#Catch Kerchief Fish

[fogaminghub]

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[frostgears]

We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 4: Lyric 2

It needed information.

Not long after its arrival in this body and this world, its maker and owner (the artisan Coda) had been bound by an archon of the divine "TO CREATE NO MORE BODIES BUT ONE, AND ONLY TO SERVICE HER CREATIONS TO THE BEST OF HER ABILITIES AND AT HER OWN EXPENSE". Coda had just the one workshop, here in the summer capital, the same city that held the Academy. Unfortunately, most of Coda's dolls would be with their owners and their households: nobles, generals, very successful merchants… all people that could afford to relocate south to the warmer winter capital during the cold months.

But there were a few owners that did not move with the seasons; there was one in particular that was almost always home. But it would need a welcome gift, and that meant a trip to the market.

Specifically, the cramped warren of roofed-over alleyways where the fish market became the drug market. It was not Lyric's favorite place in the city, and the coterie of large men that lounged about convenient doorways did little to improve it.

"Ehhh, what you need, girlie?"

"Meltspice," it told him, declining to correct his perception of its gender. "Unblended, if you please."

"Yeah, we ain't got that. Got some lively fuckin' greenwine in from the Sandgate, though; that'll get you out of your head just as well."

"I can't serve cactus wine at a society dinner," it told him, "I'd be scrubbing various fluids out of gowns for a week. If you don't have it, please get out of my way and I will find someone that does."

"Ehhh, you got a mouth on you, girlie."

"Yes, I have a knife on me, too."

It is hard to outstare a doll, and even harder still when you don't know you're trying to outstare a doll.

"Creepy bitch," he said. "Not worth the trouble." The big man spat, and wandered off down the alley.

Another of the big men sidled up to it in short order. "Hey, beautiful. I heard you might be looking for fine spices."

"Your hearing is good. I am. The pure stuff?" it asked.

"Pricey. Sure you don't want blended? Little thing like you?"

"Not for me. A very exacting mistress. She'd know, I'd catch all the hells; no repeat business, if you understand me."

"Ah, fair enough. Come with me."

It looked him up and down. Living with Coda had rubbed off on it; it had been no great judge of character in the world before this one, where it dimly remembered an uneventful life where it didn't have to be. Here, it had watched its artificer mistress navigate the dodgier parts of the city, such as the criminal underworld and the oft equally criminal aristocracy; it had learned when to curtsy, when to flatter, and when to run; and it read no particular threat from this man's relaxed body language. It had also learned that its slight frame concealed machinery of impressive power, capable of impressing this man's sternum right through his spine if it absolutely needed to do so.

So it nodded assent and followed the man into a slightly grubby tavern, where the man's associates laid out several bowls with orange-red powders before it. It cleaned its fingers with its kerchief and rubbed a tiny pinch of the proffered meltspice between thumb and forefinger, finding it as Coda had taught it to feel for, neither gritty nor oily, but fine and freely flowing. But the only true test for meltspice was the nose.

"May I?" it asked.

The man nodded vigorously, eager to move the purchase process along.

It took a tiny, delicate sniff of the stuff. Lyric's alchemical sense of smell was somewhat patchy; earthy, meaty, and pungent scents were largely beyond it, although it could appreciate most flowers and fine tea easily. This was somewhere in the middle of its range, and it was strong.

Coda told it often that compliments cost nothing. Another lesson that it had only internalized once ripped from its old body and its old world, where it had little time for politeness. It put flattery into its monotone voice as best it could, and said, "That's really quite good. You know your product. Shall we talk price?"

One of the men seemed quite pleased by this response. The expert, no doubt. It favored him with a polite smile and suggested an opening number.

They settled on seventy for a few tens of grams in a brown waxed paper bag, which wasn't cheap, but not quite extortionate. It would have to soak the expense.

"Hey, you're a doll, aren't ya?"

"Yes," it said, tensioning several internal springs just in case. "What is it to you?"

"Oh, nothin'. Just, is it true dolls can't melt? Or take dreamdust? Or get drunk? Or even smoke?"

"That's all true." It couldn't do any of those things. Dolls didn't have those kinds of vices; they were, depending on one's attitude, either inherently free from them, or not permitted even those escapes. It had observed that dolls could cultivate other different, more abstruse vices, but nothing so readily comprehensible as a drug habit, and generally not obvious except to other dolls.

"Hah." The man crossed his arms and chuckled. "So the boss wasn't jokin' when he said that a doll could be trusted to stay out of the merchandise and maybe he should replace the newbie with one. Nobody tell him he was right, eh? You're not gonna take our jobs, right, dolly?"

"I do not have the muscles for it." It extended one arm, moved a linkage in a way that would have curled a human's bicep, made a show of patting where the curl would have been, shrugged. "But I look better in this uniform than you would, so please don't try to take my job, and we shall call it even."

That got a laugh. Lyric curtsied, made its exit at a brisk pace before any of the men could take insult.

It crossed the city at the same brisk pace. Among the neat rows of tall, narrow brownstone houses where many of the summer capital's pettier nobles and wealthier merchants made their homes, Lyric slipped down a narrow alley to the servants' side entrance of one particular brownstone, and rapped its porcelain knuckles on the wooden door.

The doll that opened the door was similar enough in height, build, and features to Lyric that she could have been its cousin, if not its sister.

"How may I help— Oh. Hello, Lyric. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon. Is Mistress Coda with you?"

"That's the trouble, Cobalt," it said. "May I come in?"

"Unfortunately, my own mistress is indisposed…"

"Taken care of," it said, presenting the brown waxed paper bag.

Cobalt nodded. "I expect she'll be feeling better momentarily."

---

prev: We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 3: Bree 2 next: We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 5: Bree 3 original location: https://www.tumblr.com/frostgears/751023990648274944/lyric-2

[jiubilant]

4.E. 188

“So Ulfric Stormcloak’s coming to the city,” says the boy through a mouthful of chicken. “What’s so important about that?”

He’s shoveling down supper in a smoky public-house by the docks, where the Company men and their apprentices—of which he, as of that morning and its many contracts, is now the newest—gather at day’s end to dine. His hand hurts from signing his name. His legs hurt from walking. He suspects that he might have dreamed it all, the ships, the echoing warehouse, the food; when the barmaid’s girl had brought it to him, not to the well-dressed men chatting in the corner, he’d thought that the chicken—boiled in butter, melting golden from the bone—was a mistake.

Then he’d thought it was a prank. He half-expects his master of about half a day, a factor’s clerk with a long, frown-lined face, to whisk his plate away.

“The Emperor grants dustucks to Company factors and fiduciaries,” the man says after a thoughtful pause, wiping the grease from his hands with a kerchief. He’d paid for supper. He’s sitting across from the boy, facing the fire; his eyes glint in the hearthlight like two shards of red glass. “Can you tell me what a dustuck is?”

No, the boy thinks. He doesn’t even know what a fidu-cherry is. He sneaks a glance up at the clerk, then dares a joke. “Does it quack?”

The clerk blinks at him. Then he smiles—looking, the boy thinks, a little surprised about it.

“No,” he says. “A dustuck is a permit that exempts Company goods from any duties, stoppages, or inspections mandated in provincial ports. It means that our goods,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the look on the boy’s face, “go wherever we’d like them to go—and local customs-men can’t do a damned thing to hold them up, and not even the High King himself has the right to tax them.” He eyes the growing pile of bones on the boy’s plate with amusement. “Now, what do you suppose that means for us?”

Easy, thinks the boy, relieved. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Profit.”

“There’s a lad.” The clerk tips the rest of his chicken onto the boy’s plate. “Now, traders like, ah, like Shatter-Shield—that lovely little clipper in the harbor, the Bergfrue, she was his—they’re subject to the duties fixed by the jarls of each hold. And those duties are climbing by the day. Since Istlod can’t tax the Company at all, he’s got to tax his own people more.”

The boy, attacking a chicken leg, makes a muffled noise of agreement. Then the words sink in. He frowns up at the clerk. “That’s not fair.”

“That’s business.” The clerk’s smile is thin and vague. “But the Bear of Markarth agrees with you. He’s come to Haafingar to growl.” With a smile that transforms his solemn face, he catches the barmaid’s eye. “Well, to be more accurate, Istlod’s called him here to bawl him out for refusing to respect Company dustucks in his ports. He’s been costing us money.”

“Can he do that?”

“Ulfric?” The clerk holds up his tankard, dangling it by the handle. “Not according to the Emperor’s law. But men like Ulfric Stormcloak—”

“No politicking in my public-house,” says the barmaid, whisking up the tankard as she bustles by—and, to the boy’s amazement, tapping the clerk on the head with it for good measure. “Don’t go anywhere, Spider. I’ve some sveler for the boy.”

The clerk casts a plaintive look after her. “With bilberry jam, Birgit?”

“For the boy.”

The clerk raises his hands in airy surrender. The boy wonders, watching him, if the lines in the man’s face aren’t from frowning at all.

“Men like Ulfric Stormcloak?” he prompts, struck with a sudden urge to impress his teacher.

“Men like Ulfric Stormcloak,” the clerk says briskly, “like to know how far they can go.” With an even brisker smile, he stands. “Let’s see about those sveler.”

* * *

The boy brings the sveler, filled with jam and honey-sticky, home to his sisters. When he fishes it smugly from his coat, it looks more like a log of pocket-lint than a sweet; still, when he pieces it with painstaking care into seven portions, even picky Letta stuffs her morsel in her mouth without making any faces.

“Next time,” she says, eyes bright in her pale, pinched face, “bring back a cheese tart.”

The boy, with all the self-importance of a breadwinner, scoffs at her. “I can’t just tell Master Rano to buy me a cheese tart.”

Mina, chewing with her mouth open, grips his arm. The boy realizes with a start that he can see her cheekbones. “Candied pears!”

“Pleskener!”

“Kanelstenger!”

“I want to be an apprentice—”

It’s little Luce who tugs on his sleeve, her eyes wide with concern. “Mama, too.”

The boy’s portion stops halfway to his mouth. With a flash of remorse, he disentangles himself from his frail, hollow-eyed sisters. He’s been stupid, he thinks. Stupid and selfish. He should have pocketed some of the chicken.

“She can have mine,” he says, and lays his bite of svele on the table. If they’re asleep when she comes home, he thinks, it will surprise her. She’ll see that she won’t have to poss until her back aches, scrub until her hands crack and bleed from the water in the steaming washhouse-tubs. He’s the man of the house now—thirteen years old, full of knowledge of permits, and profits, and politics. He’ll provide.

Luce tugs his sleeve again. “Rafe?”

The boy blinks. Then he picks her up like their mother would: swirls her off the ground, tosses her so that she giggles. “Luce?”

His youngest sister, light as a ghost in his arms, pats his cheek with a sticky hand.

“Sweetrolls,” she says.

“Sweetrolls,” the boy solemnly agrees. Then he grins, heedless of the impossibility. “And a cheese tart, candied pears, some pleskener...”

[sunnydayjackass]

Okay headcanon- Jack’s outfit has a lot of gadgets he generally uses to cheer his s/o up when they’re upset- as it catches them so off guard they can’t help but laugh at the bizarreness of it. Like Jack offering a tissue from his pocket and it ends up being those endless flags. Or perhaps it malfunctions during impromptu moments where Jack rather wished it wouldn’t. Like your hand fiddling beneath his chest during a kissing session, clicking the nose on his belt that produces a honk.

I'm running on an obscene amount of caffeine and no sleep. I needed something cute and goofy like this-thank you

It had been an absolute dog shit day. You spilled your morning coffee/tea, the zipper on your favorite hoodie broke while in your haste to get to work, it rained (again) on the way to work, and work itself? Could Carol not do a single goddamn thing on her shift? Why does it always fall to you to keep this hellhole running? On top of that the amount of pissy moms and screaming kids seemed to be at an all time high that by the time you trudged home, all you wanted to do was curl up on the couch and nap.

RING....RING...RING...

You peel an eye open and fish your phone out of your pocket to see the screen, only to grimace seeing Ian's caller ID flash over the screen. And that? That was just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that was today. You toss your phone onto the ground with a dull thud and move to bury your head in a throw pillow and cry.

Loudly.

All the pent up frustration, anger, annoyance, sadness--why the ever loving fuck could you not have a goddamn moment of peace?! Sobs and cries pour from your lungs, muffled only barely by stuffing and cotton- Jack peeks from the kitchen, you hadn't even greeted him upon your return, hadn't even smelled the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Worry bubbled in Jack's stomach as he sat beside you on the couch.

"Sunshine...hey, what happened...?" Jack's tone is low, soothing as he reaches to stroke your back before you drag yourself upright, wiping at your eyes with your sleeves. It takes a moment for you to compose yourself as you regurgitate the stresses of your day, the overwhelming stress you feel on your shoulders and Jack patiently listens to it all- nodding and answering only when needed, he'd hate to interrupt you of course. When you finish, you frel a little lighter though still a little teary. "Here, let me help clean you up." Jack reaches into the interior of his vest to procure a bright red kerchief.

Tied to a yellow one.

Tied to a blue one.

Tied to another red one.

This continues on and on until the daisy chain of handkerchiefs lays in a heap between you on the couch until a white and red polka dotted one at the end emeges and Jack holds it up with a flourish. "There's that pesky thing, gosh--pesky little thing hiding on me." Jack reaches to wipe the tears from your face and you can't help but huff a laugh.

"...you're so ridiculous." Your chuckle is weak but it's a start. Jack gives you a soft grin before swooping to press a kiss to your cheek.

"Hmm maybe a little. But it works." He winks and you chuckle before pulling him into a hug he eagerly reciprocates until he feels your body sag against his, finally feeling more at peace now that you were home, you were with him. "Y'know what else helps a bad day?" You look up at him and arch a brow. "Fresh baked cookies." Your warm grin makes it all worth it as you walk to the kitchen, Jack lifting you to sit on the counter and hand you a cookie from the cooling tray.

--

The movie has since been forgotten in favor of pressing yourself closer to Jack. His lips move against yours feverishly as your fingers tangle into Jack's blue tresses under the dim light of the TV. With a soft mewl, you move to paw at Jack's vest and he easily rolls it off his broad shoulders before his hands secure themselves to your waist, skimming down to grip your hips.

Feeling the soft pull, you follow and slide yourself into Jack's lap with your legs on either side of him, allowing yourself to be closer. Your kisses become more desperate as you run your fingers along his muscles teasingly before pawing at Jack's shirt. Craning your neck to kiss along the marks on his cheek, down his sharp jawline, you anchor your hips against his to-

HONK!

You falter, caught entirely off guard by the campy bike horn sound. Your eyes shoot wide and you instinctively pull away though still in Jack's arms. He looks disheveled but also a little surprised though not as much as you. "Wh...what the hell was that?!" You ask breathlessly, still gripping Jack's shoulders as you look around for whatever may have made the sound.

Jack clears his throat awkwardly for a moment, flush still decorating his cheeks as he shifts under you before giving a roll of his hips that the sound happens again. You stare at him for a moment, wetting your lips ready to say a string of words you never thought you'd put together. "...please don't tell me that's your cock."

He splutters and shakes his head vigorously. "Nononono! Sunshine, gosh-- don't say it like that, it's uh...it's not that." Jack shifts you in his lap and directs your attention downwards. You still pause and purse your lips again.

"If your dick is out Jack, I swear-"

Jack gives something between a laugh and a groan lolling his head back before looking back to you with a smile and reaching between you. "No! It's just my belt! See?" He presses the red nose of the comical smiley belt and it honks at you again as you stare down at it. The silence settles over you again, sometimes you forget what Jack was, especially in moments such as the one that was now, well...lost. You give a little groan and drop your head onto his shoulder as Jack chuckles, tightening his hold on you. "You okay, Sunshine?" He nuzzles his head against you.

"...yeah just..." You're a little flustered now, under his gaze and straddling his lap. "...next time take that off first."

[kettlequills]

C3: waking dreams: master of fate

On A03 here. tw for grief/mourning, mentioned child death, and mild hallucinations. also miraak is high. you guys get to meet soskro and mirdein!

“Easy now,” the healer, Soskro, murmured, “Easy. Your body has had quite the shock.”

“Hmm,” another voice came, gravelly, rough with ash. “Just patch me up. I need to get back to guarding the temple doors. I don’t trust that those troublemakers have gone.”

Flame-soft light greeted Miraak’s eyes. It rippled warm orange over the curtains that had been pulled around his bed. A bed? It was warm against his body and held him like an embrace, like Mora had decided to dangle him over the ink-dark seas long enough that Miraak’s body heat started to warm the perpetually tepid rubberiness of his tentacles. There were no beds in Apocrypha, nor curtains, and vague notions of some distant past-dream warred with what Miraak knew – the only fabric was the ragged tatters of the seeker’s cloaks. A similar papery colour, these cloaks that wrapped around the world, but they had dried out, and there were no stains.

The healer and the patient were shadow puppets against the light, their bodies licked with slow-moving, peaceful tentacles that swayed back and forth like the sigh of the waves on the shore. Like the remote figures of lurkers, small as a scale on his gauntlet from the vantage point of his high tower, the bubbles they blew in the ink as they idled.

Miraak’s face itched, but gently, as if it was far away. His ear ached a little, as if he’d been laying on it for a very long time. His mask felt odd on one side, soft instead of hard, and the eyeslits were wider, he thought. All the added peripheral vision made him feel dizzy.

He wanted to close them, but he could not figure out how. Instead, he watched the flutter of the curtains in the soft breeze and felt the salt from the distant sea in his throat. The world seemed to inch past in honey-thick grains, each second languid, lugubrious, elongated as an endless rest among the murmuring pages wrapped in tame dragonwings. He did not need sleep, did not ever fully slip into the dark comfort of Vaermina’s realm, but it was… meditative, in a sense, to leave only one ear open for threats, and simply lie quietly for a time.

Sahrotaar was the best to sleep on if Mora did not have him within his curling knot of oil-dark tendrils, even though Sahrotaar was always a placid room temperature. Its scales were smooth and soft, circular, made for slipping like a knife between the skin of the water, and its finned wings would curl round Miraak with the most care, like he was a sea-pearl in the heart of a clam. The bones in Sahrotaar’s wings still jabbed him, and Sahrotaar would insist on sliding its big snout into the pocket of space it had made between its wings and its body, filling it all with the subtle reek of old fish and ink, but it was better than nesting among the ripped pages of books.

Miraak wondered where Sahrotaar was.

“Mirdein, you have a spear hole in your leg the size of a drake,” Soskro said with the firmness of an argument often repeated, “You’ll sit here til I tell you.”

Mirdein grunted. “Yes, muthsera.”

Miraak breathed on his own now, without the tube down his throat and blurry white mask-faces manning bellows to manually pump his lungs for him. The huffing of the bellows had marked his days in and out of silence, and though something had always felt faintly wrong, Miraak could sense the presence of another close by – one of his dragons, surely, keeping watch against the lurkers – that occasionally pressed into him with tender magics that made his muscles unknot and his body loose and limp. Reassuringly, it still hurt, and the insistent feeling of violation and vulnerability was soothing in its familiarity. Perhaps Mora was feeding him again, or taking from him, and that was why Soskro was there, solid as never before when they’d met in dreams, spoonfeeding him potions that left his mind dreamy.

Soskro had seemed proud when Miraak could breathe all by himself. He focused on it, sucking air into himself until he felt buoyant as a balloon, ready to drift away. Fly, all by himself, in windless Apocrypha, with no dragonwings to hold him up.

“Don’t be smart with me, wife.”

The gentle tones of Restoration magic chimed like the ringing of bells to call the priests to evensongs, and Miraak floated in the sense-memory and wondered vaguely if anyone would be mad if he didn’t go, because he didn’t think he had a mouth anymore, and he thought that was good for singing. He had eyes, more eye than he was used to – had there always been so much to see, to the left of him? – but dim memory told him that he didn’t need to see. Mora would be there, to see for him, see in him, see to him, and his voice oily-smooth would tell him what he needed to do.

The curtains were glowing faintly. He wondered if they were supposed to. It looked like dragonfire caught in glass, like the scales of a fire-drake steaming where it lay in the snow. Dragon eyes and dragon names slipped foglike through his memory, and though he tried to shape the words of forgiveness for forgetting the name of the beast whose hide watched him through the curtains, his tongue was busy holding in all his air.

“I need you alive,” Soskro continued, “not dead on the end of some Skaal blade.”

“It was just a training accident,” said Mirdein, dismissively. “Sulis got too close. Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough for you to be stabbed! Since when did training get so violent?” Soskro’s voice was loud. Miraak thought he might sing to calm the tensions so no one would get bitten or eaten, but there was no space around all the air in him.

“Tensions are rising, Soskro! No one likes being sealed in the temple and you know there’s been accusations-“

His vision was going grey at the edges. Miraak released all his breath in a wheezing exhale. The voices went quiet. He mourned them. Mora so rarely put on different voices to catch Miraak out anymore and send him hurtling down book-strewn paths chasing echoes of memories. It had been one of the games they played. Mora had laughed at it, but Miraak did not remember laughing.

