous as Hordwing was.

Hordwing offered him a second glance. "You're thinner than the average trooper. Did you used to be a pilot before the Old Ghoul banished you here?"

Over average, batwing pilots tended to be a bit leaner and less muscular than the average clone trooper. Their gods did not make the same demands on their bodies, and so they received different physical training. Now Zero-Zero-Three looked Hordwing over.

He was wearing the zero-suit of a pilot, all black with the winged emblem of the Horde emblazoned on the chest. But, like all officers of consequence, he had augmented the look to suit his own tastes. The red wind raising up to the shoulders and turning into stripes that traveled all the way down the arms to the tips of the fingers of his gloves. Hordwing was slight of build compared to Red Hord. He kept up his pilot's physique even as a cabinet Lord. But he was still thicker and more muscles than Zero-Zero-Three.

Perhaps Hode was right. Perhaps he should alter his uniform and armor to conceal his falling body mass.

"I am unaccustomed to the duties of a Territory Captain." He answered honestly. He did not know how to hold a planet. "I find that I sometimes forget my standard ration intake while trying to complete them."

"So, you're thoughtless and irresponsible." Concluded the Lord.

This time Zero-Zero-Three definitely, definitely was insulted.

Hordwing grabbed Red Hord by the arm and brushed past the other clone. "Prime will be expecting up for dinner and he'll want me showered and dressed."

Glancing back at Zero-Zero-Three, Red Hord offered him an almost sympathetic smile. "Our Brother does not eat ration bars. You might want to prepare your stomach for unprocessed foods."

…

Zero-Zero-Three was glad for the warning.

He had no idea how one 'prepared their stomach' to eat food it was unaccustomed to, but at least he wasn't surprised when an alien server –not one of his own, a servant from the Velvet Glove- placed a cut of unseasoned poultry and steamed green vegetables in front of him.

Looking up at those seated around the table, Zero-Zero-Three felt so out of place. The Emperor of the Known Universe seated at the head of the table. Lord Hordren, administrator of the Fourth Division seated at his right hand. Next to Hordren was Hordwing, administrator of the First Division. Then Red Hord, administrator of the Second Division. The most powerful beings in the universe (minus Hode, whom no one had yet said why he was absent) seated at one table together. What was a humble Captain like Zero-Zero-Three doing here?

No one started eating until Horde Prime took his first bite, and it was noted that Prime's meat was dripping with sauce and seasoned with herbs. He, it seemed, was not overpowered by flavor in his food. But then, he was a perfect being. Perhaps perfect beings were just unbothered in general.

The cabinet Lords all nibbled at their own plates and –to spite the lack of seasoning- did not appear to be enjoying their meals as much as Prime was enjoying his.

Was Prime enjoying his? His expression remained neutral. Unreadable. Passive. Almost apathetic. As if he didn't even care that his kitchen staff that he brought with him off his ship went out of their way to tailor the plates of the Emperor and each of his Lords, and his guest to their pallets.

Cutting himself a conservatively sized bite, Zero-Zero-Three brought the meat to his mouth and chewed on it slowly. The texture was not unpleasant. The flesh was tender, but juicy. Cooked enough to be done all the way through, but not overcooked so as to be dry. It was very well prepared. That was not the problem. The problem was the flavor. Too much flavor. Even unseasoned, the meat of the bird had a taste all its own that was much, much stronger than what Zero-Zero-Three was used to. Than the negative-flavor of the ration bars issued by the Horde military commissary. Zero-Zero-Three was not used to it, and he quickly decided that he did not like it. He wondered if it would insult Prime if he didn't eat the rest of it. One bite was more than enough for him.

"How does it compare?" Asked Prime from over his own plate.

"It is not what I'm used to." Zero-Zero-Three answered honestly.

The Emperor seemed unsurprised. The vast majority of his clones preferred the processed rations he manufactured for them over real cooking made from fresh ingredients.

"And being a Territory Captain instead of a Force Captain, how does that compare?" Prime continued.

Zero-Zero-Three frowned, not sure what kind of answer his Emperor wanted. "It is very different." He finally decided was both true, but also a neutral enough answer to not offend anyone at the table. "Half as active and half as exciting than being a Force Captain, but somehow twice as stressful."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Prime's mouth cracked into a facsimile of a smile. Not quite a true-smile, but something adjacent to one. It was the first actual expression he'd seen the Emperor make. Setting his form down, he rapped his steel-tipped talons on the tablecloth. "That's a clever way to describe it. I did not know you were clever, Captain."