He did not remember most things, these days.

“Is he awake?” Mirdein asked, eventually, and Soskro sighed.

“Higher than a netch in a skooma-barrel, but yes, I think so. He’s staying awake most of the time now, can’t get much out of him but nonsense and odd words, but I think he’s more or less lucid. Taking him off the illusions helped.”

The shadow puppets moved, and then the curtains parted like a wound. Furrowed brows like the iron trellises of Apocrypha’s bridges stared down at him, then a broad-shouldered shape nudged into the curtained off section where Miraak nested. Another shape on its heels, merging together and apart, then Soskro appeared like magic and pushed Mirdein into a chair.

“Serjo.” The voice of Mirdein was back, but closer now. Rough, and warm, like the scratch of Kruziikrel’s sleepy mumbles when Miraak stole a moment of rest on his flame-hot throat. There was a bandage wrapped around her thigh at Miraak’s eye-level, a bloody spot the size of a coin already soaking through. Mirdein was a big woman, big enough to make the chair creak when she leaned forward to get a good look at him.

Some impression that something was wrong tickled him, and his face began to itch unbearably. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it, but his arm was tied to his side, his hand immobilised in a thick swathe of bandages. While Miraak puzzled that out, Soskro leant into his vision and smiled at him.

Red, red eyes, like Laataazin’s blood over his hands, these elves had. He thought they were elves. Soskro’s left hand was golden, and clicked and whirred softly when moved, and Miraak knew that it felt cold and hard, like things that touched his face were supposed to. He did not move away when Soskro’s thin metal fingers touched his cheek.

“Here, Lord,” said Soskro, and then lightly draped a gentle kerchief of silk over his face. The itching soothed immediately, and Miraak sighed against the coolness on his skin. It was the wrong weight – he did not know how he knew, but he knew it was wrong – but it felt more right than before. More right than Mirdein looking at him.

Mirdein exhaled slowly. There was a weight in the shadow of her shape through the silk, a slump of tired shoulders.

“Have faith,” said Soskro, quietly, “He will recover when he recovers. We will hold out.”

“I am patient,” said Mirdein, dourly, but then her voice softened.  “I – and my men – will keep you safe, serjo. Do not fear for my loyalty.”

“Geh, aam-hi,” Miraak heard himself say, as if through a very long tunnel. Yes, you serve me. The world shivered in response, and for a brief moment, he thought he heard the lonely cry of a dragon. Soskro’s soft intake of breath was one of awe.

Mora’s tentacles kissed Miraak’s nose on the inside of the silk kerchief, pulsed dizzyingly in his vision when Mirdein spoke again, firm as bedrock, “As you say, serjo.”

---

Frea clung to a jutting rock not far from the Tree Stone and squinted through the blinding snowfall. She had been crouched in the lee of the rock for some time now and her furs were dusted with snow, until she looked like nothing so much as a sleeping wolf taking refuge from the bitter winds.

Once, the animals had lived in the old ruin beyond the boneyard, wolfcubs whelping in the ancient rooms and birds nesting in the crumbling walls. There had been people, there had always been people in the temple, but only three or four at most, wary of outsiders but content to leave the Skaal well enough alone. As the Skaal had been happy to leave them; the cult of the Traitor could have their dusty ruin hidden behind the heaped skeletons of dragons fused together by time and the interminable movements of ice, no Skaal wanted to go near that wretched place. If the All-Maker did not move to kill them, it was certainly no business of the Skaal.

Of them all, only Frea had ever ventured inside. With the Last Dragonborn at her side, they’d carved a path through the temple with might and strength, to uncover the truth behind the disappearance of Frea’s people. The Traitor’s mind-snare was broken at the Tree Stone and the Skaal freed the night Laataazin had returned to read Herma Mora’s dark Book and confront Miraak – but the animals still had not returned to the temple, and Frea wanted to know why.

Frea pressed a far-seer to her eye and peered through it, hoping to catch a glimpse of swishing robes or patched armour along the top steps. Be they brigands, mostly, and honourless thieves, the cult of Miraak had grown hugely during the domination of the Stones. Yet, there was no sign of them, not even fat-bellied wolves slinking to their dens, or vultures drawn to the fresh carrion. Skorn had once cautioned the Skaal to stay away from the cultists and their dark magics, but Skorn was dead now to Herma Mora, and the burden of nurturing the Skaal’s spiritual connection to their land – and defending it – was Frea’s to shoulder.

And so Frea watched, and Frea waited, and the temple remained quiet.

Better that silence than the one in her father’s hall. The village was alive again, if weary and battered from months of gruelling work without their minds, and everyone felt Skorn’s loss deeply as their own wound. Their eyes were sunken when they looked at Frea for guidance, their hands thin and chapped with rough work when they touched her forehead, and though their hearts still were steady, Frea felt their grief and pain both as a stab of guilt to her own. Skorn would have served the Skaal better, but Frea did not know how to fix their nightmares for them or the days they had slaved that had been stolen from them, and though she could make tinctures for the rasping cough Oslaf had developed since a winter night at the Tree Stone she could not bring back the child that had died that night beside him, whose frozen body was found there still clutching his father’s leg.

Frea burned at the injustice of it. There was no guidance she could find meditating with the chants her father had taught her, well-worn as river stones in her mouth, no peace in trying to discern the will of the All-Maker in the dead that slept beneath the icy ground, but there was the fire of hatred in her heart, and that warmed her as she lay in the snow. Vengeance and safety in the knowledge that the temple was watched, and whatever scourge remained within unable to steal like shadows in the night to rob the minds of her people, she could bring the Skaal, if nothing else.

She dropped the far-seer to root in her belt for a pouch of cold-staying berries, her mitts awkward on the ties. Bags and bags of these she’d gone through travelling with Laataazin Dragonborn, whose southern blood chilled easily, and whose joints were worn with age and battle. It felt almost wrong to eat them by herself now, the tartness breaking on her tongue like a memory. But Frea was a practical person, and sentiment would not stop her freezing to death.

A shadow swept over the snow, and Frea blinked. A bird – perhaps, but no bird was so large – she fumbled with the far-seer, and jammed it to her eye just as the dragon passed over the temple of Miraak.

It was a frost one, it had to be, to fly so high, so fast, through the snow that Frea had not even heard the thunder of its wings. Laataazin had told her there were many different types of dragons, that they each favoured elements but it was best to assume all could flame and frost. Frea had seen them fight a dragon once, gripping her weapon tightly as she guarded the idle mage Neloth at Nchardak. Her heart had been in her throat as Laataazin taunted the great beast, evading its snarling and snapping jaws as it crowed slavishly about its master Miraak, and finally sent it to howling retreat with a final, bone-shattering blow to its leg.

The dragon circled over the temple, its head ducked like it was hunting for prey. It held something in its claws, she thought, for its right leg was oddly extended, not tucked close against its spiney body like the left. Unless – was this the same creature that Laataazin had chased off at Nchardak? It could not be. Had it returned to search the remains of the temple for its master?

Suddenly, from the temple another dragon rose on flapping wings, interrupting the lazy flight of the Nchardak dragon. This one was easier to see against the snow, the colour of a burnished ruby, and it spat fire a ship-length in front of it that the Nchardak dragon had to hastily dodge or risk charring. The two dragons circled each other, exchanging snapping forays too quickly for Frea to keep up with through her far-seer. They did not breathe flame or frost at each other, or clash fully, but instead danced around each other in the way Frea had seen wolves of the same pack play-fight – if a thousand times more deadly.

They tussled there in the sky for a while, but after a certain development that Frea could not spot from her position huddled in the snow some agreement was evidently reached, and the Nchardak dragon tucked its wings and dove into the darkness of the temple, presumably to land. As if flushed out like a hen from the sudden appearance of a fox, a third dragon, jade-green all over, rocketed out from the temple walls with a bitter screech. It was a horrible noise, and Frea’s far-seer tumbled from her hand as she hunched to protect her ears.

The screech cut off, suddenly, and through streaming eyes Frea squinted to see the two dragons left in the sky descending together, their blurry shapes quickly swallowed by the snow. Three dragons, solitary beasts one and all, roosting together in the temple, and one of them Frea knew had been loyal to Miraak once.

Tucking the far-seer back into her pocket, Frea rose stiffly, but cautiously, and crept away from the hollow she had made. She kept low until she reached the wooded line of the trees, then straightened, casting a last, perturbed look over her shoulder. Farani Strong-Voice would want to hear of this.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 21

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 21: Lies at Margate lead to Ella’s breaking point. 

         Alfie came upon the stash quite by accident. It had been two weeks at Margate and things were going better than he could’ve imagined. Ella was slowly returning to the woman he fell in love with. Her bubbly nature coming back to life after shriveling up in a hospital room for so long. She didn’t speak much about her lost children but Alfie figured that one day they would come to terms with the loss in a healthier way. At that moment, he wanted to focus on her health.

           Ella was out on her daily morning walk with Cyril, strolling along the frigid ocean. Alfie had stayed behind because the brisk air was doing a number on his hip. Instead, he remained inside with Anthea who was more content to play indoors.

           As he flicked through paperwork, he kicked a ball back and forth for Anthea’s amusement. The growing pitbull bouncing to and fro trying to catch the ball, skittering across the wood floors of the cottage.

           Eventually, the ball became wedged under the sofa. Anthea whined and scratched at the cushions, much too large to fit under the narrow space.

           “Alright, alright, I’ll get it,” Alfie grunted as he stood and went over to the couch. “Where’d it go then?” He knelt down and tried to spot the ball. “All the way back there? Fucking hell…” He grumbled and practically had to lay down so he could reach under the couch. He groped around the dusty space until he came across something. It didn’t feel like the rubber ball that was slobbery and had chew marks. Instead, it felt like a piece of cloth.

           Curious, Alfie fished out the mystery item and brought it into the light. It was a large kerchief that was tied up. As he maneuvered the cloth, a clinking sound came from within. It didn’t look at all familiar to him so he untied it and opened it up. As he did, a vial tumbled out and fell to the ground. Luckily, it didn’t break but simply rolled to a stop.

           A sickening feeling gripped Alfie as he saw the entire kerchief was full of the bottles all with a various amount of liquid inside. He searched through a few of them and found that they all bore the same hospital label with dates from when Ella was in recovery.

           It didn’t take Alfie long to crack the case. His wife had been hoarding doses of morphine when she was in the hospital, most likely because once she was at Arrow House she had no access to the vials.

           Suddenly enraged that he’d been played a fool, Alfie bundled up the kerchief and stormed outside. Gripping the makeshift sack tightly, he traveled down the dunes to the shoreline.

~~~~~~~~

           Ella was just returning from down the beach, Cyril already wet from romping about in the cold waves. The bullmastiff galloped toward him, his tail wagging.

           His wife smiled when she saw him coming. “Is your hip feeling a bit better?” She asked once they were close enough to hear each other over the crashing waves.

           Alfie tossed the vials onto the sand between them. “What the fuck is that?” He demanded.

           Ella’s face lost all its color. She swallowed and shook her head. “I-I didn’t…”

           “Don’t fucking lie to me, Ella!” He jabbed a finger at her. “You tell me that you’ve been hiding this from me the entire time I was trying to take care of you.” He accused.

           “I couldn’t do it, Alfie!” She cried. “I was too sick an-and I wasn’t properly taken off of it.” Tears stung her eyes. “I felt like I was dying!”

           “Unbelievable.” Alfie ran a hand over his mouth in disbelief and turned away from her to pace a few steps. “Fucking unbelievable. I trusted you and this is how you thank me.”

           “Well, fine. You can’t trust me. I’m a fucking Shelby, isn’t that right?” Ella held her arms out wide. “That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”

           “No. No.” He turned around. “None of that. I’m sick of that. The names and all that shit. You’re my fucking wife, that’s what you are. I promised I wouldn’t lie to you and you did the same.”        

           “I wasn’t taking it.” Ella crossed her arms over her chest and refused to look at him.

           “Good, then you won’t be bothered if I toss this nonsense in the sea.” Alfie stooped down to gather the vials up in the cloth.

           His wife twitched violently and she lurched forward. “Don’t you fucking dare.” She snarled.

           “I knew it. I fucking knew it.” He retorted and held the stash away from her. “You look me in the eyes and you tell me that you weren’t fucking touching any of it.”

           She was silent and didn’t move an inch. Instead, she looked out over the ocean and did her best to ignore the internal itching. The itch that demanded she do whatever it took to get those little bottles back. But she refused to go through another withdrawal. Not when she felt like she was mere inches away from death. Not when she woke up in a cold sweat seeing the blue eyes of her children. No. If it killed her then so be it.

           Alfie hardly had enough time to react to Ella pulling out a gun. She pointed it right to her temple, her finger resting on the trigger.

           Her husband’s eyes widened. “Ella…”

           “I’ve had it!” She shouted across the beach at him. “This is how it goes! I’m a Shelby and we’re cursed!”

           “Ella, put the gun down.”

           “No!” She sobbed, her hand shaking violently. “No-no I’ve had it. I wanted them, Alfie. I wanted them because they were mine! They were supposed to be mine. They were supposed to be born here.”

           Alfie kept his distance just in case a sudden movement caused her to react. “Listen to me…just listen for a moment. Okay? Listen.” He tried to soothe softly; his eye kept on the gun. From how badly her hand was trembling it was only a matter of time before it went off.

           “I-I can’t…”

           “You can, you can listen for a moment. Please, love, put the gun down and come over to me.” He coaxed as if she were a spooked horse. “Ella, I’m begging you. I know you’re in pain but I ain’t going anywhere. I’m gonna be standing right here. I can’t live without you, love.”

           “It hurts.” She wailed but she slowly began to lower the gun away from her head.

           “I know, love, I promise it’ll get better.” He held his arms out to her and began to inch towards her. “C’mon, c’mere.”

           Finally, Ella set the gun down in the sand and took a few staggering steps towards her husband. Alfie caught her before she fell and sank to the ground with her. He hadn’t noticed he was shaking too until he had her safe in his arms. His heart was pounding so badly it was hard to hear the waves nearby. But he could hear her crying.

           Cyril came over and nosed his way between the two, licking at their tears.

           “There you are…I’ve gotcha.” Alfie rocked her back and forth. “I won’t let go.”

~~~~~~~~~~

           Ella didn’t watch as Alfie discarded the vials. She was curled up in the sunroom, her entire body trembling. Alfie draped a blanket over her for comfort and shepherded the dogs into the room to keep her company while he called around.

           Tommy didn’t answer on the first ring, neither did Ada. Karl answered and said his mum was out running errands. So, Alfie called Polly. In all honesty, he felt stupid for not trying her first. He considered her very wise and level-headed compared to the majority of Ella’s family.

           “Have her withdrawals come back?” Ella’s aunt asked after Alfie gave her the gist of what happened that day.

           “No, she admitted she took some this morning.” He answered and scratched his beard. “I thought things were looking up…didn’t fucking think I was this clueless.”

           “She’s always been good at hiding things. She managed to hide you from her brothers for a good while.” Polly pointed out.

           Alfie smiled weakly and shook his head. How simple things were back then. All he had to worry about was Tommy, Arthur, and John trying to kill him. He’d take that any day over Ella suffering. “I’m scared for her. She was so sick withdrawing last time.”            “You don’t want to see her like that.” The woman surmised.

           It made him feel guilty at the thought. He wasn’t the one suffering through the awful pain of quitting something as addictive as morphine. Shouldn’t he be lucky to be on the other side? But deep down, it made his gut turn thinking about another withdrawal. The last once had put such a strain on their relationship. It tore at him inside and out to see his wife in agony. The uncontrollable shakes, the vomiting, the unyielding sadness. She didn’t deserve any of it. But life wouldn’t give her a break it seemed.

           “What do you suggest?” Alfie asked instead of answering Polly.

           “Maybe you two need some time apart.” She suggested cautiously. After Alfie and Ella had arrived in Small Heath, Polly got a clear enough of a picture of their relationship. The man was obviously fiercely protective over her and yet absolutely head over heels for her. When she moved, so did he. What happened when a planet was knocked out of its orbit around a star? Was it possible to find its way back?

           Alfie gritted his teeth. “I need to be here for her, I promised.”

           “Being there for her doesn’t mean you’re glued to her side, Alfie,” Polly replied firmly. “What if giving her some time was your way of supporting her?”

           Although the concept sounded terrifying to him, Polly’s sage manner made him consider it. Most likely if Tommy had suggested the same thing, Alfie would either laugh at him or tell him to fuck right off. “Where would she even go?” He asked after mulling over the option.

           “I suppose you could ask her.”

           “Yeah, I guess I can.” Alfie turned and looked down the hall to the closed door. Could he be making things difficult for her? Would she be able to find clarity on her own for a bit? He knew he would sacrifice the sun and moon for that woman. So, what was a little time apart? Heart-wrenching, that’s what it was. But Alfie knew something had to give.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           Traveler therapy. It sounded absolutely ridiculous to Alfie. But the man was hesitant to be away from his wife for the length of time Tommy was talking about.

           “The Lees are like family.” The Shelby man explained upon Ella and Alfie’s return from Margate to London. Alfie mentioned Polly’s suggestion of space to his wife. Ella appeared wary and hesitant. The larger part of her wanted to cling desperately to Alfie, afraid she would lose him. But there was something inside of her that grasped onto the words. A solution, perhaps. Her Alfie’s burden lifted for just a brief time. Her focus turned inward. Was that so bad?

           “She already knows most of them. One of the girls just lost a baby to pneumonia so she’ll have someone who can understand what she’s going through better than any of us can.”

           Alfie pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. “Right, so you talking ‘bout a month or what?”

           “It’s up to her. She wants to go.”

           “I ain’t…tryna control where she goes or fucking whatever, but how’m I supposed to know she’ll be safe?” He asked. The nerves of being separated from Ella were far greater than he expected. It’d been quite some time since they’d gone more than a few days without seeing one another. He’d gotten accustomed to having her as his constant in life.

           “She’ll be perfectly safe,” Tommy assured him. “They know the land better than anyone.”

           “Right…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, well, I want her to be happy, yeah, so if that’s what she wants.”