Zero-Zero-Three flushed. Ears darkening a deeper shade of blue, face feeling warm. The Emperor of the Known Universe, his genetic template, his Brother thought he was clever.

"What you have done on this world and with the shipping docks was also quite clever." Prime continued. "Appealing to local values to keep them in line. It's something Hode would have done." It was the first time anyone had mentioned Lord Hode by name since the party arrived, and Zero-Zero-Three couldn't help but notice that it was said in past tense. "I wonder, are you actually clever, or are you just copying his strategies?"

"Your Grace?" He asked, unsure how to answer that question.

"I remember you." Horde Prime informed him. "You jumped to defend Hode at Horrin's trial. You insulted your Lord in front of his Emperor by presuming he needed defending. Yet, Hode still favored you for many years. Why?"

"Well, I-" Zero-Zero-Three had no idea. He had no idea why Hode seemed to show a special interest in him over his other Force Captains, and he had no idea when Prime wanted from this line of questions. It was almost like her were… looking for something. But Zero-Zero-Three couldn't imagine what. He was just a clone, as unremarkable as any of his brothers. Unless… unless Prime somehow had heard about his defects and had come to investigate the flaw himself. To keep the cloning factory and crèches from repeating the same mistake. Zero-Zero-Three swallowed a lump of nerves. "I always thought it was because I was good at my job."

"No other reason?" Prime pressed.

The three cabinet Lords all sat, straight backed in their chairs. Almost tense. Nervous.

Prime was definitely fishing for something.

"I don't know!" Zero-Zero-Three blurted out. All of his insecurities and resentment of being left behind on this world bubbling to the surface and trembling out as a quiver in his voice. "I don't know why Hode left me here. I was a good soldier, and I was a good officer. I took my orders, I fulfilled my missions, I brought back victory. I served the Empire. I was ready to die for the Empire. But then he left me here. Dumped me far away from him without an explanation."

Leaning back in his chair, Prime steepled his fingers and regarded Zero-zero-Three from across the table. "Hode did not confide in you."

Blinking, the clone realized how ridiculous he must have sounded. Lord Hode was a member of the Emperor's cabinet. Why would he share the inner workings of his mind, his deeper thoughts, or motivations with a Force Captain that could die on any mission. Or worse, he captured and interrogated.

Lowering his eyes, Zero-Zero-Three muttered, "Lord Hode kept his own mind, Your Grace."

"You don't know about Hode." Continued Prime.

With his eyes down, Zero-Zero-Three couldn't see it, but the three cabinet Lords all exchanged glances.

"No, Your Grace, I guess I don't." Admitted Zero-Zero-Three. "I don't even know why he's not here with you right now, when the other Lords are."

This time, Zero-Zero-Three was looking up and did see the glances the three Lords gave each other. But he had no idea what they might mean. Just something significant.

"Lord Hode is dead." Emperor Prime informed flatly, without fanfare. Not an announcement, just a statement of fact. "He was the oldest clone to live on record and he expired from age. His cabinet seat is empty, and I am without someone to oversee the Third Division."

Mouth hanging open, staring at Horde Prime, Zero-Zero-Three just gaped.

"Zero-Zero-Three, Force Captain and Territory Captain, will you serve me as faithfully and diligently as you served your Lord?"

It was all Zero-Zero-Three could do to stammer out gibberish. The moment was so surreal. In the space of a heart beat he'd learned that Lord Hode was dead, then was being offered his late Lord's seat on the cabinet. This had to be a dream. This could not be real. Between his cloning defects and the dangerous life of a Horde soldier, Zero-Zero-Three never believed he might live long enough to even fantasize about a cabinet seat.

"Do not make me repeat the question." Prime warned. "Perhaps you are not as clever as I originally thought."

"Yes!" He finally got out. "I mean. I will serve you even more diligently, Your Grace." He offered a salute. "It would be my privilege."

As he said it, Zero-Zero-Three couldn't help but remember what Hode told him at their parting. 'Preform your duties here well, and you just might find yourself elevated above a Force Captain.' The only rank above Force Captain was cabinet Lord. He knew. Somehow, and Zero-Zero-Three had no idea how, but Hode knew this would happen.