           “It’ll be good for her. Mark my words.”

~~~~~~~~~~

           So a few days later when things were settled and agreed upon, Alfie traveled with Ella to the outskirts of the city where the Lees were camped. Cassandra Lee, one of the matriarchs, came out to greet them.

           “Look how much you have grown, chavi. But all skin and bones! I will make you something to eat.” The older woman kissed Ella’s cheeks and embraced her.

           The scent of damp pine and roaring fires sparked something that had long been suppressed in Ella. The wild gypsy girl who loved to be outside as much as she could. The girl who begged to sleep out under the stars and go hunting with her brothers. It was a miracle it had been kept under wraps for so long. When for so long she’d insist she’d always be the princess knight of the forest.

           “Come, Isabel has been expecting you.” Cassandra took Ella’s bag.

           “Right, well, I’ll be getting a move on then.” Alfie cleared his throat. He had no idea what Cassandra said but took it as his time to leave. “Tommy said you maybe could call sometimes…or write. But I uh…don’t want you to think you hafta. This is ‘bout you, yeah?” He forced a weak smile. “Just know I love you and I hope you ain’t gonna find some gypsy boy who’s a bit more spry than your ol’ husband.”

           Ella’s blue eyes brimmed with tears. “You silly man.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’ve found the love of my life and I intend to return to him.”

           Alfie sighed and hugged her back. “Come back to me, El.” He kissed her temple. “You take your time and you come back to me how you like.”

           She smiled and pulled him in for a long kiss. “Absence makes the heart fonder.” She whispered softly against his lips.

           “Yeah, love. It sure does.” He already missed her.

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[mdelpin]

Take it on the Run

Gratsu Week 2020 Prompt: “That idiot! Running off on his own again” Pairing: Gray x Natsu

AO3

They stood in the wreckage of their guildhall, still not able to believe that the Master had disbanded the guild. The silence was overwhelming as they all stared at the remains. It had been their home for so long none of them had any idea of what to do or where to go. Or even who they might be without it.

“He’s gone!”

Gray turned his head sharply at Lucy’s cries, his fists clenching at his sides as their meaning sunk in. It didn’t take much to figure out who she was talking about. Gray had already noticed that the Flame Brain wasn’t there, and while strange, he’d thought that he was still holed away in his house, caught up in his grief over Igneel’s death.

That idiot! Running off on his own again.

It’s not like Gray could blame him, he’d thought about doing the same thing, but in the end, he’d decided he’d rather find a distraction to keep him from thoughts of his late father and what had been done to him. Not to mention the strange magic that he had bequeathed him. Gray had only used it a few times, but he had developed a healthy fear of it. The way it made him feel, it wasn’t something he was willing to play with even though he understood that he needed to learn to control it before it had the chance to control him.

While everyone asked Lucy who she was talking about, he peered at Erza, waiting for her reaction. When he received a nod, he immediately took off for his apartment, rushing to get a bag together and go after his idiotic whatever the hell he was to him these days.

That was another source of confusion that he’d been avoiding thinking about for quite a while. Something had changed between them. Gray wasn’t sure when it had happened, or even if it was something the other wanted, but none of that was important now.

Gray couldn’t deny that he felt hurt that Natsu had left Lucy a note instead of him, and maybe it was for that reason that he’d chosen not to stick around to hear the message. Although he supposed it made a sort of sense, Lucy had become very attached to Natsu, and the dragon slayer wouldn’t have wanted to worry her.

Natsu was hurting, and for the first time in his life, the grief was so profound that he couldn’t hide it behind one of his smiles like he always did. It didn’t necessarily surprise him that the dragon slayer had taken off, it was more the fact that he had done so as quickly as he did. That’s the part that worried Gray.

He knew he had to find him before he did something stupid, like try to avenge Igneel by going after Acnologia by himself. Gray refused to lose anyone else that was important to him. But where the hell would he have gone?

The only thing he was sure of was Natsu wouldn’t take transportation, but with Happy being able to fly him and his ability to use fire to speed himself up, he already had a pretty big head start.

Gray finished packing, grabbed the last of his jewels, and left before Juvia could attempt to follow him.

0-0

He had roamed around Fiore for weeks, his worry bubbling inside him with every passing day. Memories of Natsu’s sobs over Igneel’s remains urging him on even though he had no clear trail to follow.

He trained as he walked, at first using only his regular ice magic. Gray molded object after object refamiliarizing himself with his magic as he worked on his focus and his precision. Then he began adding small amounts of his new magic, being careful not to draw too much power just in case he lost control. The combination made his ice more robust, but even using that small amount, Gray could feel that strange darkness probing him, and it scared him.

In his determination to find Natsu, he came up with something he’d never tried before. After much trial and error, he was able to create a pair of wings strong enough to bear his weight. Using everything he remembered from Ur's lessons and the little dynamic Ice-Make Lyon had managed to teach him, he was able to make them fly.

His first flight had been as terrifying as it had been exhilarating. He’d almost crashed countless times as he attempted to learn how to maneuver through air currents, but Gray was no stranger to hard work, and within a day or two, he’d gotten the hang of it.

Don’t do anything stupid, Flame Brain, at least not til I get there.

Flying sped up his efforts considerably, and it was especially helpful around mountainous areas. Gray was now able to travel long distances in one day. Even so, when he finally found Natsu, it was due more to luck than any action on his part.

He’d been flying around at night when he felt an overwhelming source of heat. His wings began to melt, and he had to reinforce them swiftly before he plummeted into the darkness.

Gray swooped down excitedly, determined to find the source when he heard what sounded like a loud explosion followed by inconsolable wails, communicating a sorrow that tugged at his heartstrings.

Searching for a safe spot to land, he discovered a clearing, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, he ran, knowing he’d found the dragon slayer at last. He followed the sound of the cries only to stop in his tracks when he caught his first glimpse of Natsu.

“Gray!” Happy greeted, and the ice mage could hear the relief hiding in that greeting, which could only mean the Exceed was worried, and given what he’d just seen, Gray wasn’t all that surprised.

He muttered a greeting in response, his eyes never leaving Natsu, appraising the changes the last few weeks had wrought. The dragonslayer was filthy, which was to be expected from being on the road for so long, Gray was sure he didn’t look much better.

But it was much more than that. Natsu appeared too thin, making Gray wonder if he’d been eating regularly. His olive eyes, which had always been imbued with the spirit of his determination, now appeared dull and empty.

It was disconcerting and much worse than Gray had anticipated.

“Easy, it’s just me,” Gray kept his voice soft when he noticed that Natsu looked like he was about to bolt. He sat down where he stood, keeping some distance between them.

“What are you doing here? ” Natsu groaned, hiding his head in his hands, but he seemed to be calming down, and Gray took that as a good sign. “I specifically asked to be left alone.”

“Did you? I didn’t exactly stick around to hear your little note,” Gray shrugged, making a valiant effort to sound like it hadn’t bothered him.

Natsu peered up at whatever he heard in Gray’s voice before quickly looking down at his hands, “Gray, I-,” he sighed, “I was going to write you one, but I couldn’t come up with the words I wanted, Lucy was... easier.”

“You didn’t have to leave at all, you dumbass,” Gray pointed out, “We would all have been there for you. ”

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” Natsu revealed, and after a moment, admitted, “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Natsu -,” words escaped him. Gray wanted to tell him that he’d been almost sick with worry since the moment he’d realized that Natsu had left, but he understood that wasn’t what the dragon slayer needed from him right then. And in the absence of words, there was only one thing he could think to do. He stood up, approaching Natsu slowly.

“Come here, you big idiot,” Gray grabbed Natsu in a rough embrace, smiling when he felt the dragon slayer relax into him, his arms slowly coming up to return the gesture. “I’m just glad I found you.”

“How did you?” Natsu sounded puzzled, but he didn’t let go of Gray, and the ice mage took that as a win.

“Luck mostly,” Gray answered honestly, gently rubbing circles on Natsu’s back, “and a healthy dose of wanting to kick your ass for leaving in the first place.”

Natsu stiffened at that, and Gray was quick to let go of him. He walked over to his pack and searched for some food he could share with the dragon slayer. Finding some apples, he grabbed a handful along with the last of his jerky and shared them with Natsu and Happy.

Happy didn’t even complain about it not being fish, devouring his apple in one bite, and looking hopefully at Gray for another. Natsu studied his apple for a few minutes before taking a tentative bite and sitting down.

Gray sat next to him, placing the rest of the food on the ground atop Happy’s green kerchief. Natsu needed to eat something more substantial, but this would have to do for now. He’d hunt them down some food once he was sure that Natsu wouldn’t try to take off in his absence. Maybe he could even convince him to do it together like they sometimes did on team jobs.

Natsu continued to eat slowly, something Gray never thought he’d see in his lifetime, taking occasional peeks at Gray.

“I’m not going back,” Natsu said defensively, “at least not yet,” he amended when he saw Gray getting ready to protest.

“I have to get stronger so I can take him out,” Natsu roared, ” I won’t lose to him again!”

“I know, I’m not here to take you back,” Gray assured him, “I’m here for you, and, “ he paused, wondering if it was too soon, “because I need your help.”

“My help?” Natsu watched him warily, trying to catch the lie in his words, “What could you possibly want my help with?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gray insisted, recognizing the disgust in Natsu’s voice. He knew Natsu would never stop blaming himself for what had happened to Igneel, just like Gray would never forgive himself for not being able to give his father the peace he’d asked for, “there was nothing you could have done, nothing any of us could have done.”

“It’s not fair!” Natsu lamented, punching the ground for emphasis, even as his eyes shone with unshed tears. “He was right there, Gray, and then he was taken from me before I even had a chance to talk to him. And then to find out he’d been inside me all along - I searched all those years! What kind of rotten trick was that?!”

“I don’t know,” Gray answered honestly, “ but even I could see he loved you. I have to imagine it wasn’t an easy decision for him to make.”

He took a chance and reached out for Natsu’s hand, squeezing it firmly and pulling him closer until their knees touched.

“Gray?” Natsu glanced at him in surprise, and Gray had to admit it was unusual for him to be so tactile.

Outside of the occasional fistbump, the only time they ever really touched was during their neverending brawls, but maybe it was time to change that as well, to give a name to whatever it was that was happening between them. If this experience had taught him anything, it was that life was full of curveballs, and you had to hold on to the things that were important to you before they too were taken away.

“I know you think you failed, but we’re going to get stronger, and we’re going to take down that sonofabitch, and E.N.D, and Zeref, and anyone else who gets in our way,” Gray vowed, “but we’re only going to be able to manage that if we work together.”

Gray had made a promise to his father, and he intended to keep it, to put an end to all the suffering his family and others like them had suffered at the hands of Zeref’s demons. But he had also made many promises to himself in regards to his Fairy Tail family, and Acnologia had come after them twice now. They couldn’t afford to give him a third chance.

Natsu didn’t respond to his words right away, weighing them carefully against whatever he’d been planning to do. His gaze shifted from Gray’s face to their joined hands until he managed a smile for the first time since Gray had arrived.

“Together then,” he agreed, and for a brief moment, Gray caught a glimpse of the usual spark in Natsu’s eyes, and it gave him hope that everything would turn out alright.

A/N: Thanks to @oryu404​ for their help with the edit. This was somewhat unplanned but I wanted to contribute something! Might turn into a multi later, might not...

[babbushka]

Eight Candles

Mob!Kylo Ren x Reader ; 2k

Eight candles

On a plain afternoon

On a cold windowsill looking out

At December

You and Kylo are sitting among your family at the beautifully decorated venue. A stranger passing by would have thought it was a wedding, not the Hanukkah party your family threw every year. You and Kylo’s families had always been the best of friends, and the annual Hanukkah party was merely an excuse for everyone to get together. You hadn’t seen so many mobsters in one room in ages, everyone in their finest suits and dresses, shoes and heels shiny and sparkly and all gussied up for the occasion.

It was held at a ballroom in the Plaza Hotel, the entire space rented out for this, the first of an eight-night family get-together. The Plaza had done the space up beautifully, a silver wonderland with accents of navy blue. The lights are golden and soft, chandeliers dimmed low so that the huge hanukkiah garners the most attention.

It’s an heirloom of your family’s, the very same hanukkiah that your great-grandfather brought to America from the old country, passed down from generation to generation. Kylo’s uncle, Rabbi Luke was the one to light it, to lead you all in prayer, and now that the wicks were lit and the wax was slowly melting, dinner had been served.

You and Kylo are seated among the family, but at your own special table, a table fit for only the heads of the family, the big bosses. You, Kylo, Gwen, and Rey are with Kylo’s Uncle Lando, who isn’t really his uncle. Well, he’s everyone’s Uncle, isn’t he? Aren’t they all?

Waitresses and waiters bring the food and take it away, and there’s a happy quiet chatter as two hundred people from all sides of the family combined catch up from not seeing one another all year.

You aren’t in the mood to talk, not tonight. Tonight you’re here with Kylo, and once he’s cleared his second helping of dinner, he holds his hand out to you, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the dance floor.

Where they’re waiting

Waiting for the sun to give up

Till the passions of red are below the horizon

All at once

 You smile, take his warm hand eagerly. The music is his favorite kind, like something out of a bond film, or the old 60s soft rock scene. It’s echoey and far away, dreamy, but all together modern at the same time. Like it could be elevator music, or the soundtrack to your life, depending on the life you decide to live.

It’s too fast for a waltz, so you ballroom instead, many other couples in the family joining in with you. You laugh as your young cousins run around in their kippahs and bows, and Kylo does his best not to scowl when they dart between you for a moment – your aunt apologizing profusely.

There’s no rush tonight, nothing to worry about, nothing to be bothered with.

Well.

There is one thing, one person, someone who has attended the party who isn’t exactly welcome. One person who had slighted you a month or so ago, had gone behind Gwen’s back – had gone behind all your backs. What was the expression, a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

What do you call it when the room is full of wolves?

You look at Kylo, give him a raise of your eyebrow, and he only takes your hand in his, kisses the knuckles there.  

He had promised, earlier, that the wayward cousin would be made an example of, but he hadn’t told you how. You trust him, trust that he won’t let the rat go free. So while he kisses your knuckles, a silent answer to an unspoken question, you let yourself relax against him, in his embrace.

You’re proud of him, for being this social. He hasn’t spoken a single word all evening, but then again, he doesn’t have to. He has you to speak for him, has you to catch up and mingle, has you to smile and toast glasses, has you to carry the conversations he doesn’t have any patience for.

You’re proud of him, for agreeing to come at all. He isn’t that big a fan of these parties, of any parties for that matter. He’s self-conscious about the scar which splits his face, only barely healed and still emotionally raw. He’s worried the children will laugh and point, but they do no such thing – instead they keep telling him how cool it makes him look, like a proper gangster. He had cracked a small smile at that.

  They’re a-light and the window’s aglow

Teasing shadows with nowhere to go

So they watch at the curtain with you

Eight candles

 He’s so handsome, you think. He’s wearing the new suit, the one you managed to have tailored just in time, tailored to fit his broad broad broad shoulders. It’s from the 60s, that clean and classic look that Kylo fancies so much. It’s black wool, because of course it is, but you’ve folded a navy blue satin kerchief into his breast-pocket, a silver tie tucked into the waist-coat.

He’s careful to not step on your feet, careful not to scuff your loubitons with his, red bottoms unscathed from never being worn.

His eyes are so brown, sparkling in the low light, candles all around you, lining the dance floor. You know that in the real world, you’re in a sea of family members all dancing, but in your head, in your eyes, it’s just the two of you. No one else exists, and you smile when he’s just as lost in your gaze as you are in his.

He leans down for a soft kiss, and you meet him more than halfway. You let out a pleased, happy sigh at the peace of the evening, your stomach pleasantly warmed from the hearty meal. Kylo steals one of his hands away from your waist for a moment to fish out a cigarette and light it. Technically smoking wasn’t allowed inside, but this was Kylo Ren – he could do whatever he wanted.

You watch him fondly as he puffs plumes into the air, leans down to kiss you again.

He tastes like ash, but then again, when doesn’t he? Ash and wine and honey all mixed into one, your man. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against yours, rubs your noses together. You’re so close, breathing in each other’s air, candles just on the edge of the dance floor turned into a sprinkling of twinkling halos.

 Eight candles

Watch us holding our hands

See us moving our lips in a chorus of silence

And they burn on

 As you dance, you notice something, someone, walking around on the upper balcony. It’s one of the Knights of Ren, Kylo’s personal squad of bodyguards. You catch one of their eyes, give them a smile. They don’t smile back, but they do nod, give you an acknowledging wave.

You follow their movement with your eyes, watch as they walk walk walk around the upper balcony. They descend the stairs, stay hidden in the comforting darkness behind the stone pillars which support the ornate ceiling.

Two of them slip out the back door, and no one notices but you, because why would they? With the Manischewitz flowing, lips stained ruddy red from the sticky sweet wine, why would anyone bother to pay attention to a bodyguard leaving out the back door?

You raise an eyebrow at Kylo again, and he only exhales up into the air. Warm circles glow around the candles on the hanukkiah, and in the low light, you and Kylo are entranced with one another as the flame flickers and crackles and dips, dancing dancing dancing on the wick.

You wondered the implications of everything, how angry those who didn’t know, would be. But like with most things, you find out eventually, you always find out. Gwen and Rey dance next to you, give you questioning glances and looks, which Kylo pointedly ignores.  

 They’re alive and the window’s aglow

Teasing shadows with nowhere to go

So they watch at the curtain

With you

 You know then that he’s done something, or at the very least, is going to. Kylo didn’t take rats lightly, the last person to go against the family, to feed information to the hungry pigs always on your heel, had been stabbed through the heart and tossed off a bridge.

Your husband wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety.

He spins you gently, twirls you only enough so that your dress flutters as it wraps around your legs. You wonder what it’s going to be, how it’s all going to go down. It wouldn’t do to kill him here, so clearly if the Knights are up to anything, it’s nothing deadly.

Perhaps an abduction? The KoR storming in with their big guns drawn, storming in with your cousin in sight, storming in with cuffs and ties and a bag to throw over his head?

Or perhaps a warning shot to the stomach?

Or maybe even still, a slicing of the throat, removal of an ear? Just a little something to show Kylo means business – you all mean business. You shift your glance back to the cousin, schmoozing and wining and dining like he doesn’t know what’s coming. And maybe, maybe he doesn’t.  

But maybe he does, because suddenly he’s reaching into his pocket for his car keys, twirling them around and around his finger, much the same way Kylo’s twirling you.

The cousin can sense something is wrong, he can sense it. Maybe it’s the way you’re looking at him, glaring. Maybe it’s the way he can tell he’s been found out, as more and more eyes turn. Not all the eyes, but enough, enough to tell him to leave. So he does the right thing and goes.

You follow his movements just as you had the KoR, as he says his goodbyes and slips out the very same back door, the very same one that the KoR are returning through. Kylo turns his gaze to meet his bodyguards expectantly, and they make their way down through the dance floor, assume their positions around the both of you.

 Eight candles

Disappearing for good

And your eyes lose the light till it comes back tomorrow

Eight more candles

Till the shadows have reached the horizon

 When the explosion outside goes off, and the car is engulfed in flames of bright yellow red orange from a pipe hidden in the engine, or strapped underneath the frame, or or or, you and Kylo can only look at one another, quiet smirks exchanged as he leans down to kiss you.

You kiss and dance, your hands in hand, wrapped around his shoulder and your waist. The screams and sounds of shock from the rest of the family fade into the background. In the soft light of the ballroom, with all the kids running to the window to try and get a glimpse at the limo that’s no more, it’s all you can do to stare into each other’s eyes lovingly.

No words exchanged, nothing but teasing smiles and knowing grins, those rare dimples of his making a special holiday appearance, nose rubbing gently against yours, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette delicately, clouding the air only for a moment before it disappears. You lean in to kiss him once more, a silent thanks and declaration of love for all to see, not that anyone had any doubts.

Outside the traitor burns to a crisp, blown to pieces along with the shattering glass of his windows and doors. But inside, you and Kylo are safe and warm. And when the song drifts to an end, as people run in slow motion all around you, you lean your head on Kylo’s chest and close your eyes, stepping round and round to the beat of the soft music.

 Eight candles

Eight more candles

Eight more candles

Eight more candles…

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

Tagging some mob kylo lovin’ friends! <3   Tagging some mob loving pals! As always, if you’d like to be on the list or taken off, please just let me know <3  @adamsnackdriver​​ @dreamboatdriver​​ @kyloxfem​​ @heldcaptivebychaos​​ @kylo-renne​​ @callmehopeless​​ @solotriplets​​ @formerly-anonhamster​​ @lookinsidemyhead​​ @candycanes19​​ @adamsnacc-kler​​ @the-wayward-rose​​ @taylovren-types​​  magikevalynn  tinyplanet-explorers @chelsjnov​​  romancedeldiablo @elfieboxcat​ @scheherazades-horcrux​ @whiskey-bumblebee​

[deliciousscaloppine]

A TRUE RAREPAIR APPROACHES

For Jiang Yanli / Luo Qingyang (Mianmian!) Are you more the type to cut off your braid and wear an armour to save your princess or the type to give up your royal privileges to run away with your beloved maid? 

This is really too long for a prompt, and too short for the story I wanted to write so excuse my bad planning (the story elements are good though)

The carriage rocked and rattled, making her sleepy.

“Is Lanling a big city?” her brother asked from outside. He was riding on a horse, out in the open air with no care in the world. No worries about his complexion darkening under the harsh sun. No petulant groom for him to satisfy with the pale color of his skin.

“Big? What kind of silly question is that! Why don't you ask if the sun shines.” her other brother barked from the other side of the carriage. “Of course, it's big, I showed it to you on the map!” He was also riding on a horse, out in the open air, his only care if he would make a good impression.

“Why are you mad! Don't you know there are no silly questions! All I want to know is how comfortable our sister will be. Lotus Pier is so distant and so small, it's okay for a peasant's life, but our sister is a fairy from the moon. She deserves the best wedding!”

“You needn't worry, young master!” the driver of the carriage said. “Lady Jiang will have no shortage of comforts. Carp Tower is like a town unto itself. It's no mere mansion. Its residences are outnumbered by its many workshops and shrines. Anything she wants will be delivered to her. All her life she might not have need to step outside of her husband's bedroom.”

An awkward silence followed. Her little brother knocked on the carriage window.

“Big sister, did you hear that?” he said concerned. “Listen, if you want to bolt, just say so. I'll take you on my horse and we'll disappear into the night.”

She had smiled “A-Xian.”

Her family where once rangers. They traveled throughout the land in ceaseless motion. They slept outside under the starry sky, they hunted for food, they knew how to make fire. They didn't mind wearing rags as they fought for justice. Perhaps that's why her father liked little A-Xian so much. He still had that hint of wilderness inside him.

But somewhere along the line, the Jiang had married well, they had acquired a big home and followers, and the ranger had become gentry. Not fully extinguished perhaps, but definitely more preoccupied with courtly manners, and dress, and important political alliances.

The carriage stopped and a loud voice was heard proclaiming some herald of the Jin Clan.

“What do you mean this carriage is too small! It's perfectly sized.” she heard her brother argue outside. “That thing is so big, it might as well be a house. How we'll talk to our big sister in this?”

She poked her head through the window. A well-dressed, if somewhat self important herald approached her.

“Lady Jiang, your future husband, the groom, the pearl of Carp Tower, our lord Jin Zixuan is sending this carriage for you so that you can enter the city with the honor befitting the status of the future lady of Carp Tower.”

Jiang Yanli was already dizzy from the rocking of the carriage. She had hoped to walk a few paces and breathe some fresh air before arriving in Lanling.

“I will take it, if my brothers are permitted to ride at the front.” she said getting off.

Her brothers looked at her uncertain. How could she tell them, she was supremely tired of their bickering. Of course, it was the nerves of the separation, but she had even more of those, and she had to maintain not only a perfect composure, but also a flawless complexion.

The road full of pebbles and rocks, crunched under her shoes and she wondered if that was that last bit of her freedom waving goodbye. A large retinue of maids and servants and all sorts of Jin disciples stood to greet her

“I am Luo Qingyang” a young, athletic lady with a sword and a fairly sunkissed complexion bowed. “I will be keeping you safe on this journey.” she said and showed her the way into the large, ornate carriage.

“You can call me Mianmian. Everybody does.” Luo Qingyang said once they were inside.

“Mianmian!” Yanli laughed behind her hand.

“Isn't it funny! But only girls can call me like that!” she said brightly and reached for a little embroidered pouch from her pocket. She handed it to Yanli. “Here! If you get dizzy smell this. It's some aromatic herbs, they help with headaches and the such.”

Yanli pressed it to her face smiling. “You make these yourself?”

“I am a talented swordswoman, but there is not much to do around in Carp Tower, I mostly escort ladies of the house and lord Jin Zixuan. I learned how to make these aromatic pouches from the other ladies there. They help me remember home.”

Mianmian took out another pouch. “This one has dried herbs my mother plants in her garden. When I get a little homesick, I press it to my face like this. I'll show you how to make them, they are pretty easy! This way you can take the smell of lotus flowers with you wherever you go.”

Yanli looked at the colorful pouch in her hands. “Thank you.” she said and felt tears coming to her eyes.

Mianmian pulled out a kerchief. “Oh, don't cry over a silly pouch! You'll see, you'll miss nothing when we get to Carp Tower. Whenever you get a little homesick, we'll just hop on this carriage and trot at the pace of a snail all the way to Lotus Pier!”

Yanli laughed. She laughed many times, until night descended around them and the horses had to rest.

“What is lord Jin Zixuan like?” Yanli asked lying down on the soft pillows, pressing Mianmian's aromatic pouch in her hand. It was hot in the carriage, but too cold for her to go outside.

Mianmian sighed. “Well, he is kind of aloof, you know. But he just doesn't know how to express himself. I mean, he comes across as conceited. Well, not conceited...self-important? No, that's not the word! Uhm, too full of himself?”

Jiang Yanli paled.

“But he is alright, I guess. I don't think you will be seeing him often, anyway. A sect leader is always terribly busy. Lord Guangshan almost never sees Lady Jin. Even though that whole thing is a different issue.”

“How so?”

“Well, they were forced into this marriage when they were very young, and they never really hit it off. I guess each felt trapped in a relationship they didn't want to be in, and both acted out in ways that caused a permanent rift between them.” Mianmian said. “Though lord Guangshan certainly did the most to ruin the relationship...with all of those uhm...extramarital affairs.”

Yanli sat up on her elbows. “I need a breath of fresh air” she said.

The night was dry and cold all around them, Yanli had needed a coat. The pebbles crunched under their feet. But the sky was clear and all one could see were stars, as many of them as the pebbles of the road underneath their feet. She smiled again to herself. Better not. Her family had good reason to settle.

“I will like Carp Tower.” she said in a loud voice.

“Eh, it's alright.” Mianmian followed. “It sure is impressive at first, but then everyone has so many opinions, so many little things you can slight someone over. So no one ever does or says anything that's slightly out of the ordinary. We all politely eat lunch and smile at each other.”

“How come you never left then!” Yanli heard herself exclaim. “If it's so horrible and boring what are you doing there.”

Mianmian lifted her shoulders. “It's comfortable, I guess.” she said, and Yanli felt her stomach twist in a knot. It was so cold she felt dizzy. The thought of galloping through the night, not with A-Xian, someone else, then seemed utterly ridiculous to her.

She was no ranger! She wasn't even a swordswoman. She was just a pliant, handsome girl who knew how to light the stove and cook, and make everyone feel better. That'swho she had wanted to be! That's who she thought she were. No catching fish or pheasants, and playing all day like little A-Xian. No practicing the sword and running amok like A-Cheng.

“Can you hunt, Mianmian? I don't mean monsters, or other ghouls. I mean can you catch pheasants or fish by the riverside?”

Mianmian looked at her bewildered. “I never had to. Every meal at Carp Tower is a feast.” Mianmian however could tell that was not the answer Jiang Yanli was looking for. “...I could try.” she offered.

“How about a horse? Can you ride one?”

“I always prefered my own two feet.” Mianmian said. “I can ride the sword though. That has to count for something.”

The sword, Janli thought. The sword.

Two days later the carriage arrived at Lanling, and an auspicious wedding was held after some time. Everyone drank to the new bride's health. She put on the fineries of Carp Tower, and smiled. And after a while there came a momeent when she had to say goodbye to her own two brothers, her mother and father and be now a true lady of the Lanling Jin.

“We'll come to see you often!” her brothers waved at her and left.

The groom? The groom was fine. Mianmian said he was polite and considerate, but Yanli thought he was entirely cold. On their first night together he had said, “Why don't you acclimate yourself to life in Carp Tower first,” and then left.

Her first thought was that she had done something wrong. That by some oversight, she had made herself undesirable. She looked at herself in her mirror and craved to be kissed, and held, and be talked to softly. To be squeezed in someone's arms.

“Don't take it to heart!” Mianmian had laughed the next day. “I am sure he is just as nervous as you!”

“I am not at all nervous.” she had said wistfully and wondered if it was wrong. If not being nervous was that disastrous oversight.

“I would be.” Mianmian mused. “I mean you do not really know your husband at all. That is a strange situation. He never had to find what you like and seek your favor.”

“It's too late now for all that.”

“I have an idea!” Mianmian said. “Why don't you tell me what you like! Then I can go and tell him! I'll be like your secret messenger.”

Yanli laughed. “That's childish!” she said. “He wouldn't like that!”

“Why not? Come on let's try! What is something you really like doing?”

Yanli mused. “I guess, I would really like it if he tried some of my soup.” Yanli immediately felt more heartened after expressing herself. “That's right! I want to make him some lotus and rib soup!” 

She took Mianmian and together they went to the kitchen. The many maids that took care of the cooking were very surprised to see a lady of the house in all her exorbitant jewlery and fine silk satins among them, opening cupboards and asking where this and that ingredient were.

For the first time in several days, she felt like her old self. Like she was back at Lotus Pier, waiting for night to fall and share food and stories with her two brothers. Mianmian chattered incessantly, and from time asked to help, chopping the ribs, and grating the ginger, asking why they skim the foam from the top.

“It smells so good!” she finally said, as Yanli carefully served the soup in a bowl.

“Take it to him, before it's cold!”

Mianmian did as she was told, but when she returned, she had no eloquent messages of thanks.

“He's probably too busy to eat soup, right now.” she said.

“Or perhaps he finds it too provincial.” Yanli thought.

“Come on, let's eat the two of us!” Mianmian said and taking the ladle, she served them.

Yanli tasted the soup. It was not exactly how she used to make it. But she didn't what it was that was missing. Carp Tower had everything, it lacked neither ginger, not scallions. Was it the meat? The lotus root? Was it the air of this mansion, heavy with incense and slightly oppressive from the sweat of the fawning courtiers. Did it alter the taste of the soup?

“It's really good!” Mianmian said sipping some of the broth.

“It's not as good as I make it on Lotus Pier. Maybe that's why he didn't like it.” Yanli said pushing the bits of meat and lotus around in her bowl.

“What are you talking about! This is a hearty dish, I've never really tasted anything like it before, but even if I had, I would be glad if someone had just cooked it for me. It might not taste exactly as it does on Lotus Pier, but how could it, you are yourself a different person.”

Yanli's face droop. That's right, she thought, I am sadder. When her two brothers would come back, their faces lit up at the prospect of the soup, her heart was full. They were waiting to be with her, just as much as she did all day...Here no one paid mind to such things. Here no one was waiting.

“What's with the face!” Mianmian asked around a mouthful of lotus root. “Are you feeling homesick?”

“I do.” Yanli said.

“Then eat up! You'll feel better. That's what I always do! When I miss home, I eat watercress soup.”

But Mianmian didn't just say this. Taking a spoonful of soup she guided it to Yanli's lips. Yanli laughed and ate. And soon, she found out there was absolutely nothing with her soup. It tasted great. She ate and ate, until she finally felt full.

I should have played more with my brothers, she thought, when she had finished eating. I should have taught them how to make this soup, and they should have taken me hunting. This way my life would be more complete.

“I never really followed my brothers in their adventures.” she said to Mianmian. “Now I wish I had at least once.”

The following week, a great hunt was held in Phoenix Mountain. All week people run here and there to build a beautiful pavilion for the hunters to rest, and arrange the many refreshments that would be served. Yanli had to dress especially nice, and greet with Madam Jin the many guests. After a while all she had to do was sit at her own table and smile demurely at every remark, at every conversation, even if it was not directed at her.

Until Mianmian came and sat by her side. “I know what will cheer you.” she said. “Let's go hunting together. Let's go catch fish and pheasants!”

“We can do that?” Yanli asked.

“We'll just say you needed to stretch your legs and breathe the fresh air!” Mianmian said, and taking her by the hand, she stole away with her into the forest. Yanli became breathless and dizzy pretty soon, but there Mianmian was, kicking stones out of the path, and giving her her hand, when they had to climb up a steep path.

Mianmian was small, but she was agile and strong like a little mountain goat. They climbed and climbed until miraculously they came across a pheasant.

“I bet I can hit it with my sword from here!” Mianmian said.

“You can't use your sword for a poor bird. You have to give it a fighting chance.”

“Alright.” Mianmian said rolling her sleeves and lunging right on it. The pheasant put up a valiant fight, thrashing around agrily until it won. Screeching offended, it bolted for the bushes.

“I guess I am not that good at catching pheasants.” Mianmian said putting her hands on her waist. From the top of her head to her toes she was covered in dirt and dust, a few plumes sticking out of her hair.

Yanli laughed. “We'll have better luck catching fish!” she said, following the sound of nearby water.

“Only if you let me use my sword.” Mianmian grumbled.

Even if it was the height of summer the rivulet they found was cold, nevertheless Mianmian waded through it valiantly. “Wait here!” she called climbing on a rock.

“I see a lot of fish.” she said, shielding her eyes from the reflections of the water. “I wonder if I can try something.”

Mianmian closed her eyes and unseathed her sword.

“Lady Luo! Don't be excessive!” Yanli called.

But Mianmian didn't stab any fish, until not at first. She waved her sword in a great arc, her body following it like a wave. Rising its tip well above her head, her knee folding. Following the crescent  of this move with her elbows bent, one arm extended, directing power with her index and middle fingers. Breathing as the sword rests for a moment before a decisive swing.

It looked oddly like a dance, Yanli thought. She had seen her two brothers often practice, but their form had nothing as graceful as that. They always looked as if they struggled against something; the air around them, their own shape, their own power perhaps.

The sword glimmered and shined, changing angles around Luo Qingyang's body, moving as if something invisible balanced on its very tip.

Then she brought it powerfully down, smacking the surface of water. The survace of the rivulet bounced, expelling all the fish in the air above them. Yanli shrieked, delighted, as a shower of trouts descended all around them.

Mianmian flew through the air, stabbing two fish, before landing triumphantly. “Let's eat them now!” she exclaimed.

Yanli gathered some twigs. She knew at least how to light a fire. She made a small firepit at the edge of the shore, and lined it with smooth rocks from the river. This was exciting, it was a proper outing in the wild – even if the hunters' pavilion was an hour away.

Yanli smiled to herself as she prepared the kindling. But for some reason when she tried to make fire, her hands faltered. She tried something she knew how to do, but the comfortable life in Carp Tower had made her forget.

Mianmian kneeled by her side, taking the flint from her hands. “Here, let me!” she said brightly, as she stood next to her, their shoulders touching, the sparks flying.

“My mom is a great cook! She taught me how to light a stove at least.” she said smiling.

“I knew how to do this once.” Yanli said loudly.

“You still do! You are probably tired from our little excursion.”

“...Do you think I could live outside, Mianmian?” she asked. “Like a ranger, with no home, just roaming the country on a horse and little else.”

“I am sure you could do anything you put your mind to.” Mianmian said quietly.

Even though Yanli had managed to do this one thing, her heart was now heavy. This was a summer dream, she thought as the fish was roasting. She should just enjoy it and then let it fade away.

The two of them ate their country meal, and as dusk began to approach, they made their way down the path laughing and joking, sometimes holding hands, when the climb down was too steep. When they finally arrived at the hunters' pavilion, before the sun began to set, a great commotion was waiting for them.

The disappearance of the young lady had caused quite the stir. Yanli had wanted to say, “I was just catching fish.” She knew what an immature thing it was to say. So she smiled and apologized profusely, while her husband sat at a corner and sulked, and Mianmian made her own excuses.

When the day was concluded and all the party returned to Carp Tower, Yanli felt she had to apologize to him especially. She tried to explain to him at first what that hunt meant for her. How her brothers would go on long trips, and fool around, knowing that when they came back, they would come back to a home.

“Lady Jiang!” Jin Zixuan said, as if they were not married. “How do you think it makes me feel, when I go looking for you and can't find you!”

Left alone once more during the night, she began to cry. Was it a delusion to think she could bring home with her? Mianmian appeared at the frame of the door.

“Don't cry! It was all my fault!” she cried and in less than a moment, she had embraced her.

“I am not crying about today.” Yanli said. “I am crying for tomorrow and all the tomorrows that will follow after that. I don't think I will ever have Jin Zixuan's love, but even if I did, I am no so sure I would want it.”

Mianmian dried her eyes with her sleeve.

“He might have sounded cold, but I believe in his heart of hearts he has a true fondness for you. When he sees you, he must surely feel like you are the most thoughtful and exceptional person in the world. I know that with time all he'll want is to fall deeply in love with you.”

“He never said that. Stop speaking his mind for him.”

“I am sorry.” Mianmian said confused, her eyes suddenly filling with regret.

Yanli clasped her, tightened her hands around those strong arms that could wield a sword. “When you talk to me like that don't do it for him! Defend me for yourself, love me for yourself.” she said, and as if shocked by her own words, she clasped her mouth next and fled.

She ran through the garden, and hid, like a scared child who has done something worthy of reproach. She stayed for a long time hidden, watching the carp dance in the water, wondering what was happening to her. What were those new things she wanted and why, and sometimes she thought of nothing at all, except for Luo Qingyang's face.

“Don't make this more difficult than it is.” she heard a voice suddenly say. She peeked from behind the bushes and saw Mianmian with two other disciples.

“Madam Jin wants you to leave. Here's some money, take it and go.” they said.

Mianmian looked at their hands, and then with very little hesitation, she took off the lavish garment of the Jin Clan and tossed it at them before storming away.

There were no more reproaches, only consequences.

That night, she smiled and greeted everyone at the banquet. She had graceful words for everyone, but it was not her saying these words. It was a ghost that repeated the things that had been fixed on it since childhood. Yanli felt it retreat from her more firmly with each act of decorum. Goodbye, she said to it with her mind.  

At precisely midnight, a great wind swept the tower, rattling every door and window. Yanli wore her hardiest coat and exited her room. It might have been a fierce night, but the air was fragrant with the smell of the peony flowers. So she run through the empty garden laughing.

She run with with her skirts clutched in her hands, as a torrent of flowers drifted in the wind above her.

“Turn away! Go back!” angry voices sounded in the night. For a moment, she froze, thinking they were coming from her mind. A sword hummed sonorously above the raging wind.

“None of you can stop me!” a familiar voice was heard, and then the sound of a blade thrashing, humming with the stress of every hit, producing a clear sound like a wailing song. Yanli run faster.

Mianmian was in the courtyard dancing with her sword. Twisting around attacks, bouncing her blade on weapons, until they broke. Her form nothing but perfect, as if there was nothing between her and the world, no other blades, no lances, no screams. As if she was just practicing steps in the dark, in deep meditation.

“Fall back! Fall back!” the voices cried. Yanli run to the very bottom of the steps, as bewildered men fled around her.

Mianmian smiled and gave her her hand. The sword hummed and stepping on air, it pulled them through the fragrant, night air, upwards towards the stars.

There were never seen again in the world, but I am sure they are quite happy.

[jiubilant]

Mirabelle Ervine, Master Wizard of the College of Winterhold, has long despaired of coaxing answers from Ancano. But after a whalesteak fried in butter and two cups of Colovy red, the Company clerk from far Haafingar proves chatty indeed.

“You want to know why I’m here,” he says, lifting a wobbly finger from his cup. He’s traveled through winter and war to sip watered wine in one of Mirabelle’s hard-backed chairs; he looks, she thinks, a bit like a wind-tossed crow. Lost. Ill-omened. Beaky. “The real reason, beyond, ah, threatening you all with litigation. Well.”

He fishes in his pocket—no doubt for his pipeweed-bag, Mirabelle thinks, resisting the urge to open a window. The man had puffed like a chimney throughout his first appointment with the Archmage, until Savos, coughing, had waved him out with the smoke. He’s making a nuisance of himself in the lecture-halls as well, if Colette is to be believed. What had she been sharpening her claws about yesterday? Something involving that raconteur, Mirabelle recalls, hearing the words in Mistress Marence’s characteristic yowl, that radical, that reprobate teaching my students to blow smoke-rings—

The clerk resurfaces with a diamond as big as his fist.

It is, thinks Mirabelle, staring, a monstrous thing: jagged and cold, like ice chipped from a gargoyle’s chin. But it shines like spellfire. Its facets catch the candlelight so that, when the clerk smiles at the look on Mirabelle’s face and spins the jewel on the table like a teetotum, it dances flamelike on her papers until it wobbles over.

Mirabelle, frowning, leans to examine it. Then she freezes. It’s not a diamond at all.

“Stalhrim,” she says carefully.

“Stalhrim,” says the clerk, and drily takes a drink. “Fashioned as a pick, I was told, for sampling more stalhrim. All but useless now, of course,” he adds with a tight, deliberate smile, “since the Company’s backed out of Solstheim.”