#hordak #Horde Prime #ocs #hordwing #red hord #the evil horde #horde empire #spop #she-ra #fan fiction #hordak's past

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raven-n-tha-moonlight · 5 years ago

Text

(This is a rough draft. I will edit it later.

A bit of background: Eira just failed her test that is important for summoners. At least she thinks she did. The group outside the door is waiting to take their tests.

Also, warning: death.

Pronunciation guide: Eira= EAR - uh)

ICY FEAR

It was going to be a bad day for everyone in the courtyard.

The doors to the examination hall were thrown open. A girl stomped out, with her dark, braided hair blowing in the personal blizzard surrounding her. Despite the full sun, the girl’s little storm showed no signs of dissipating. Her path left a snail-track of melted snow on the concrete.

The pack of students holding books and binders stumbled as she blew past them, her flurries dusting their clothing. They looked at her in silent rebuke, but she didn’t spare them a glance.

“Eira!”

The girl glanced over her shoulder. It was Morlen. Her stomach did its silly flop. She shook her head, a move so small it was imperceptible. She didn’t need any of this right now. She just needed to get away-

“Eira,” he stepped toward her. Away from the flock of students.

She crossed her bare arms. “What?” She snapped, the sound of a tree trunk freezing and splitting.

His face closed. It had been something close to caring. Now it was blank, like the ground after a snowfall.

“That was rude to push past everyone. Apologize to us.”

The word “us” rang through her. She was her, and they were them. They were a group, and she was alone. She would never be a part of them.

Us. The word clanged around inside, echoing in the hollowness there.

She’s been wrong to think Morlen was any less of a jerk. He was like the rest of them. He wanted her to hurt.

Well, she would show them what it was like to really hurt. She could see what she would do. The terrible images came to her one after another, flickering by so fast they gave her only a taste of the honey-coated vengeance. The hollow in her chest expanded. Her breathing came fast. “You. Are. Not. Getting. Any. Apology. From. Me.” She stared Morlen down. “Ever.”

She turned away. Her fingers burned with cold. She saw the things she wanted to do. The rage, the gut-wrenching emotion, tore her up. She clenched her jaw, blinking the tears from her eyes.

She stilled herself. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t-

“Eira, you’re just heartless.” A tall, muscular girl spoke. Nova. “Sometimes I think you might have something in beating in there. Now I realize it’s all just tar.”

Eira’s world went silent. Then it roared. Maybe the sound came from her.

She lunged for Nova, her nails elongating into claws, ice sharpening and hardening. Something blocked her way.

She bowled over someone bulky. They tumbled to the ground. She scrambled away, but hands found her wrists. She snarled and felt the emptiness in her expand, then-

Bang! The weight left her. She panted, rising. Then she sank to her knees. A sob choked out of her.

Morlen lay bleeding on the grass, snow coating his hair. Crimson trickled from his ears.

She crawled to him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. The space within her yawned wider. She felt herself falling. Her palms hit the ground, her claws shattering.

She was numb as the other students rushed past her to huddle around Morlen. Tears streaked her face, which she viciously wiped away.

They don’t care about you, she reminded herself. Your tears are for nothing.

She watched as Morlen was lifted gently. His eyes were glazed with pain, but he was able to wrap his arms around the person who carried him away.

Someone struck Eira across the face. Eira’s claws were back in an instant, gleaming and curved.

“You bitch!” Nova spat down at her, her hand still raised.

Ice radiated from Eira, crackling across the ground toward Nova. Wisely, Nova backed away. The ice halted a few inches from Nova’s sandaled toes.

“Why don’t you look in the mirror?” Said Eira in a low voice. She rose, slowly.

“Stop it, Nova,” protested a blond boy, restraining Nova’s thin arm. “Don’t do this.”

Nova shook him off. “Let me go, Oliver.”

Eira looked again at the blood on the grass. It was brighter than she thought it would be. The metallic odor had a bite that made her want to gag.

They locked eyes, twin sapphires that glittered with anger, and light, cool eyes that were shattered under the surface.

“I don’t care,” Eira said, dully. “Not anymore. Just, stop.”

“You wouldn’t have stopped, if it weren’t for Morlen. You would have killed me.”