Mirabelle arranges her face. Stalhrim, the ice unmelting. Stalhrim, wrought with spells that wizardry forgot. Stalhrim, like the unbreakable swords of old Hirstaang. A chunk half the size of this one, she thinks, could buy a diamond mine.

And it’s not in a Company coffer, triple-locked, cushioned with silk. It’s not being fitted for a gem-encrusted hilt. It’s glinting in the firelight between herself—not the sort of person, she thinks with cold unease, with whom an East Empireman should discuss East Empire secrets—and a man whose thin, tired face betrays nothing but understanding of what he has laid on the table. His livelihood. Perhaps his life.

Mirabelle’s fingers curl, hesitating, over the jewel. “May I?”

The man gestures with his cup, affecting carelessness; he’s wobbly with nerves, Mirabelle understands, not with drink. She picks up the stalhrim. It sticks to her fingers, burning, like an icicle; she makes an academic noise and turns it over, then raises her eyebrows. Chiseled into one shining edge is a lightning-rune.

“S’Company property,” the clerk explains, then spreads his hands in helpless amusement. “Say someone steals it, or that I’m tempted to, ah, to sell it and retire to Stros M’kai. Well, if I don’t touch the thing every five minutes—zap.”

He’d had it in his pocket, wrapped in a kerchief. Mirabelle stares at him.

“What if,” she says, her brows crawling together, “you forget?”

The clerk, with a strained smile, pours himself more wine. “Zap.”

Turnover, thinks Mirabelle, must be high in the East Empire Company.

“Only stalhrim,” she murmurs, running a thoughtful thumb over the rune, “can scratch stalhrim. Or break it.” She looks up at the clerk, then, her eyes sharp as spelled ice. “You asked the Archmage if you could visit the Saarthal excavation site.”

The clerk raises his eyebrows and puts his nose in his cup. His eyes flash, full of meaning, above the rim.

And all of Mirabelle’s suspicions click into place with deadly clarity, like bolts into a ballista. Why this man and his stalhrim are here. Why the College is crawling with Thalmor. Why her palms, numbed through with the jewel’s eternal chill, are still sweating.

“Sirrah,” she says smoothly, setting down the chunk of ice, “you will find no stalhrim in Saarthal.” She lays the words like cornerstones, bricking up a barricade between herself and the clerk. When he writes to the Company about the Thalmor, and when Ancano’s own clerks inevitably intercept his correspondence—well. Her hand burns cold and red where the stalhrim touched it. “I understand, given the site’s history, why the Company thought the possibility of a mainland deposit worth exploring. But our excavators have unearthed nothing but a—a few trinkets of historical interest.”

So far, she thinks. She imagines Company cutters and Aldmeri warships flinging fire at each other on the sea. She imagines the College between them.

The clerk does not blink. He is, Mirabelle supposes, imagining it, too.

“Of course,” she continues, leaning forward in her seat, “you may survey the site with our blessing, if that will satisfy the Company’s curiosity. Perhaps you should pose as a visiting scholar. To avoid causing a stir among”—she hooks her thumbs together, unblinking, then wings her hands in the shape of the Dominion’s eagle-crest—“the student body.”

The clerk, his face taut with weariness and worry, stares at her.

Then he smiles as though he’s misheard a joke. “I don’t know any magic.”

“You needn’t,” says Mirabelle, reaching for the winejug. She’s already half-convinced. The idea unfolds in her mind like a dark staircase; she feels her way down with cautious enthusiasm, like she had felt her way down to the Midden as a prentice, kindling lights in the cobwebby air. “We’re jealous of our research, we wizards. If anyone asks you about yours, just—act nervous,” she says with a near-smile, thinking of Arniel, “or mysterious, and take your leave.” She fills the man’s cup to the brim. “You may find it diverting.”

And it may, she doesn’t say, keep you alive. She studies the man who has risked himself, for reasons she cannot guess, for the sake of her school: some silly old scribbler, his cloak patched in several places, looking unscholastic and somewhat sick. The Thalmor will kill him. Not even Phinis could conjure a creature less impressive.

Raconteur, she thinks, trying to believe it. Radical. Reprobate—

The man ducks his head and laughs.

“Diverting,” he says, sitting up straighter. His face opens like a boarded-up window. “Yes. Well. I’ve not—I’ve not done this sort of thing in some time, you understand.”

For a moment, Mirabelle is too surprised even to blink.

Then she raises her eyebrows. “Corporate espionage?”

“Pretending to be a wizard.” The clerk smiles. “Though I remember a card trick or two. And in a certain dive in Bravil,” he adds, straight-faced, “I may still be remembered as Barenziah—”

* * *

“Did you hear,” says a first-year apprentice of Restoration, “that some Synod mage is poking around Saarthal?”

Her friend frowns at his slate, on which he’s scribbled several equations, a hasty proof, and a drawing of a goose. The proof is correct, but something seems wrong with the goose. “Thought he said he’s from Shad Astula.”

“You’re both wrong,” says a third-year with poor form, her practice-ward wobbling at her fingertips. “He’s a Psijic. Isn’t he, Mistress?”

“He’s a no-good nuisance,” says Colette Marence with asperity, and prods her. “Elbows in—”

“But, Mistress,” the first-year pipes up, “have you seen his card tricks?”

[sunflowersupremes]

Non-Consensual Cuddling

Dandelion tries a new drink and finds himself with amnesia. Geralt is not amused.

Book Verse

Characters: Dandelion, Geralt

Notes: Alright, so I have a great story behind where I got the idea for this. When I was doing the tags for Forgiveness Earned I saw the tag “non consensual cuddling” and I NEEDED IT.It had to be book!Geralt though, because show!Geralt would probably just sit on Jaskier until the drug wore off (or tie him to a tree lol)

Read on AO3

He’s not entirely certain what Dandelion might have taken, but then again, he probably doesn’t want to know.

Geralt had turned his back on the bard for only a few moments - alright, nearly an hour - but in that time Dandelion had made new friends, and agreed to sample their latest creation. Whatever their creation might be, it certainly had done a number on the troubadour.

“Move you oaf,” Geralt grumbled, wrapping one arm around Dandelion’s waist and struggling to lead the bard up the stairs.

“W-where are we going?” he asked, reaching over to touch Geralt’s face curiously, pulling at the leather strap he used to control his hair.

“To bed - or you are at any rate - and I imagine I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Dandelion stopped, and when he spoke, his voice was like that of a frightened child, “And what are we going to be doing in bed?”

“Sleeping,” Geralt said, pulling his friend up the last of the stairs, pushing him into their small room. Then he stopped. There was genuine fear in Dandelion’s eyes and absolutely no recognition.

“Dandelion-”

“Who are you?” asked the poet, backing up and pressing himself against the wall.

Geralt resisted the urge to swear. “I’m Geralt,” he said, “I’m your friend, Dandelion-”

“My name is Julian-”

“Julian,” he said softly, the name tasting strange in his mouth. Dandelion, for one reason or another, almost never went by his given name. But if that was what he was willing to respond to-

“I won’t sleep with you.”

“I’m not asking-”

“You can’t make me!”

“Julian,” Geralt said again, patiently. “I want you to lie on the bed, and I’ll sit beside you, yes, but I won’t-”

Dandelion shook his head again. “No!” whined the troubadour, and his tone - full of absolute terror - struck something deep in Geralt’s chest. “L-let me go,” he sobbed, trying to scramble out of the room.

“Dande- Julian,” Geralt scolded, pulling the bard back, dropping him on the bed. “You need to sleep this off, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend!” cried the troubadour, and Geralt found himself shocked into stillness. He felt as though all the air had been knocked out of him, and someone had dunked him in cold water. But then Dandelion made a break for the door, so Geralt pulled him back, pinning him in his lap.

“Don’t hurt me,” Dandelion pleaded, trembling.

Geralt stroked his hair, gently setting his hat aside so that the feathered plume wouldn’t be crushed. “You’re safe with me, bard, I promise you that.”

“I won’t let you harm me!” Dandelion argued, struggling against Geralt. “I- I’ll scream-”

“Please don’t scream,” Geralt pleaded. A part of it was because he didn’t want to arouse the suspicions of other guests, but more than that, he wasn’t in favor of subjecting his ears to the torment of the poet’s shrieking. Dandelion had a trained voice, after all, and could make quite a bit of noise when he put his mind to it.

“I will!” said Dandelion again, struggling on Geralt’s lap. “I- I will, and you won’t stop me.”

“Please-”

Dandelion opened his mouth to scream, but Geralt clamped his hand over his mouth. He cast a quick glance around the room for something he could use to gag the bard, but all he could think of was the kerchief that he knew Dandelion kept in his pocket.

“I’m very sorry about this,” he said, grabbing the silk square from the poet’s pants pocket as quickly as he could. Dandelion sobbed and struggled in his arms, trying to pull away as Geralt gagged him.

He tried once again to push the bard into bed, but Dandelion - again - tried to crawl out of it. Finally, with nothing else to do, he laid down beside him, pulling him closer. “Hush now,” he said, wrapping his arms around the struggling poet. “You’ll remember me, come morning when the drug wears off.”

The men who’d given Dandelion the drug swore that the effects would wear off within a few hours, but they had failed to mention that amnesia was a side effect. If the troubadour wasn’t back to himself by morning, Geralt was going to find them and beat the truth out of them. Even if he was back to normal, it was still highly tempting to give the men a thrashing.

Dandelion continued trembling, not relaxing even as Geralt rubbed his hair, doing what he could to soothe him. “You can trust me, Julian,” he promised, “I’m your friend.”

The poet sniffled noisily, and Geralt sighed. “Please don’t weep, Juilian,” he asked softly. “I’ll even take the gag off if you won’t scream.”

Dandelion gave a soft nod and Geralt pulled off the gag. But the poet was still sniffling, still near tears, and then, to Geralt’s surprise, he rolled over and leaned into his chest. “Please don’t hurt me,” he mumbled.

Geralt rubbed his back. “I won’t harm you, Julian,” he promised.

He kept a firm grip on Dandelion, even once he was fairly certain the bard wouldn’t flee at the first opportunity, holding him to his chest with one arm while running his fingers through his hair. Even if he didn’t recognize Geralt, the familiar motion of the Witcher’s fingers in his hair seemed to calm him, and his sniffling eventually stopped.

“Geralt?”

“Yes, Julian?”

“If you are my friend, why don’t I remember it?”

“You took a hallucinogen.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Dandelion shifted, his hand bumping against the knife on Geralt’s belt. He stiffened, then scrambled back, his eyes widening.

“Julian-” Geralt lunged for him, barely catching him around the waist before the poet could make it out the door. He managed to get the handkerchief back in his mouth before he could scream, and pulled him back to the bed, pinning him under him.

Dandelion stared up at him, his eyes wide with fright. Geralt could only imagine what was going through his mind, as someone he thought was a stranger held his wrists above his head and pinned him in place with a knee on his stomach. “Julian,” he said softly. “‘I’ll let go of your hands if you promise not to hit me.”

The bard nodded, but, of course, as soon as Geralt released him, he struck out at him again. Geralt wrapped his arms around him and laid down again, pulling the poet against his chest. “

More than ever, he wanted to find the men who’d drugged his friend. He considered hog-tying the bard, but somehow, the thought of leaving him bound and alone was worse than inflicting his presence on the man.

Dandelion was tense as the time passed, never once seeming to relax, always waiting for Geralt to suddenly pounce on him. But the Witcher remained still as well, only moving to rub the poet’s back.

Finally, around the time the sun began to peek in through the curtain, Dandelion seemed to change, relaxing for the first time. He shifted and looked up at Geralt, blinking. While there was still confusion in his blue eyes, there was no longer fear, and he tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow, as though to ask what the hell was happening?

“Are you yourself again, Dandelion?” Geralt asked.

The troubadour gave him a curious look and nodded. Geralt slowly let go of him, watching him, and once he was certain the bard wasn’t going to flee, he untied his mouth.

“Geralt,” the poet said. “You know I enjoy a bit of play, but I have to wonder why I’m being gagged and rather forcibly cuddled.”

“If you ever take strange drugs again, Dandelion, I’ll thrash you with my belt and you won’t want to sit for a week.”

The poet gave him a rather sheepish smile. Geralt shook his head, pushing himself up. “I’m going to go and find those men who gave you that drink,” he said. “You don’t recall what they look like by chance?”

“No I don’t- Geralt what are you planning?”

“Go and fetch us some breakfast, Dandelion, I’ll want it once I’ve finished with them.”

“Geralt!”

Dandelion is very curious and I could 100% see him being like "Pfft, I can take this and it won't affect me! I'm not weak! ...... GERALT I FEEL FUNNY"

Like he alternates between borderline paranoid and very reckless (but he also drinks like a fish, so I suppose recreational drug use isn't too far out of the realm of possibility).

And the chance that he tries something again is 100%

[kusunogatari]

[ ObiRyū October | Day Two | Never Enough Caffeine ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Hatake Kakashi, Suigin Ryū ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ Vulgarity, Gore, Death ]

[ Previous || Next ]

Sitting at a diner counter, Obito nurses his fourth cup of coffee since he arrived an hour ago. He swears he’s resorted to it for so long now, it’s losing its potency.

It’s what he gets for adapting a mostly-nocturnal lifestyle anymore despite his very human want to sleep when it’s dark. But, well...that was the choice he made, in the end.

Not a very popular one, but...he has his reasons.

One of which is the reason he’s sitting here...and has been sitting here for the better part of the last hour. You’d think by now he’d know not to take Kakashi at his word and just...arrive at least thirty minutes later than his friend tells him to.

He’d waste a lot less time waiting on him that way, but...Obito tries his best to be punctual. Even when others aren’t. Used to be a bad habit when he was a kid, but things change as you get older.

Which is why the previously-prompt Hatake is now usually the one running late.

Hearing the door jingle, Obito glances to it and scowls. “Finally.”

“Sorry, sorry...had a small errand come up I couldn’t say no to,” Kakashi offers in way of excuses as he sits atop the stool beside his friend.

“...uh huh. You know you can just tell me you’re late. The reason doesn’t really matter, it’s all bullshit half the time anyway.”

“You wound me. You think I’d lie to you?”

Obito just deadpans at him. “...do we have a job tonight, or not? Because if not, I can find better things to do than sit here drinking bottomless coffee.”

“Not feeling chipper tonight?” Kakashi asks as he rummages through a deep interior coat pocket.

“Not really, no. There’s never enough caffeine before running a job with you.”

“Ha,” is the dry reply as he finally fishes out what he’s looking for. “Got a tip about a seedy place downtown said to be up to no good.”

“What kind of no good?” Obito asks, watching as Kakashi sets down a manilla envelope, from which he starts fetching documents and pictures.

“Harvesting organs kind of no good.”

Obito’s nose immediately wrinkles. “...human, or…?”

“Nightwalker. Maybe some humans on the side, but this operation appears to be focusing primarily on non-human trade. Quite a few in-the-know humans - and even some Nightwalkers - believe in that hocus-pocus bogey crap. You know, like...a vampire’s liver will help you live longer, or if you want to up your sex life, you grate some -”

“Okay okay - I get it,” Obito cuts in, grimacing. “So it’s like...natural medicines and such? Like rare animal parts, but...Nightwalkers.”

“Mhm. Nasty business. A lot of innocent Nightwalkers end up butchered, packaged, and auctioned off in the black markets. Enforcers do their best to shut these kinds of places down, but as soon as you bust one ring, another pops up to take its place. Like damn roaches,” Kakashi mutters. “While I can’t confirm it, I suspect I lost some acquaintances growing up to these real monsters. Kids would just...vanish off the street. And that never meant anything good.”

“Well...I guess that’s why we’re around,” Obito replies, looking over the pictures. A few are of a building’s exterior, one or two of an interior, and others of confiscated organs, limbs, and even an entire body with an empty torso, already harvested. “...fuck, that’s nasty.”

“Yeah, hence why you and I are going to tear this place apart.”

“Just the two of us?”

“It’s still a small operation, just a handful of runners and one actual mortician. But that’s part of why it’s been handed to us.”

Obito perks a curious brow.

“She’s like you.”

His face then goes slack in surprise. “...what?”

“Mhm. Thing is, we’re not sure how yet, just that she is. Which makes her especially dangerous for any Nightwalker to confront.”

“...so you’re leaving that to me, instead.”

“You have the best odds. Your control over space and time gives you an edge I’ll never have. Sure, I’ve got good senses and sharp teeth, but if she’s got any skill in Taming, those won’t be any use to me.” Kakashi then gives his friend a serious look. “...she could even turn me against you.”

“I know...but she’d have to be pretty damn strong to do that.”

“Still, it’s not something we can risk. So I’ll be handling the runners and making sure none get away. You will take on the witch.”

“Don’t have to make it sound like such a dirty word, you know. You might offend me.”

Putting the intel away, Kakashi just chuckles. “I don’t think it’s possible to offend you. You’re already an ex-Hunter on the run from your clan, working with your mortal enemy to help save more of your mortal enemies. You’ve got no shame, Obito Uchiha.”

That earns a grin, deepening the scars on his face. “You make it sound so epic, like I had to fight my way out of their den. As if any other Uchiha will ever find me, let alone take me out. Besides, the only reason they’d really care is because of my blood.”

“Well, still. You’re about as much of a runaway mutt as I am now, hm?” The werewolf gives a grin as he pulls down the kerchief he keeps over his face, showing off wolfish teeth. “A witch and a wolf. Orphans, runaways, vigilantes. Maybe it is a little epic, hm?”

Obito just snorts. “So, where is this place?”

“Red light district. Easier to pull off shady business that way. But there’s no hiding all that blood from a nose like mine, even with all the other smells going on. Been casing it for two weeks now. I think we’re ready.”

“Then let’s get going. I’m going to lose what edge this coffee gave me before too long. Then you’ll have to deal with post-caffeine crankiness.”

“Think I’d rather face the witch than that.”

The pair leave the diner behind, hopping into Kakashi’s rather aged ride. The nighttime hours mean there’s little traffic, so the drive is relatively short.

“So...how best to do this…” Obito muses.

“I figured I go in first and scatter them. The runners will, well...run. I’ll chase. And you come in behind and make sure the witch doesn’t escape. Try and catch her if you can, but you’re clear to kill her if that’s simpler. Better guarantee her dead than risk her escaping if it comes down to it.”

“Got it.” From his shirtfront Obito pulls a mask, slipping it over his face as they abandon the car along the curb. Long-coated men give them furtive glances, women with sultry eyes clearly trying to catch their attention.

“All right...ready? This is the place,” Kakashi offers as they step in front of what claims to be a cigar shop: the front for the real business down below.

“Sure, just one question. If she does Tame you, what do I do?”

“...well, you’ll just have to take her down before I rip out your throat,” Kakashi replies simply.

“Can’t I just Tame you first?”

“That’ll just slow me down, since I’ll have your will and impulses nagging at me. Besides, she could still try and wrest control, remember?”

“...right. Sorry, haven’t seen another witch in a hot minute.”

The wolf just nods, easing open the door to the shop. A scrawny, twitchy man behind the counter shoots upright. “Here for a smoke, mister?”

“You could say that,” Kakashi replies, hands in his coat pockets and mouth hidden behind his kerchief. “I’m here for something a bit more exotic than a Cuban, if you catch my drift.”

That only seems to make the guy twitchier. “That’s downstairs...and I’ll have to frisk you first. Safety and all that, right? Some people’ll kill for this stuff.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Stepping up, Kakashi gives the fabric over his face a tug, revealing a grin. “And some others will kill to stop it.”

Eyes widening, the guy freezes for a moment too long before attempting to bolt.

The key word being attempting.

In a blink, Kakashi’s a wolf the size of his car, leaping over the counter and pinning jaws around the junkie’s throat. Any cry he might’ve offered is immediately silenced, but the loud thump is likely still telling.

Glancing back, Kakashi gives a jerk of his head that clearly says, “Get going!” before shouldering his way through a back door in search of more lackeys.

Grinning beneath his facade, Obito slips down the stairs leading to the building’s underside...and just as he does, a scream starts, and is then abruptly stopped.

In spite of himself, he feels his heart leap up his throat. Shit, sounds like they’re literally processing someone right now. Which means a life is on the line. Snarling, he streaks down the rest of the stairs and barrels through a door.

Behind is a rather makeshift operating room. A cot supports a body, a rather pointless privacy screen nearby as a bright, dead light bares the entire scene in a staunch, unfeeling glow. Monitors, machines, tools, and waiting coolers litter the place. One human startles with a yelp, clearly just a body to get item A to point B.

But over her shoulder, a woman gives Obito a cold glance. Heartless eyes of amethyst stare out from beneath a blade-cut black fringe. A surgical mask covers the bottom half of her face, midnight hair caught up in a tail.

The latex gloves on her hands are bloody.

“Sorry lady, but your medical license has been revoked,” Obito declares, hidden behind his own mask. “Seems you’ve been caught in a malpractice suit! Now, you can either come quietly...or I’ll just give you a taste of your own medicine…!”

Glancing to her cohort, the woman demands, “Get what we’ve got out of here. Now.”

Not needing to be told twice, the man swipes a cooler and bolts for it.

“Don’t worry, he won’t get far - my partner has a nose like a bloodhound,” Obito chimes.

But he’s largely ignored as she strips off her gloves, apron, and mask. “And what special attributes do you possess?” she instead asks, facing him fully. “Depending on what it is, I can get a pretty penny for your parts.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see!” Striking a mocking pose, he doesn’t move as she takes up a scalpel, throwing it directly at his chest.

It sails right through and clatters against the concrete wall of the basement.

“...space and time, it seems,” his opponent muses. “So, you’re not a monster...you’re like me.”

“You know my secret power, so...seems only fair you tell me yours, y‘know.”

“You really want to know…? Very well, I’ll tell you.” The woman holds up a hand. “My touch is necrotic. One little brush, and you’ll start rotting. So it’s only sensible I deal in death.”

“Ooh…! Then I’ll just have to make sure you don’t touch me! The ultimate game of tag!” He strikes another pose, persona in full tilt. “Try and catch me~!”

The space beneath the shop, however, is hardly ideal for a fight. As the woman does her best to dodge and reach through the clutter of medical equipment, Obito activates and disables his magic at will to simply evade her. He’ll tucker her out a bit, and then see about subduing her.

...or, that was his plan. But after a scant few minutes, it seems she realizes her handicap. And with a spark, she shatters the light and leaves them in darkness.

Obito fumbles for a moment before realizing she’s already fled. “Aw, man!”

“Oi, Obito!”

“Down here!”

Making his way down a few steps, Kakashi cusses at the darkness and pulls out his phone, light on. “Where’s the mortician?”

“Gave me the slip.”

“What?!”

“But I think there’s someone alive down here! Bring your light!”

“We should -!”

“We’ll catch up with her again later. For now we gotta get this guy loose!”

Realizing he can’t change the Uchiha’s mind, Kakashi joins him, dodging scattered supplies. “Jeez, you sure made enough of a mess…”

“Hey, that was all her! I didn’t touch anything!” Literally. Approaching the cot, Obito and Kakashi both freeze at what they see.

Shifted, a body lies atop the cot, chest rapidly rising and falling in panic. A gag keeps them silent, cuffs restraining all four limbs. But rather than arms...they have wings. And their legs are half-scaled and backward. Grey eyes are wide and staring in terror, flickering between the two of them.

“...harpy,” Kakashi murmurs once he realizes what he’s looking at.

“Why is she -?”

“Look.” He gestures to her bonds. Pinning her limbs in place, they have needles embedding into her flesh. “Silver. Keeps a Nightwalker in whatever state they’re in upon contact. She must make them Shift to get the organs in the state she wants…”

Watching the woman’s face, Obito hisses, “Enough! We need to get her the hell out of here, now!”

Chastised, Kakashi starts releasing her bonds.

“Don’t worry, we’re here to get you out, not...hurt you,” Obito offers, feeling a bit awkward. While plumage hides the more sensitive parts of her body, she’s still very much nude. The sooty-spotted white feathers make him think of those owls way up north...must be what she is.

...he sort of wants to touch them but that feels highly inappropriate.

“There,” Kakashi mutters once the last latch gives way, untying the gag and letting her gasp for air. “Can you Shift back?”

Rather than reply, she struggles to sit up with an ear-splitting screech, feathered and scaled limbs alike flailing in panic. Talons sweep dangerously close to them both.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy lady, we’re not -!”

Ducking around behind her, Obito manages to pin her ‘arms’ to her side, his own wrapped around her torso. “I told you, we’re here to help! We’re Enforcers!”

Well, sort of.

At his words, she slowly stops her movement, breath rapid in exertion. Obito keeps his hold, feeling her eventually go slack.

“...I-I…?”

“You’re safe now,” Kakashi assures her, hands lifted placatingly. “It’s going to be okay, miss. But...we can’t take you out of here looking like that. There’s humans up there.”

“She probably needs a minute to calm down, first,” Obito mutters. “Go find her a coat or something to put on, will you?”

“Coat, right, okay. Hold on.” Handing Obito his phone, Kakashi makes his way back upstairs.

Obito then very awkwardly releases his hold. “...sorry, I...didn’t want you to hurt anyone.”

She brings her limbs up around herself, looking entirely unsteady. “It...it’s okay. I didn’t...mean to -?”

“You had every right to panic.” She was about to be butchered like a hog, after all. “But we’re here to help.”

“You’re...really Enforcers…?”

Lifting a hand, Obito removes the mask over his face now that the trouble is over. “Pretty much. Long story, but...we help Nightwalkers who need it. You’re safe with us.”

She studies his face, worry and sorrow plain on her own. “But, you...you’re a…?”

“Yeah, uh...another long story.” He itches his neck idly. “All that matters now is that I’m on your side. I’m Obito, by the way.”

“...Ryū,” she murmurs in reply after a pause. “Thank you, for...for saving me. I thought I was going to die, and be cut into p-pieces…” As the reality sinks in, her eyes well with tears. “I-I -!”

“You’re safe now. And we’re going to find the woman who did this, and make sure she never hurts anyone else.”

Hearing the menace in his tone, Ryū glances aside somberly.

He wants to say something, anything to cheer her up. There’s something that really gnaws at him to see her looking like that. But before he can, Kakashi returns down the stairs with another flashlight. “Found a second hand shop still open and got her some clothes. No idea if they’ll fit, but better than nothing.”

Obito sheepishly looks away as Kakashi hands the garments over, letting her change in peace. When he turns back, she’s fully human again: no more feathers, and dressed in a simple pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Even without her greyscale owl form, her hair is still white, and her eyes that same shocking silver.

“We’ve got a safehouse for people like you,” Kakashi offers. “You can stay there for as long as you want, until you feel safe to go home.”

“Thank you...will I have to stay there alone…?”

The men exchange a glance. “...we really should go after that woman,” the wolf offers. “But maybe we need some backup. Did you learn her powers?”

“Necrotic touch. Nasty business,” Obito replies.

“Ha, how fitting. Well, I’ll report back and see if we can get any reinforcements. You take her back to the safehouse and make sure no one gives her any trouble. Take the car, I’ll go on foot.”

Nodding, Obito catches the keys and helps Ryū up the stairs to the shop above. “Anything I can get you in the meantime? You want anything to eat, or drink?”

“...I guess I am sort of hungry...I’ve been here at least a day. There were…” She grimaces. “...others she killed before she got to me…”

“All right...we’ll get some takeout and you can eat at the safehouse.”

One drive-through stop later, Obito pulls up to the house in question. It’s at the end of a quiet human neighborhood. They’ve never had any trouble...yet. Ryū follows him in with many a wary glance of their surroundings, eating silently as she perches on a couch.

Obito, in the meantime, sends Kakashi a text confirming their arrival. Odds are he won’t reply for a while - business takes time. “There’s a few rooms you can choose from to sleep in, if you want to stay that long.”

“Thank you…”

Seeing her still looking withdrawn, Obito nibbles the scar on his lip before deciding to sit on the cushion beside her, giving her space. “So, uh...got anyone you need to contact?”

“...no,” is her soft reply. “Not really. I’ll...call my workplace in the morning. What should I tell them…?”

“The truth, but only as much as you feel safe revealing. You were kidnapped, rescued by some officers, and will be back after a doc ensures you’re able.”

She snorts. “...the irony is, I work at a medical clinic.”

“Really?”

“Mhm, I’m a nurse.”

“And no one’s ever…?”

“Not yet. I know it’s risky to work with humans, but...I have to make a living somehow. And my mom was involved in medicine, so...it felt right. I like helping people.”

“Then I’m sure they’ll understand. I can talk to them, if you need proof.”

“Well, we’ll see. Hopefully they’ll just believe me. I’ve been really good about absences up until now, so...they should know this isn’t usual for me.”

Obito eyes her as she fiddles with her empty cup. “...I’ll admit, you’re handling this really well.”

That gets her to look up. “...do you...often save anyone from places like that?”

Obito hesitates. “...not really. Usually it’s...already done.”

Fear flickers in her eyes. “...o-oh…”

“But I’m glad we got there in time.”

“...me too. It...it was horrible…” She brings her legs up, hugging her knees. “It constantly smelled like blood. And the screaming was...was beyond words, I-I can’t begin to describe it. She would keep them alive as long as she could…” Tears escape her eyes, expression wavering. “...how could anyone d-do that…? We’re not monsters, we’re just...people! People who are different!”

Sighing, Obito murmurs, “Some people just hate what’s different. What they can’t understand...unless they can profit from it. Others are just cruel. No real reason.”

“...can I...ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you...help us? Nightwalkers, I mean. I-I’ve always heard that witches hate us. That a lot of them work with Hunters to exterminate us…”

At that, Obito hesitates. “...I...was raised in a Hunter clan. Then they figured out what I was, and fast tracked my progress. But on my first mission, I...met Kakashi. And I figured out real quick that the things they taught us were mostly lies. Nightwalkers aren’t monsters...we were monsters for killing innocent people just for being different. I couldn’t abide by it, so...I left. And now I do vigilante work for the Senators with Kakashi. It’s difficult, and doesn’t pay well...but we’re doing good work, even if most would say otherwise.”

Ryū watches him as he speaks, still curled up on her cushion. “...well...I’m glad someone like you is helping us. It’s nice to know that not all humans want us dead.”

“Not all humans are bad, just like not all Nightwalkers are either. Most of us are just in the middle trying to get by.”

“Mm…” As the night finally catches up with her and a full belly weighs her down, Ryū looks ready to drift off. And before Obito can ask if she wants to head to a bed, she goes limp and just...slumps against his side.

He immediately stiffens, unsure what to do. Surely she shouldn’t rest here! But...what if he wakes her up trying to move her?

Eventually he debates himself so long he just...decides to do nothing, sitting as a living pillow for her to sleep on. If Kakashi sees this he’ll never hear the end of it, but…

Slowly, he lets himself relax. He can feel her breath on his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder. She looks so much more at ease, now.

...she’s actually pretty cute…

Banishing the thought and going pink, Obito just settles in for what might be a long rest of his night. While it wasn’t a perfect mission, at least they got someone out alive. It’s not often a task like this has any sort of happy ending.

It’s a nice change of pace.

     Day two! And right into the thick of not-nice subjects xD I have GREATLY missed writing this verse so I indulged myself =w= That and Meg brought it up on Discord the other day so...it was fresh in my mind, ahaha~      Poor Ryū...will I ever be nice to her in my fics? Probably not :’D There’s been a lot of depressing stuff in the pieces so far but that’s just how life be for her kjdfhjgh I’m terrible.       Also vigilante team Obito and Kakashi gives me life. TECHNICALLY in canon nightwalkers only women can be witches, but...well, it fits Obito too well xD And it’s MY canon so I’ll bend it how I see fit, heh heh.      But I guess that’s it for this one! Thaaanks for reading!

[cupofcowboys]

Books, Hooks & Longing Looks - Javier Escuella/Fem-Reader

Quiet time away from camp together provides ample time for love to grow. While good friends, you can't help but pine for more. Yet Javier never acted as though he felt the same... 

TAGS: Minor Ch3 Spoilers, Fem-Reader, SFW, Slight angst & fluff, slight Kieran/Reader, pining, friendship, jealousy, romance

2,365 Words

-♥-

A splash drew your attention off your book. Javier grunted softly as he struggled with his fishing rod. He pulled it firmly from left to right in an attempt to tire out the fish he’d just hooked. You watched the trajectory of the splashes, admiring the skilled handiwork of your companion. The instant the splashing stilled, his fingers leapt to the reel, moving so fast it was a blur. In no time at all, he claimed his prize. It was a small but fat little fish that would no doubt be spoiled by Pearson’s cooking later that night.

After carefully removing its hook and inspecting the fish, Javier added it to his stock of earlier catches. You clapped in a small celebration, offering him a friendly cheer.

“I can’t wait to see how Pearson ruins that one.” You laughed.

“The same way he ruins them all.” Javier grinned as he baited his hook once more. “Might as well cook dog shit.”

“Might even be an improvement.”

“It might. Don’t give him any ideas.”

The conversation ended as he recast his line. It hit the depths of the little pool, sinking slowly down as Javier shifted on his feet. Your attention lingered on the sight of him for a few moments. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbow, his jacket long abandoned because of the Lemoyne heat and his collar raised up to protect his neck, a red ‘kerchief tied around it to keep it in place. He looked fantastic. It took all your self-control to look back down at your book.

While you weren’t into fishing, being free from the prying eyes of the gang and iron fist of Miss Grimshaw was a blessing. Quiet times were hard to come by, especially in the life of wanted outlaws. Your presence was both for companies sake and for practicality. It gave Javier time to let his guard down and focus. The gun at your side was always within reach should unwelcome company decide to join you. While the heat and sunshine of Lemoyne was enjoyable, the people were less so. Especially to dark-skinned outsiders.

“I came fishing here with Kieran the other day.” You mused idly, finding your book no longer held your attention. 

“You told him about my spot?” Javier looked over, a thin line between his brows.

“No. He took me here on his own.”

“I didn’t know you fished together.”

“He asked me since he heard I fish with you.”

“You don’t fish though.”

“I don’t have to. You catch enough for both of us.”

These precious moments were stolen ones. If anyone ever found out you had no clue how to fish, you’d be in some serious trouble. The whole reason you were allowed out of your chores to go off fishing was they believed half the fish you brought back were yours. Javier had initially offered to teach you, but you never got into it. Standing around waiting for a bite bored you quickly. Instead, you spent your fishing trips enjoying nature, basking in the sun and reading, as well as watching Javier. Admittedly, the latter was your favourite aspect of these fishing trips.

Having an excuse to admire Javier Escuella was your favourite gift. For a long time now, a love for the man held a sturdy place in your heart. Especially at his most relaxed, which happened to be when he fished or played one of his favourite songs. Thankfully, both times offered an excellent excuse to stare.

Despite your closeness, you had never shared your feelings. Javier liked and cared for you, but he had never shown you any attention you would deem romantic. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“How was he when you told him you don’t fish?” Javier asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Disappointed. He really wanted me to be into fishing.” You chuckled as you recalled the look on the man’s face.

Kieran usually wore the expression of a kicked puppy, but it had been on a whole other level that day. You felt bad for disappointing him. While you had your reservations about his past with the O’Driscolls, you enjoyed his company and were unhappy about the way he was treated. Kieran had more than proven himself to the gang, working harder than many of the members.

Not sharing his favourite hobby had been a huge let down for him, but he had appreciated your company, regardless. With your promise to protect him while you sat by and watched, Kieran had finally relaxed for the first time in God knows how long.

“I’ll take him again. I think he enjoyed it even if it wasn’t what he expected.”

“Are you interested in him?” Javier asked casually. He flicked the tip of his rod impatiently in hopes it would encourage a bite.

“Interested?”

“As a man.”

“Oh.” His unexpected question took you aback, raising and then knitting your brows fluidly. “I… well…”

You hadn’t considered it. You liked Kieran well enough. In camp he was poor company, jumping at every shadow or sound, always on high alert. Even in the relaxed hours he’d stumble needlessly over his words and slink away if another man approached. But when you had taken him out alone, he became a whole other man. Sweet, soft-spoken and eager to impress. There was a subtle romantic charm to him that you hadn’t appreciated until now.

Unfortunately, if courting you was his intention, someone else already had a firm grasp on your heart and it would take more than fishing trips with Kieran to loosen that.

“I suppose he isn’t so bad.” You concluded casually, plucking a daisy from the grass. “Could do with a bath though…”

Javier didn’t respond. He focused on his line, staring at it as though intensity alone would draw a fish to the lure. As the seconds passed, you started to wonder if he had even heard you. With a small shrug, you looked down at the daisy you were slowly shredding apart in your hands.

The sound of him reeling in the empty line made you look up. He detached the now dead cricket and tossed it into the water, setting his rod down to rest on the rocks. Then, with a stretch he headed over in your direction.

Javier took a seat beside you on the grass, his palms splayed behind his back as he leaned his weight on his arms, legs outstretched. You looked at him, admiring the fall of his hair and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. He kept his gaze level with the horizon, deep in thought.

“Want to head back soon?” You asked, tossing the remnants of the poor flower and rubbing your hands on your skirt to clean them.

“Not yet.” He shifted his hands slowly, lowering himself down to lie on his back. He tugged his bowler hat lower to shield his eyes from the sun. “Let’s relax together, chica.”

“Sure.”

Following his example, you laid down on your back beside him. There was enough distance between you to relax comfortably without touching each other, but close enough that you could feel his presence. The sun shone down on the pair of you, warming your bare skin pleasantly, the occasional cool breeze preventing it from being too much. Birds sang high in the surrounding trees, lulling you into thoughtlessness. The seconds passed into minutes and time seemed to fade away. You could lie beside Javier like this forever, just silently enjoying each other's company.

Slowly, you became all too aware of his hand laid barely an inch apart from yours. The urge to take it swelled in your chest. Such a small physical space it was, but the emotional distance as vast as the night sky. Even if you had the guts, your friendship ran so deep that the gesture would go misunderstood. In an attempt to dispel your tension, you let out a long, slow sigh.

Javier turned his head to look at you, his hat slipping off in front of his face. He seized it and readjusted it.

“Something on your mind, Cariño?”

“Not really.”

You kept your eyes firmly closed. One look at his face and you’d lose your composure. Yet even without doing so, the pain in your chest bored ever deeper. It was the same emotion you felt whenever he looked at another woman, laughed or paid them any special attention. A feeling of hopelessness and longing. Javier was handsome, charismatic, and cocky. He could easily charm any woman he wanted and that terrifies you. Javier terrifies you. The way he makes you feel, the way he risks his life, the power he has over your mood. It all makes you feel so helpless. You were at the mercy of his whims and it was an unbearable feeling.

His fingers drummed against the earth beside yours. Finally opening your eyes, you saw his bent leg bouncing impatiently, his face still angled towards yours. You turned and met his gaze with your own. His dark eyes kept focus on yours, peering into them with an intensity that made you uneasy.

Perhaps Javier was angry at you for going off with Kieran. You’d never considered that it might be seen as a problem. While ‘fishing’ was something you had only ever done with Javier, you weren’t under the impression it was an exclusive activity. If that were the case, it was an easy fix.

You opened your mouth, about to apologise or explain, you weren’t completely sure, when you were cut off. 

“Are you interested in any man?” Javier questioned.

You stared back at him in surprise. This wasn’t what you had expected to be on his mind. You struggled to process the question, thoughts racing through your head, stumbling over each other in desperation. Your first instinct was admit you were, but that would involve revealing your feelings to him. Telling him how you felt risked rejection. You couldn’t bear the thought. On the other hand, without answering him honestly you risked breaking what you had. If he never knew you loved him, he could never love you back. But that was only if he loved you, and you doubted it was even possible.

The silence grew ever louder as you stared at him incomprehensibly. Fear and excitement battled it out in your mind, each vying to champion over the other. But each moment you delayed, the harder it was to speak. Javier’s expression began to shift. He was drawing inwards and you could see it. His fingers stilled and his leg halted its bouncing, his face slowly turning away.

“I don’t know, Javier.”

His head snapped back around to look at you again. It was his turn to be silent now, planning his response carefully.

“You don’t know?” He quirked his brow in both surprise, disbelief, and something you couldn’t comprehend.

“It’s complicated.” You sighed, turning your head away from him to stare up at the blinding, cloudless blue sky.

“Who?”

“Please don’t ask me that, Javier.” Your voice wobbled dangerously as you hissed and brought your hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Who is it?” He pressed, urging you to be open with him.

You could sense his eyes watching you closely, reading every single motion and every expression. You were so close to telling him. So close to laying everything he’d ever made you feel out into the open. Laid out for him to inspect and reject. Tears bit your eyes threateningly. It was too much all at once.

Javier rolled over until he was flush beside you. His elbow pressed into the dirt by your shoulder to support him as he cupped your cheek with his other hand. You gaped at him in surprise as he brushed a strand of hair off your face. Your eyes locked for a tense moment before he leaned downwards.

His thin lips were soft, although slightly chapped. He brushed them carefully over yours as though testing the waters. When you didn’t pull away or push him, he pressed more assertively. His actions petrified you, unable to process that he really was kissing you.

He pulled back slowly, his eyes opening to peer into yours. His expression was as vulnerable as you had ever seen it. Questioning, curious, and afraid. Could it be possible that all this time he had been feeling the same? Lingering on every touch, every laugh, calculating every possibility.

“I’m in love with you.” You breathed without thinking, unable to hold back your feelings.

His eyes fell closed, and he whispered a prayer under his breath. Fingers tangling in your hair, his lips reconnected with yours. This time his kiss was passionate and urgent, yet chaste. You entangled him in your arms, wanting to feel every part of him you had been craving for months. Perhaps even years.

“I’m in love with you too, Hermosa.” He whispered between kisses, making perfectly certain you understood every word. “... for a long time.”

Your heart felt fit to burst with the revelation. All this time and he had felt the same. You were certain that any moment you would wake up and discover it was all a dream. It couldn’t be real.

“Javier… I-”

“Shh, Cariño.” He kissed away the tears that had unknowingly slipped from your eyes. “I know.”

He pulled away from you to allow mutual loving smiles to be exchanged. He looked like an angel, framed with the sun behind his head as he smiled with enough warmth to challenge it. If it were not for the life you both led, you could have sworn he really was one.

After just one more stolen kiss, he laid down beside you on the grass again. His fingers curled between yours, the very hand that had been burning to hold his mere moments ago. Somehow you knew that the feeling had been mutual. You squeezed his hand firmly and smiled wide as you gazed up at the vast sky. It no longer reminded you of the distance between your hearts. Now it symbolised the love you now shared; vast, beautiful, permanent and yet ever changing.

-♥-

AO3 / Masterlist

[hotheadhero]

Soap Unexpected || Caspar & Fir

Host club starter for @sword-scion

Goddess, this outfit chafes.

Caspar tugs at the collar of his unused, still-starched uniform button-up shirt—around which sits a much too tight (in his opinion) ebony bowtie foisted upon him by the same one of Lorenz’s stuffed-shirt cronies who’d forced him to catch out of his usual “ratty” uniform shirt and tie—for the umpteenth time and wonders, also for the umpteenth time, how he’d managed to get himself into this mess in the first place. He’d just wanted some food, darn it (even if—or more precisely, because—it was just pastries and cakes); and the idea of being waited upon by someone else (especially if they were cute) honestly sounded pretty nice for a change. But all of that was moot now that he’d been thrust into the role of host instead! What kind of grand joke was this, putting someone with barely enough social grace for his noble station in charge of this… whatever this was?! All these flowers, these tiny high-class tables and chairs, the heavy smell of tea in the air, and the instruments… Caspar absolutely did not belong in an environment such as this.