Yes. The thought sent a shiver through her. She wouldn’t have just killed Nova. She would have enjoyed shredding her, tearing her life from her body. Then maybe one of them would comprehend the pain, the agony.

“And you didn’t show mercy to Morlen, when he tried to stop you. Now, he might die.”

Eira gave a laugh. It scared her, how empty it sounded. She gave them a smile that wasn’t quite straight. “He’s not going to die.”

“No thanks to you,” muttered a ginger girl. She was small, and she shrank back as Eira’s attention fell on her, as if she hadn’t meant her words to be heard.

“He’s not going to die,” repeated Eira. She was certain of it. There was no way he could be hurt so badly, not by her hand.

A boy jogged up, his shirt stained with blood. “It doesn’t look good, guys,” he reported, his face pale. She remembered him. He had taken Morlen away.

“Liar!” She spit at him. She whirled and raced for the infirmary. Her snow turned to ice under her feet, speeding her steps. The others slipped and fell on the slick surface. She didn’t falter, didn’t wait.

She found him there, bleeding. His heart was slow and heavy. She could hear it the way she could hear the gurgle of the trees during the winter. It was tired, heavy, plodding. It was all wrong. Hearts were supposed to be brisk. They were supposed to be full of life. His was full of the slowness of death.

She sank down beside his bed as the doctor arrived. Morlen’s breathing became shallow. She almost screamed but managed to leash her tone into something more cordial. “What can we do?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.” The doctor sighed and put away his things. “He is too far gone.”

Eira gaped at him. “You have how many years of medical training, and this is beyond your capabilities?”

“Yes,” he replied, sadly. “This is a fast affliction. If it not treated right away, it is fatal.”

“We did bring him right away,” she said in disbelief. “This just happened.”

“I’m sorry.” The doctor gave her a look of sympathy. “It’s too late.”

That was when Morlen’s friends showed up. Nova, Oliver, the ginger, the one with the bloody shirt. They stared. Nova burst into tears immediately. The boy with the bloodstained shirt tucked her into him. He looked at the ceiling, the ground, anywhere but at Morlen. The ginger talked to Morlen, as if he could still hear her, even though he was long past that stage. He was hovering near the brink, now.

Oliver interrogated the doctor, but came up with as little as she had. They all watched in silence as the chest of the boy on the bed became still, and his heart ceased to beat.

Nova wailed anew. The boy holding her had tears coursing down his cheeks. Oliver and the ginger stared at each other mutely. Eira was the only one who looked at Morlen, or what used to be him. He was so still. So pale. His blood was drying at his ears. His hair was wet from where her frost had melted.

The hollow in her seized, spasmed. She hadn’t meant to. Morlen, the only kindness these past few weeks. Gone. Dead. Because of her.

Her tears turned to crystals and splintered on the tile. Her sobs were silent, but they stole her breath. They reached deep inside of her, like knives scratching at her insides.

She almost felt she deserved it when the boy with the bloodied shirt said, “You will stand trial for this.” That was law. She knew it was.

But at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She glared up at him. “Say that again,” she hissed in a voice midnight soft.

He didn’t. “Morlen was innocent,” he began. “He didn’t deserve to die. You don’t care about any of that?”

“No,” She replied. “But-”

“But what?” Shrieked Nova. “What possible excuse does a monster like you have for murdering?”

Eira locked her with a gaze chillier than an arctic wind. She said nothing. She didn’t have an excuse because she hadn’t been trying to give one. “I was going to say,” she said, “He didn’t deserve to die, but I don’t deserve to be killed for it, either.”

“Whyever not?” Snorted the ginger. “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

“It was an accident!” Eira wasn’t going to plead. She would never plead.

“An accident?” Nova pointed to Morlen’s body. “That doesn’t look like an accident to me.”

The door to the infirmary kicked open and a squad of officers entered. Eira stood.

“We’re arresting all of you,” announced the one with the biggest badge.

Like hell they were. The defiant thought flashed through her mind.

She pulled her power close, condensing it. She shot a ribbon of ice under them, sending them sliding along the tiles. Splaying her fingers, she dropped the temperature. Their breath came out in puffs. She dropped the temperature further. One officer moaned and collapsed. Then another. And another. Finally, all of them were down.

She made her escape. Out the building. Skating down the grassy slope, ice carpeting the grass. She ran, planning as she went.