(He realizes he’s riling himself up for no good reason, and forces himself to calm down. There’s no one here to get mad at, no polite way to let off steam as a host… and at the very least, he knows something of how to conduct himself in these situations. Hopefully it’ll be enough.)

(And besides, no one has chastised him yet for leaving his coat open. Thank the goddess for that small mercy.)

His hand descends from his collar to his coat pocket; unusually (for him) gloved fingers fish a slip of paper out from behind a folded silk kerchief. Fir. Never heard of her before (he’d think someone named after a tree would stick out more in his mind), but thankfully, each of these tables had name cards on them. He’d find her soon enough.

Robin eyes sweep across the lively music room as he wanders about, only half aware of everything going on around him. Caspar is too focused on keeping his back straight, the linen towel on his arm perfectly balanced, to truly pay attention to all the hullabaloo. There’s as many familiar faces as unfamiliar here (it seems that several of the foreign transfer students had decided to join in), and he’s very surprised to note both Dorothea’s absence and Linhardt’s attendance, but amidst the throng of students enjoying themselves (clearly more than him), there’s no sign of Fir or her name card anywhere.

… Wait; he spoke too soon. There at the edges of the room, blessedly next to a window with a terrific view of the monastery gardens, is a half-occupied table with a name card matching his own. The dark violet-haired girl sitting there—his guest, Fir, presumably—looks about as discomfited with the whole affair as he did.

At least now any lapses in etiquette are much more likely to be excused. Honestly, Caspar is relieved. But then the thought occurs to him that it’s his own discomfiture she’s reacting to instead, and he tries belatedly to school his expression into as obsequious a smile as he can manage. Even if this isn’t what he’d hoped he’d be doing in all this, he’s still going to try to do it right.

“Fir…?” He trails off almost imperceptibly at the end, trying to recall her last name. She had to have one, but neither name card had provided it. The boy tramples past his little gaffe with a mental shrug and a slight bow. “I’m Caspar; I’ll be your host today. We’ve got a great selection of teas here, like ginger, cinnamon, four-spice, and pine, and plenty of cakes and pastries to match. Shall I start us off with a ginger tea? Great mix of sweet and spice for the morning.”

All this politeness is making his throat dry—half the reason he suggested ginger at all was to put himself at ease. Without waiting for her response, he pours two cups of tea—first for her, then for him—and after returning the pot to its original position near the cake tray, takes a seat opposite her. Though he pulls his cup closer to him, all his interest right now is on this girl who seems as befuddled as he feels about all this. “So, what brings you here, Fir?” he asks. “You’re in my same house, but you don’t seem to be from the Empire or even Fódlan. Good job in the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, by the way! Wish I could’ve been there too.”

Residual dejection at having been (in his mind) prematurely forced out of that fight leaks into his voice, but he pays it little heed. Right now, as her host, finding out more about her is more important.

[sirkkasnow]

16 Hang Onto A Good Thing With Both Hands

Ao3 link

7/29/13-7/30/13 Monday-Tuesday

Stan came to by slow degrees, warmer than usual, and peeled up an eyelid to survey the usual morning blur. His view was interrupted by what he decided was an eyebrow.

He kissed that lightly, then the orbit of the slumbering eye beneath it, then the bridge of the nose.

Clary was just beginning to stir as he drew her into his arms and left a stubbly trail of smooches along her cheekbone and down to the corner of her mouth. Her lashes fluttered and it took a moment for her to focus.

Eventually she smiled, soft and contented, and pulled herself in to rub her nose against his. “Hello, handsome.”

“Good mornin’, gorgeous.” She straight-up grinned at that. They tangled lazy limbs together under the blankets and traded stray kisses through the drowsy stupor of waking.

After a while his palm drifted to her hip, fingers fanning out to confirm that yes, she really did have a butt as nice as those sculpted legs. Clary’s eyes opened slowly; she studied him in knowing amusement as he tinted pink.

“Is that your hand on my ass?”

“Maybe? It’s gotta go somewhere, right?”

“Mmhm.” She caught hold of his shoulder, pushed as she rose to pin him flat to the mattress, kissed him breathless and then wriggled out of his grasp like a determined eel while he was too discombobulated to put up a fight.

“Ah, c’mon, please, five more minutes,” Stan protested. Clary plunked his glasses onto his chest and he caught them on reflex.

“Sorry, sailor, but you promised you’d behave.”

“Five more minutes and y’won’t want me to.” Stan managed to hook the glasses into place and leered up as she swung her legs over and pivoted, perched neatly on the edge of his bed.

“That’s almost certainly true, which is why I’m going to head downstairs and get breakfast started.”

“Damn shame.”

“Just leaving you some incentive to come ashore sooner than later.” She corralled the bedhead chaos of her hair into its elastic, then leaned over to stroke the prickly line of his jaw. He turned into the contact, eyes half closed. “Besides, I guarantee that Mabel got the others on the trail early.”

“They’re almost six hours out - ” He paused, then dragged a hand down his face with a groan. “No, y’got a point. They’ll make it before lunch. She’s relentless. What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight. Eggs, potatoes, onions okay?”

“C’mon, like one flapjack?”

Clary’s smile flashed wide and she tapped him under the chin. “Pancakes on the side, you got it. See you in a few.” She strutted barefoot out the door with the bicentennial brandy dangling from one hand, filching his fancy Northwest Manor towel on the way past.

He wondered if she was always going to be this obnoxiously chipper in the morning. Having a chance to find out didn’t really sound so bad, though.

Stan swung by the office before he wandered back around to the kitchen. Clary manned a couple of skillets at the stovetop with professional ease. He dropped off a heavy folder on the table and slid in behind to loop an arm around her waist. “You’re gonna burn the onions.”

“If you keep nibbling on me like that, I just might burn the onions.” She didn’t, even with Stan unwilling to let go through the whole process, shifting to follow when she reached for the salt or the spatula. They devoured every crumb with little to say, slouched comfortably in their chairs. Her feet rested against his slippers under the table.

“Wanna give me a hand puttin’ that bottle back?”

“Find me a telephone book or something and I’ll do it.” Clary had a much easier time of it on the countertop. They came up with a couple massive cans of crushed tomatoes for her to balance on, Stan’s steadying hands at her ankles as she followed his instructions to get the hidden cabinet open and shove the brandy as far back as she could manage.

“All right, kid. One last job for the Shack’s honorary accountant before I cut y’loose for the season.” She picked her way back down the stepstool with a hand on his shoulder for balance, cocking a curious brow, and he nodded over to the table. “Got the receipts for ya.”

“Oh-ho. I’ve been wondering how we did.” Stan slid the folder over. Clary fished out her phone, pulled up some calculator thing, and her fingers started to fly.

She counted money as efficiently as any casino bunny, fwip fwip fwip fwip, slapping down the bills in mounting piles and sliding each into place below scrawled scraps designating Greasy’s, picnic supplies, servers, food. Stan sipped his coffee and watched in happy fascination. Every now and then she’d swipe a thumb along the edge of her tongue for traction on the paper.

“What’re you looking at,” Clary murmured after a few minutes.

“Two of the most beautiful things I’ve laid eyes on in years.”

Her lips twitched up at a corner. “And what are those?”

“A huge pile of honest money, and you.” He was coming to love pulling a blush out of her. “Where’d a paper-pusher learn how to count like that?”

“Wasn’t always a lawyer, darling.”

By the time she was done the stack of unassigned cash had grown a couple inches high. She flipped her phone around so he could whistle at the number, then scooped up the whole heap and riffled the bills with a sharp grin. “I’ll give you this much, you weren’t kidding about the summer money burning holes in everyone’s pockets.”

“Wouldn’t’ve pulled it off without our star attraction.” Stan raised his coffee mug in salute. ‘That’s all you, princess. Enjoy the fruits of your labor an’ all that.”

Her brow creased. “Really? Did Soos get anything off the top? I know we covered expenses.”

“Nah, he insisted. Gonna have to work on that.”

Clary squared the stack of profits, counted off three slim groups of a hundred bucks each, then placed the rest in the middle of the table. “Could you split that? Half for Soos, half for the kids.” She frowned for a moment. “Half for the kids’ college accounts, anyway, or a car fund or something. That might be a bit much for summer allowance.”

“You sure?”

“I didn’t do it for the money, Stan.” Her bare toes skimmed lightly up his shin under the table and he couldn’t help but twitch. “Besides, I’m definitely going home with the grand prize.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll give it all to these ingrates you’re not even gonna see again for like a year, if you’re even willin’ t’come back to Gravity Falls, if I’m even back here anytime soon - ” The bluster did a lousy job of covering his blush but watching her grin as he scooped up the cash and stuffed it back in its envelope was well worth it.

“I might be. The place is growing on me.”

“Yeah, like a fungus,” he muttered, and she chuckled under her breath. “What’s that for?”

“These?” Clary picked up the three skinny stacks. “Hosts’ pay.” She slapped one down in front of Stan, tucked the second into her pocket and waved the third in front of his eyes. “And you’re taking me to dinner next time.”

“I thought you were pickin’ up the tab!”

“I’ll get the drinks, but dinner’s on you.” She winked and plopped the last few bills down. “All right, we’d better get decent before Mabel comes tearing in here hoping to catch us in flagrante.”

They cut it close, splitting up to get dressed and sharing the bathroom mirror for final touches. Her kerchief for the day was a thrift-store find, a riot of abstract hearts in shades of pink. By eleven they reconvened at the kitchen.

Stan settled down for a second cup of coffee. Clary glanced up from the ingredients for one last sour cream coffee cake as they heard the side door slam open and footsteps pelting up the stairs. “AHA!” came down along with the sound of another door banging against the wall, followed by “Darn it!”

Ford stuck his head through the doorway as the racket clattered back downstairs and turned down the hallway leading to Clary’s storage room. “Good morning, you two.” He and Clary exchanged a measured look. “Everything all right, Stanley?”

“Oh, we’re great, talked it all out, had a real nice evenin’.”

“AHA!” Bang. “Darn it!”

“Excellent! Fantastic, even! Precisely what I was hoping to hear!” Ford’s cautious expression cracked wide open and he grinned as he clasped Clary’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Pines circle, my dear, I’m afraid things may get rather odd from here on out but it’s a delight to have you aboard. Dipper, my boy! May I borrow your phone?”

Dipper shuffled through the doorway, holding up his phone for Ford to swipe on the way past. He dropped into the seat opposite Stan and rested his head on the table. “Morning, everyone.”

Clary pulled a warm plate of leftover pancakes out of the oven and set it in front of him. “Good morning, Dipper.”

“AHA!” Mabel skidded into the kitchen, blinked at Stan and Clary, then folded her arms with a deepening pout. “Oh, darn it, are you guys a thing yet or what?!”

That was about it for peace and quiet.

Stan slunk out of the kitchen as soon as he could get away with it, abandoning Clary to Mabel’s insistent interrogation. They’d need dinner eventually, and like hell he was going to let Clary cook again on her last night in the place, so he kept himself busy scraping ash and charred grease out of the neglected charcoal grill. As a result he had a perfect vantage point to watch Soos’ second batch of Monday tourists out on the grounds.

He also had a perfect view of a much newer but still decaled Tate-and-Backle pickup truck rolling in. McGucket scrambled down from the passenger side to meet up with Ford and a bemused Clary at her station wagon. They popped open the hood and both front doors, and McGucket started explaining the upgrades they’d made at a speed that would’ve been confusing even in easy earshot.

Stan tuned much of it out, watching warily to make sure nothing blew up, until he was distracted by a trickle of further arrivals. Grenda and Candy turned up on bicycles. Pacifica hopped out of a sleek black car, trailed by the driver lugging a heavy tote bag. They took over a corner of the yard to set up what proved to be a full-on badminton set. Mabel barreled out of the house a few minutes later with the battered box containing the lawn darts.

“Looks like we’re gonna have another picnic!” Soos ambled over with a bucket full of grill tools. “I’ll finish this up, Mr. Pines, there’re plenty of hot dogs in the deep freeze.”

Stan was streaked with soot to the elbows by now. “Yeah, fine by me, about time someone else took care of cookin’.” He glanced over to the Fairlane. Clary leaned against a fender with arms folded, engaged in intense conversation with both Ford and McGucket. With no idea what that was about, he headed in to scrub up.

By the time he wandered back out Wendy had arrived and was casually swatting a birdie over the badminton net. Pacifica and Dipper were lined up on the far side, both dashing desperately to keep up with smacking it back.

Clary sat on the battered old couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Stan dropped into place alongside her and she tipped into his space a bit as the springs creaked under his weight. They traded a fleeting glance; Stan extended his arm along the top cushions and she settled easily into its curve.

“So, you and Stan, huh?” Wendy batted the birdie over the net without even a glance, looking Clary over with open interest.

“Yep.” Clary laid her hand over Stan’s at her shoulder.

“You know he’s a lousy boss and a total skinflint, right?”

“You’re not even workin’ for me this summer, Wendy!”

Wendy grinned back. “So, you kissed him yet? Tambry’s video was pretty blurry.”

“Oh, I’ve kissed him.”

“Prove it!” Mabel called. Clary turned, smooth as you please, and pecked Stan sweetly on the cheek. He returned the favor as a collective groan went up. “Oh, come on, that doesn’t count!”

“That’s all you get, ya thirsty little gremlins! You want a sideshow, go buy a ticket!”

They endured a few more catcalls and hoots from the peanut gallery, Clary shaking with low laughter, until she finally patted his hand and rose. “That’s it. I’ve got to go even this out a bit. Hey, Pacifica!” She hopped down from the porch and strode purposefully over to the net. “You game to pair up with me against Team Backwoods here?”

“Oh, it’s on, lady. I mean, you’re not as decrepit as Stan and Stan Two, but Team Backwoods rules. C’mon, Dipper.” Wendy tossed a spare racquet over and the four of them went at it with more energy than Stan could really bear to watch.

He watched anyway, slouched and more than content to let everyone else do the work for a while. Soos had the grill going by the time the sun had tracked far enough west to dip below the tips of the pine trees. Susan showed up with the karaoke machine, a winning smile and a cherry-pie bribe that got her a plate and a hot dog in short order. Soos’ Abuelita held court in a tufted armchair her grandson hauled out from the office. A scatter of mismatched lawn chairs popped up to support the mismatched guests as they drifted in.

Clary wandered back over to the porch with a couple of pop bottles dangling from one hand. “You know those lawn darts are totally illegal.”

Dipper yelped in terror as Grenda’s dart overshot the target and thudded into the ground an inch from his foot. “Of course I know! That’s why I tracked down a couple extra sets. Wanna grab a bite?”

“This doesn’t count as dinner, Stan.”

“Why not? You’ve got the drinks right there!”

“Not quite yet.” The bottles clinked as she set them down at the corner of the sofa and tipped her chin over to Ford. “These are the last two. Cooler’s empty.”

“Oh,” he said, then “oh.” The corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement.

It was so easy it was damned near embarrassing. Stan took one side of the cooler’s handle, Clary the other. They carried it sloshing between them until, with a perfectly coordinated swing, they dumped the icy meltwater right over Ford’s head.

Ford let out a steamwhistle shriek and bounced to his feet, sputtering in indignation. Clary set hands to her hips and stood her ground; Stan watched his brother deflate a little.

“Well,” said Ford. “I suppose you’ve got a point.” He shook water off his glasses, shoved back his drenched forelock and shifted attention to Stan.

“Oooohhh no no no no.” Stan held up both hands, rocking back on his heels. “You can dunk me once we’re back on the boat if y’want, but this’s payback fair and square, Sixer. You’ll have plenty of chances.”

“You’re right, of course.” Ford offered a hand to Clary. “One last dance, then? Even if it’s a bit damp?”

“Oh, by all means. Come on, I know that karaoke machine is around here somewhere.”

“Ford, you do not get to steal her, she’s gotta go in like twelve hours!”

Ford stole her anyway, that jerk. Someone got the music going and scattered laughter rose on the warm, still air as evening finally claimed the Shack. Hell with it, he thought, and slipped inside to rummage up what was left of the fireworks plus Clary’s scant handful of bottle rockets. Stan set himself up on the roof and fired off a single starburst to catch everyone’s attention.

“Hey!” That was Clary far below, hands cupped to direct her indignant shout. “Those’re mine!”

“Better get up here then!” he yelled back. Wendy pointed her at the gift shop and soon he could hear the vague scuffle of someone scrambling up the narrow ladder.

“Oh, god,” Clary muttered as she emerged a little ways up the roof. “This is steep.”

“Take it slow, you’ll be fine. C’mere.” Stan reached up and caught her hand. She warily picked her way down and stayed well away from the edge. “What, heights a problem?”

“Who likes heights?”

“Might as well get used to it, sweetheart, things’re gonna get a lot weirder than high places around us.”

Clary settled down after a minute or two as he lined things up, finally crouching near the edge as he handed off his spare matches. “Literal bottles for our bottle rockets?”

“Consider it creative recycling. Go get ‘em, kid.”

Fuses crackled and threw sparks as Stan set ‘em up and Clary knocked ‘em down, setting fire to everything he put in front of her, no rhyme or reason to it, a ragged fusillade of noise and light. They got ooohs and aaahs of approval from their audience anyway. She let the matches burn down to her fingertips and waved each out with a sharp flick of the wrist just in time to strike the next.

Explosions lit up her features in washes of color. The last rockets went up and she glanced his way, lifting the match to blow it out with a single puff of breath and a cocked brow.

Stan yielded to impulse and slung an arm around her waist, tugging her away from the edge - he landed butt-first, Clary half across his lap - and kissed her quick and hard, catching the edge of her front teeth in his lower lip for his trouble. The slow drag of her tongue soothed away that little hurt easy enough.

The asphalt shingles still held traces of the afternoon’s heat and Stan was more than content to serve as Clary’s pillow. “You could come upstairs tonight. If you want. Same rules.”

“Tempting.” She raised her head from his chest just enough to catch his eye, smile slanted and rueful. “Think I’ve got to decline, though, it’ll be hard enough to get out of here in the morning.”

“You could stay a little longer.”

“I’d love to. But I really can’t.”

Stan pulled a breath and let it go. “I get that. You gonna be okay? It’s a long-ass drive back to Maryland.”

“My nephew scored a cheap ticket to Vancouver and he’s going to drive the rest of the way back with me. I’ll head up to Seattle, do the necessary, then take a couple of days to spoil myself at a spa before I pick him up. We’ll be fine.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it covered. You keep me posted, right?”

Her grin was a sharp flash in the gathering dark. “You are gonna get so sick of your phone chirping at you.”

They rested there for a while, ignoring increasingly exasperated calls from the lawn down below. At length another scuffle scrambled up the ladder. Mabel thudded down on the roof, snapping a picture with her phone before Clary could do more than half sit up. “Oh, come on, you aren’t even smooching! Are you going to get downstairs for pie or what?”

Stan made it down the ladder first and managed to snag the last two slivers of pie. Soos passed out ice pops from the gift shop freezer over fruitless protests - the chicken picnic money would more than cover a bunch of popsicles, but it was the principle of the thing.

As the sky grew fully dark folks started to disperse. Clary handed out hugs and kisses and handshakes and exchanged a cheery wave with the departing McGucket that had to portend disaster somewhere down the line.

At the end it was down to Ford and Clary and Stan draped wearily across a trio of lawn chairs. Conversation had dwindled down to basically nothing. Clary’s fingers stayed hooked loosely into Stan’s.

He wasn’t sure if it was his effort or hers that kept their clasped hands swinging faintly between them.

“You all packed?”

“Nothing left but the overnight bag.”

“Gas?”

“Three-quarters of a tank.”

“Breakfast?”

“Cold cereal won’t kill me.” Clary rolled her head to curve him a tired smile and his fingers tightened down in hers. “I should get to bed. Need to be up bright and early.”

“Yup, suppose you should.” She didn’t budge for a good few minutes and he didn’t push. The lawn chair creaked when she finally rose. Clary’s kiss grazed his temple and lingered, and he leaned into it for as long as he could. Her palm pressed Ford’s shoulder as she crossed between them. Stan watched her head into the Shack, slipping easily into the shadows just within the door.

“What’s your take on her?” he asked.

“I like her better than that siren you spent most of February flirting with.”

Stan cackled. “Ah, he was cute. Best night’s sleep I’d had in ages.”

“He was going to eat you, you know.”

“You took care of it like a badass, and he turned out to be all kinds of helpful with that so-called Atlantis cipher you were tearin’ your hair out over. We came out ahead like we usually do. So.” He waggled brows at his brother. “When’re we hittin’ up the European coast?”

“I suppose I can move Finland and Lake Saimaa up the priority list,” Ford replied.

They both turned in soon after that, a bit before midnight for once. Stan sprawled across the center of his nice full-size orthopedic bed, taking up as much space as he wanted, and settled in to sleep.

He found himself staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see. The house was quiet, all of the faint creaks of the joint familiar to his long-accustomed ear. Everyone was in their place - Ford in his basement fortress, the kids in the room they were going to outgrow for real by next summer, her down in the storage room that would go back to dust and old merch once she was gone.

Some wistful corner of his brain kept hoping she’d change her mind and come up to join him, but exhaustion dragged him under before she did.

Stan woke before his alarm went off, pulled himself together grudgingly and stumped downstairs into a minor Mabel whirlwind. Clary sat on the bottom step, posing for photos with Waddles and an expression of cheerful resignation.

“Great! Grunkle Stan, bend into the frame - yeah, right there - no, don’t just walk on by!” He went right past Mabel and her protests, Clary’s laughter chasing after him, and ended up in the kitchen. There was cold cereal, sure, but the last coffeecake as well, and he hacked out a chunk of that to stash at the back of the freezer for later.

He managed to get most of a cup of coffee down before Mabel hauled him outside into morning sunshine, shoving a small, squashy wrapped-and-beribboned package into his hand. “That’s for her, from you, got it? Okay! Hey Clary!”

Clary was halfway across the yard, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, but making little progress with Waddles trying to trip her up all the way. “Mabel, honeybee, could you please convince Waddles that I’m not trying to sneak off without saying goodbye?” Stan spotted Ford’s legs hanging out the passenger-side door of the Fairlane - probably screwing around with that black box he and McGucket had installed.

“Oh, I know you’re not sneaking off because we’re gonna bribe you not to. Presents!” Mabel sang. On cue, Dipper staggered out of the side door, blinded by the stack of brightly wrapped boxes he carried. Mabel plucked the stuffed blue whale out from under his arm and ran ahead to the station wagon. “But the only one you get to see is this one.”

Waddles disentangled himself and trotted obligingly after Mabel as Clary protested. “Mabel! That was a loan.”

“Lady Bluemington has taken a liking to you. Who am I to argue with the power of plush? Besides, you’re gonna be landlocked for months and I want you to be thinking of the glories of the open ocean.” Mabel’s hands described a familiar marquee arc in the air and to Stan’s amusement Clary went pink.

“I’m a pretty poor sailor, Mabel.”

“Now you’ve got plenty of incentive to learn! Right? Right!”

Ford took the overnight bag off Clary’s hands and tucked it into the back seat, along with the heap of presents. “No peeking,” said Dipper firmly, “and no opening those until you’re on the road! - or at least at the next rest stop, no more accidents!”

“No more accidents. I solemnly swear I’m going to get there in one piece.” Clary flashed the three-fingered Scout salute, then leaned in to peck Ford chastely on the cheek. “Thank you for all the repairs.”

“Ah, well, let’s not do that again. Thank you for all the lovely meals and the fine company. I look forward to continuing our discussion!” Stan eyed his brother warily and got an innocent smile in return.

“I guess that’s about it.” Clary looked over to the house and back to the car, tugging at her kerchief with a fingertip - it was the tiny nautical flags today - then bent and pulled Mabel in for a full-on embrace. Dipper got dragged along by his sister but didn’t seem too grossed out by the equivalent of auntie kisses. “I can’t thank you guys enough,” she said, muffled between the kids. “I really thought this trip was going to be awful but you’ve made it great. I’ll miss all of you.”

The strain in her voice was easy to catch and Stan shouldered his way in as Clary straightened. “All right, get lost, all a’you, I gotta show her a couple last things with the engine. G’wan! Get!” He waved shooing hands at the lot of them, and Ford nudged the gremlins back towards the house.

“Bye Clary!”

“Be careful out there on the road!” Clary flashed an approving thumb up for Dipper and watched the three of them disappear into the Shack, then leaned wearily against the Fairlane’s fender. Stan passed over his handkerchief and she sniffed into it for a moment.

“Ah, c’mon, it’s not that bad, it’s not like I haven’t figured out how t’spam you with text messages.”

Clary managed a chuckle and blinked at him over the hanky with glittering eyes. “She would’ve loved you guys.”

“‘Course she would’ve. We’re lovable.” Stan shifted his weight, shoved hands into his jacket pockets and ended up smashing Mabel’s squashy package in the process. “Uh - look, I got you a little somethin’ for the road - “

“Did you now.”

“Hey, you know there’s no point arguin’ with Mabel - “ Stan pressed the package into her offered hand; she tore off the crumpled paper to reveal a set of fuzzy dice crocheted in red with gold pips. Clary threw her head back and laughed. “See, now, if I could do a damn thing with yarn that is absolutely what I would’ve made you.”

“I love them. They’re perfect. I’ve got something for you, too.”

Clary dipped into her pocket and pressed an envelope into his palm. He sifted carefully through the glossy pictures inside, glitter stickers slapped into the corners. Stan and Clary bickering over eggs in the kitchen. Lit up by the glow of fireworks. In fishing hats, his expression more gobsmacked than he remembered it being. Leaning over the Fairlane’s engine. Spinning out across the museum floor in front of a dazzled crowd.

Stan held up the shot of the two of them dancing at Greasy’s under twinkling lights. “Mabel wasn’t even there for this one!”

“Probably lifted it from someone else’s video. She told me to make absolutely sure you got these.” The obvious question was sketched out in the worried lines around her eyes, but when he hesitated she patted his arm in understanding.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he admitted.

“That goes both ways. We’ll deal with it as it comes.”

“So, ah - “ Stan tucked the fresh memories into his jacket for later perusal and took a step to close the distance. “I mean I know I’m gonna see you again, so this isn’t exactly goodbye - “

“You’ve got obligations and so do I.” Clary swayed away, hands linked behind her.

“Oh I am gonna get to you, sweetpea. Though if I end up yodelin’ or stuffed into lederhosen or somethin’ there might be hell to pay.“

“A gift of a baby goat is traditional. Or so my niece claims.” Lowered lashes veiled her eyes as she sidestepped him with the practiced grace of a matador, slipping out of easy smooching range until his patience began to fray.

Stan played along for the moment, stalking intently after her. “You’re not gonna leave me here without a kiss for the road, right?”

“No way. But I’m waiting for our cue.” He managed to cut a quick glance over to the Shack without looking too much like he was doing it, and spotted the curtain pulled back just a bit by a little hand.

“I did not take you to be quite this mean, Miz Merrick.”

“It’s our job as responsible adults to pretend that delayed gratification is a good thing, darling.”

“Who’re you callin’ responsible?”

“Would you two just kiss already!?!”

Mabel’s rising yell of frustration went off like an air-raid siren. Stan grinned wide and rocked back on his heels. Clary cracked up, knees half buckling as she reached out. His hands caught her waist; he swept her half off her feet and kissed her laughing mouth until she dwindled to giggles and then to happy humming against his lips.

Stan held her tight for longer than he needed to, trailing firm kisses along her jawline, her arms twining up to loop around his neck as she sighed in pleasure and regret. “We really should’ve figured this out a week ago.”

“I have ways t’make up for lost time.”

He felt her shiver as she drew careful breath and leaned in to whisper. “I’m counting on it.”

They stayed entwined like that, her hair sun-warm against his cheek, until Dipper called out. “Can I look yet?”

Gently, grudgingly, Clary disentangled herself and drew away. His fingers clung to hers until she was out of reach. “I’ll text you when I stop for the night. See you around, sailor.”

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

Clary lifted an arm, focus shifting as she waved enthusiastically at the rest of the crew on the porch. Her last look at him was wistful and soft but determined, and she winked a tiny wink as she pivoted away and marched up to the Fairlane, dropping into the driver’s seat and dragging the seatbelt across. A moment’s work set the fuzzy dice dangling from the rear-view mirror. The old wagon cranked up like a dream, the big V8 engine so quiet it did little more than purr as she pulled out down the drive.

Stan stood and watched her go until the last bit of blue had disappeared between the trees and the dust had settled. Mabel and Dipper came out to flank him.

“Soooo I guess we’re going to be seeing her again?” Dipper said hopefully.

“Yup.”

“Aaaaaand it was worth taking a chance on telling her what you really feel?” Mabel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow.

“Maybe more show than tell, pumpkin.” Stan’s face ached with a smile that wouldn’t fade. He turned back towards the Shack, clapping hands together. “All right, you two. Day’s young and there’s plenty to do. Who wants to help me haul the S back up?”

There was already a Clary-shaped hole in his immediate plans.

Stan had no idea how this long-distance thing would work, but he was eager to find out.

Tumblr masterpost

Mabel shouts in pure frustration. “Would you two just kiss already!” Clary’s grinning at you like the sun just came out after two years of winter.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

[astoryinred]

A Woman of Waves and Stories (Enjonine, WAMP verse)

A/N: For Enjonine week. Have fun with this unusual tale. 

(Prompt 7: Generations) A Woman of Waves and Stories

1851

It only stood to reason that books and other paper miscellany would eventually pile up and form precarious piles in 9 Rue Guisarde, owing to the occupations and habits of its residents. “If we didn’t keep our rooms in order, we’d be swimming in piles of notes. You should see my brothers’ rooms,” Laure Enjolras said once to her best friend Marie-Fantine Pontmercy as they were sorting out a bookshelf in the aforementioned house. The latter was staying over with the Enjolras family for a few days, as she was wont to do during breaks from the school at Picpus.

“My brother Jean said that this place is a library masquerading as a house,” Marie-Fantine replied, pausing to dust off a leather-bound tome. She sneezed before daintily wiping her nose and tying back her black hair. She sat on the floor to make herself comfortable. “Isn’t this one of your old books from when we were young girls?”

“Younger you mean, you’re not quite sixteen,” Laure pointed out as she leaned over to get a look at the title. Her dark eyes widened as she realized what Marie-Fantine had. “Of course you remember this; it’s the book of stories that Papa gave me when I was maybe seven or so.”

“The one with stories around the world?”

“Yes, that!” The blonde girl wiped her hands on her skirt before opening the book carefully to an illustration of a princess in a jewel-encrusted gown, dancing with an equally resplendent prince. “I remember this one was one of your favorites.”

Marie-Fantine giggled as she looked at the picture. “You know, these balls come up in many of the other stories too. Just different reasons for going, and different dresses.” She fondly ran her fingers over the illustration. “I sometimes used to pretend whenever my parents would go out, that they would be at a ball like this. Maman was, and still is, more beautiful than these princesses. And their story sounds like a fairy tale too.”

“Wooing in a garden, while your grandfather was asleep?” Laure asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Well it wasn’t entirely right, but it would be a little romantic otherwise.” Marie-Fantine turned the book to a random page, and recoiled at the illustration that met her curious eyes. “Oh goodness what is that? It’s ghastly!”

“It is a book of stories from all over, and not all of them are pretty,” Laure pointed out as she surveyed the picture of a man in a boat, pulling a skeleton woman out of the water with his fishing line. As grotesque and startling as it was, there was something about the image that seemed more alive than the picturesque ones preceding it. Below this picture was the beginning of a story, which Laure began to read aloud:

‘There was once a young woman who lived happily on the shores, until a misfortune befell her and she was cast into the sea. Who did it to her, why it happened, no one remembers; only that she was left to be lost under the waves. Here the fish took every bit of her till she was nothing more than a skeleton, waiting in the deeps.

There was also once a fisherman who sailed the loneliest coves, often alone. He had drifted far in search of the best catch, and it was here he tossed out his line. His hook reached into the deep, and caught, of all things, the bones in the Skeleton Woman’s rib cage. And so without her knowing how or why, she was dragged up, and up out of the deep. She twisted and tried to get free, but the hook held fast. The fisherman in his boat thought as his line shook, ‘Ah, I must have gotten a big one!’  Such was his waiting and his thinking that he did not notice what was rising under the sea froth. When he looked up he saw right before him the Skeleton Woman floating at the surface, her eyes and ears filled with the sea crabs and worms of the deep, and with her bald head and long teeth glistening in the sun.

The fisherman screamed and fell back, and his heart fell too deep in him as his limbs began to shake. He screamed and tried to knock her away from his kayak, but he did not see how tangled Skeleton Woman was in his line. In his fear he paddled as quickly as he could to the shore. He looked back and screamed again, for she seemed to be chasing him as she bumped in the waves after his kayak turning this way and that---’

“Girls, what are you doing?” a low voice cut through Laure’s reading.

“We just found an old book, Maman,” Laure greeted her mother cheerily. Like nearly everyone else at home engaged in cleaning and dusting up, Eponine had on an old dress, and her long red hair was tied up in a kerchief. Here, she did not wear her gloves, and her twisted left hand was in plain sight. ‘How does she ever manage with it?’ Laure wondered silently once again.

She could never think of two women more different than her own mother and Marie-Fantine’s mother, the same woman she had learned to call Aunt Cosette. Aunt Cosette was all elegant, light and very put together, with a voice that was always sweet. Her dark hair was never out of place, her clothes always fine, and very demure just like those storybook princesses. Laure’s own mother Eponine was not a woman of air, but certainly something more whole yet chaotic and loud. There was no keeping her reddish-brown hair in a perfect coif; a fact which belied her famously fiery wit that did not seem to belong in a tale at all.  

Eponine merely nodded, seemingly unaware of her daughter’s reverie. “The wash room downstairs is ready, and I s’pose it’s better if you girls use it to get cleaned up now for the party we’re all going to later.”

“In that case, Marie-Fantine will go first since she’s company,” Laure said.

“Your hair takes longer to dry,” Marie-Fantine pointed out.

“I’ll manage. You need to use the place at its best, before the boys notice the are fresh baths around,” Laure said. Just knowing in what state her brothers often left the washroom in was enough to make her shudder with revulsion. “But what about you, Maman?” she asked Eponine.

“I’ll go after you both are finished; there’s still some things I need to finish too,” Eponine replied as she stepped back out into the hallway.

Marie-Fantine shivered as she got to her feet. “I will need that wash, to get the Skeleton Woman out of my head!” she declared.

“I think coffee would be better,” Laure pointed out as she also stood up. ‘If Maman’s hand could get so twisted from a bullet, what more could Skeleton Woman from all that water?’ the thought crossed her mind as she went to her closet to find a suitable dress to wear.

**

The evening’s festivities were meant to be a “dinner party” at the house of one of the city representatives in the Chaillot district. “Can someone explain to me what the difference is between dinner and a ball?” Marie-Fantine asked Laure exasperatedly after they had extricated themselves from yet another conversation on the sidelines of the dance floor.

“For some fine people it’s one and the same. And why are you asking me, I don’t know very much of these things!” Laure exclaimed. “Your school friends from Picpus would know more.”

“But you’re a legislator’s daughter,” Marie-Fantine said. “That is pretty fine in itself.”

Laure merely shrugged as she picked up another glass of sugar-water from a passing server. All around them was light and glamor, with men and women dressed in the latest fashions as they laughed, flirted, preened, and dined. Her own brothers were no exceptions; tall and blond Julien was dancing with a friend, Sophie Feuilly, and drawing quite some attention without intending to. Etienne, being just eleven, was off with some other boys decimating the food selections. However as always, it was their parents who were in the middle of the action; Antoine Enjolras was of course talking with some colleagues both in and out of the legislature, while Eponine was in the middle of a lively debate with some friends and visitors from outside Paris. ‘It will take some practice to get that way,’ Laure could not help but think. Even though her parents never dressed flashily or made themselves particularly conspicuous, they somehow always seemed to be in the center of events.

Marie-Fantine suddenly tugged Laure’s arm. “Let’s get away, she’s coming…” she whispered.

“Oh there you are Citizenness Pontmercy!” a high pitched voice crooned as its owner nearly bowled over both Marie-Fantine and Laure with the rushing of her shot silk skirts. Theresia Montmoro effusively kissed Marie-Fantine on both cheeks, but she reserved merely a nod for Laure. “And of course Citizenness Enjolras.”

Marie-Fantine smiled, just managing to keep a straight face. “Are you looking for a dance partner?” she asked her school friend.

“Just catching my breath,” Theresia said. “I didn’t think you’d be invited,” she said sourly to Laure. “Did you have to use the side door to get here?”

Marie-Fantine’s jaw dropped at this slight. “Theresia!”

“Leave her be,” Laure whispered. She drew herself up to her full height as she looked at Theresia all the way down to her obtrusive attire. “I would use the side door, or the carriage gate only if I dressed as you did.”

Theresia’s cheeks blazed scarlet for a moment. “You know what my mother says about your mother?” she hissed.

Laure crossed her arms. “I don’t care to know.”

Marie-Fantine sighed and grabbed Laure’s arm to drag her off. “The only reason she is such a prig is because she knows my father is a Baron, not that it matters anymore,” she said to her friend.

“Which makes her so much of a silly!” Laure hissed. “I mean really---”

“Why do you think my mother doesn’t like going to these things either, even if she is a Baronne?” Marie-Fantine reasoned.

Laure sighed with frustration, even as she felt relieved that this altercation had not turned into a full on tiff. ‘Which would earn us trouble and scolding,’ she thought even as she followed Marie-Fantine to get some food. “It’s just as well for your parents that they are out of town and you are staying with us. My parents can’t avoid them, not with all the things they do.”

“You’ll have to learn when you go into the law school,” Marie-Fantine pointed out.

“Yes, and I would learn it even if I didn’t,” Laure sighed, noticing even now how Theresia was griping to other friends across the room. She tore her eyes away from this odious sight, back to where her parents were still in their respective conversations. For a moment she saw her father catch her mother’s eye and give her a nod, which she returned almost imperceptibly. And yet in that moment something in the room seemed to shift, with the talk growing livelier as the groups began to mingle, then merge and then slowly drift off. ‘All that without a dance or causing a scene?’ Laure marveled silently before returning with her friend to the dance floor.

 **

The dance ended close to midnight, and so it was past one in the morning when the lights were put out at 9 Rue Guisarde. Yet even so Laure lay awake, her mind awhirl with the events of the night. Taking care not to disturb Marie-Fantine, who was asleep in the spare bed moved into her room, she crept over to grab the book of stories from the shelf. Laure found a bit of candle and lit it just enough for her to read these words:

‘The fisherman screamed as his boat reached the shore, for Skeleton Woman was still close behind him. He ran and ran, not knowing she was still tangled in his fishing line. She was dragged and bumped over the rocks and the frozen ground, her bones clacking and rattling all the while.

Finally the fisherman saw his little house and dove right in, crying and shaking in fear. His heart was pounding fast, harder than the ocean waves not far away. He waited for his breath to come back to him till he reached for the small oil lamp in his home. When he lit it, he screamed once again, for there near the door lay Skeleton Woman, all in a heap. Her ankles were tangled over her arms, her head was hanging below her shoulders, and her ribs and her hips were tilted every which way. Perhaps it was something about the way she was so tangled that had the fisherman looking at her again, and then once more. And something began to change, perhaps in the light or in the fisherman’s eyes. He crouched before her and reached out with his cold fingers to gently pull her ankle up away from her shoulders and back in place. “There, that’s better,” he whispered soothingly as he untangled first her feet, then her arms, her head and her neck, and last of all her hips and her ribs. It was long hard work, but soon he had gotten Skeleton Woman’s bones in the proper order, as most any person’s should be.

And in the light, in this way, she no longer looked so terrifying. Skeleton Woman remained quiet as the fisherman removed the hook that had grabbed her and rewound his fishing line. He looked at her time and again, but she remained quiet as he worked. At last he felt the drowsiness creeping to his eyes, and he slid under the furs of his bed to fall into a deep sleep’

Before Laure could read further, she heard Marie-Fantine stir in her bed. Quickly she extinguished the candle and dove under the covers. “Until morning then,” she resolved before falling into a similarly dreamless slumber.

**

It was not Marie-Fantine who brought Laure out of her slumber, but rather the sound of footsteps in the hall and on the stairs. ‘Who could be up so early?’ she wondered as she crept out of bed and opened the door a crack. She could hear what sounded like conversation coming from the kitchen. As noiselessly as possible Laure tiptoed down the stairs and went to the kitchen to get a better look.

Here she saw her parents seated together at the small table there, both of them sipping coffee. “Who would have thought that last night would end up in a whole new lot of things to do?” Eponine said as she put down her cup.

“You were sought out,” Enjolras said, also setting down his drink. His usually serious mien was now more at ease, and he even smiled as he looked at Eponine. In the morning light he seemed less like a man who’d slept little and more like someone who’d enjoyed a short but good rest. “I am sure our hosts told their guests you would be coming, hence the discussion about the books you translated from the authoress Austen.”

“We were coming,” Eponine corrected. She smiled as she touched his arm, more so when he drew closer to her. “You had the floor when it came to the measures about Algeria and I find that just as interesting as those wonderful stories. None of which, if you ask me, quite fit to what I know.”

“And why would you say so?”

“Miss Austen from England could never quite write someone like both of us.”

It was all that Laure could do to keep from giggling at hearing such open talk between her parents. She swiftly rushed back to her room and fetched the book she had hidden under her blankets. Under the light of the rising dawn, she read:

‘As the fisherman wandered in his dreams, a single tear escaped from his eyes. The Skeleton Woman saw this tear and became so thirsty like never before. She clinked and clanked as she crawled over to the dreaming fisherman and drank deep from his tear. She drank long and long till her deep thirst was finally quenched.

Now she reached inside the sleeping man and brought out his heart. She began to pound on it like a great, majestic drum. Boom, boom, boom sounded the drum as she began to sing. She sang with his heart for the flesh on her bones. She sang the long dark hair on her head, her bright eyes, her quick hands, her strong hips and all the many things a woman needs. And when she was whole, she carefully put his heart back into his chest, then slipped under the sleeping skins with him. Then they were tangled together, and woke up together in a much better way.

The people say the man and the woman left together hand in hand, and they never went hungry for they were well fed by the creatures of the sea she had once come from. And so their story has been told ever since.’