She could run to the stables and steal a winged steed. From there she could fly to another country, start a new life. An ache rose in her, welling from that same hollow spot in her. A few weeks ago, she had been thinking the same about this one. Too soon, she was already on the run again.

The stables were easy to infiltrate. They were lax here. Nothing compared to her old place. Soon, she was in the skies.

They soared for the afternoon and evening. When the sky began to streak, she brought them back to the ground. Her steed chomped hungrily on the plants. She felt a twinge of guilt for flying the steed so long without food. She brushed it off. The sacrifice was worth it. Once they were away, she would release him, and he could wander free.

And probably get eaten, she thought. But she didn’t have much choice. She couldn’t let herself get caught. Much worse would be in store for her if they found out who she actually was. If there was an inquiry, there was no concealing the truth. It would be over for her.

She patted her steed’s shoulder as it munched on grasses. She gave it a few more happy bites, then jerked its head up.

They went on, through the night, until her eyes drooped from exhaustion. She let them down for the night. She bound the steed to the tree with a makeshift vine rope.

She settled on a mossy patch of ground. Her eyes were heavy. What would she do if she was caught? She snorted in her sleep. Deny all charges. Except one.

She saw his face in her dreams, the blood. In her dream, she saw the judge, who asked, “For the murder of Morlen Haberstark, guilty or not guilty?”

In her dream, she heard herself utter, Guilty. The word was ugly. It unmasked her. She felt exposed. The stands jeered at her. She tossed and turned as the word echoed in a clangor. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

The judge morphed. Nova stood where the judge had been, her sneering face replacing the judge’s blank one. “Evil girl. Murderer. Monster. No one will stand up for you here.”

The ginger haired girl stepped up beside her. “It’s just you. You’re on your own.”

Faces, faces from Eira’s past, blurred together, speaking as one. “You are not one of us. You will never be one of us.” Voices melding with one another. Harmonies of loathing. “You were born unlovable. You cannot change your birth.”

Eira shrieked and cried in her dreams, but her steed only looked at her with disinterest as she writhed silently on the dirt.

In the morning, she was groggy-eyed, but she forced them onward. She was feeling even more paranoid than yesterday. She refused to stop for food or water. Her stomach clenched, but she ignored it. Safety first. Then comforts like food and water. She battled on.

Day went by, turning into night. She stopped. They rested. In the morning, she forced herself up again. That day, she could barely stay seated. In the afternoon, she felt herself grow dizzy. She let them down.

They were a few feet above the ground before she fell. She crashed into a bush and a sharp rock jabbed her side. Her steed whuffled her hair, curious.

Her head spun. Her eyes were blurry. Her mouth was dry. She wasn’t going to make it.

Perhaps it was better this way. She would die without any festivities thrown to celebrate the occasion. She would die, nameless, her body would decay, and she would become one with the ground again. She looked up at the steed. “Go,” she said weakly.

It nickered, as if in question. “Yes, I’m certain.” Her voice was raspy, cursedly weak. “Leave me. You’ll be fine.”

It gave a soft snort, pressing its muzzle against her forehead. Then it backed away, free. It whinnied its triumph and rose into the air. The gusts of wind from its wings faded. She closed her eyes, exhausted.

No sooner had she done this, she heard a crashing through the brush. A large animal. She scrambled to her feet, stars flashing in her eyes. She swayed, then dropped to a knee. She was so pitiful. So vulnerable. She would be an easy meal.

She shouldn’t have gone so long without food or water.

Much good these thoughts did her.

She gritted her teeth. Forced herself upright. She still looked tired, hungry, the perfect meal.

An enormous bear crashed into the clearing. Its sloping shoulders towered to her height. It snarled at her. Its teeth were arcing, ivory canines. She backed away, on instinct.

Suddenly, it changed. It shrank, becoming humanoid. It rushed toward her, and she lifted her hands to use her power for her last time. She thrust a hand toward it, and a few icicles sputtered out of her fingertips before nosediving into the earth. The humanoid watched it all carefully. Then it raised its hands, and she flinched.

It didn’t summon, though. She supposed it was meant to be a gesture of peace. She returned it, cautiously.

Then a wave of dizziness hit her and she dropped to the ground. The humanoid, the male, she realized, crouched over her, concern furrowing his brow. Then her world spun, and spun, until she was engulfed in black.

#original story #summoner powers #winter powers

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