#I find Beau unbearably hot.

[sparrowsingsstories]

WIP Wednesday

Tagging: @alder-berry @adventuresofmeghatron @wastelandhell @sendhelporcaffeine and @twolargepepperoni-and-a-calzone (but only if you want to - never feel pressured. I just like people to feel included! This includes art...)

Something a little different this week. Or I think it's different.

I can't remember what I've posted and not posted to be honest...

Anyway - Meet Frankie Warren, trumpet and clarinet player for a band that's just settled into Jamaica Plains! They'll be featured in the story after Cry Mercy, and Frankie & Beau's story (with Rhodie and Haywire, Amber, Fitz, Cora...Tomos...Jays-son) will come in between Cry Mercy and part two. So - from Jamaica Plains, Frankie...meeting Beau:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was bobbing her head along to a slower song, whisper-singing the lyrics, when a guitar joined her playing. She looked up and around. The man from the bar, the ghoul, was sitting near her on the stairs and playing a guitar rather skillfully. She dropped her head back down and sang a little louder, letting the song flow out of her as she enjoyed the harmonizing of the banjo and guitar.

The song drifted away, leaving her breathing slowly and relaxed. She turned towards the man and smiled.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

He had a broad bandage across his face. More bandages disappeared into his poncho. His hands and arms were wrapped. He was missing bits of fingers and a couple entire fingers. He was, objectionably, not a good-looking man. But he had kind eyes and that half-smile was…well…

Charming.

“I’m Frankie Warren,” she said, holding out one of her hands.

“Beau Adams,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a shake.

“It’s nice to meet you, Beau. You play really well.”

“So do you. Have a nice voice too,” Beau said, that half-smile making her want to squirm. 

She reminded herself that he was taken. “How are you and your wife finding Jamaica Plains?”

Beau gave her a look. “My what?”

“Your wife? Oh I’m sorry, partner? Girlfriend? I saw her with you last night? She brought you a beer and then tried three or four glasses of wine.”

That half-smile was back. “Oh. Rhodie. She’s uh…she’s more like a sister to me. Not a partner.”

“So not romantic, then?”

Beau shook his head, “Naw. She’s definitely like a sister. And I think she likes girls.”

“Oh.” Frankie looked down at her banjo. He was single. Did she want to…pursue…him?

[babybluebex]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐓.𝟐 | 𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥 (𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐭.𝐢𝐢) 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

PART I | PART III

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | PART 2 of 3! you reunite with emmett after 2 years, and find that your differences don’t seem to matter.  𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | emmett laurel (a quiet place pt.ii) x fem!reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | monsters & monster-related injuries, light smut 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | thank you for the astounding response to part 1, so here’s part 2! stick around and follow my taglist blog to be notified of when the next part comes out! // taglist blog: @cremebruhleewrites​

Your mother was tired. Giving birth had exhausted her, and you could see that. She told you that she needed to go into town and find supplies, but you gently pushed her back and put her hands back on your baby brother’s head. Nicholas, he was named. I’ll do it, you had signed to her. Evelyn had started to protest, but you shook your head quickly. I’m twenty now, Mom. I can handle myself.

Your feet had stopped feeling the pain of the forest floor on your bare feet long ago, and it wasn’t even a deterrent anymore. So many things had changed in two years, and you could hardly recognize the girl you were anymore. You could hardly believe that you once had been a partier, not bothering to be with your family and only caring about stupid shit. You were no longer that sweet girl, head full of dreams and hopes. That all disappeared when the monsters invaded. You heard the crackle of thunder above your head and knew that it would start to rain before you ever even reached town, but you didn’t mind it. Sometimes, you caught yourself wishing for what life was like before everything, but you always quickly shut that down; you couldn’t afford to dream, to be all moony-eyed over what could have been. You had to stay ready, just in case. Before you left, your mother insisted that you take a weapon of some kind with you, and your palms were clammy around the handle of Marcus’s old baseball bat. The events of the last day still swam around your head, not really settling in right, and you chewed your cheek whenever you caught your mind wandering to your father. He hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours, and you hadn’t even had time to cry about it.  He had saved you, though. He had sacrificed himself to save you and your sister, and Reagan had grabbed you and buried her face in your neck to keep from screaming. 

There was a warbling of sorts off in the trees, and it snapped you into focus. The bag on your back suddenly felt so heavy, and you cursed yourself for being so stupid as to not bring a weapon. You knew that sound. The monster, whatever the dreaded alien was, couldn’t be more than a few feet away from you. Fear paralyzed you, and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. Hopefully, the monster couldn’t hear it too. 

Before you were entirely certain of what happened, the warbling grew louder, almost unbearable, and suddenly the trees around you shifted and the hulking monster revealed itself. It was too quick for you to see it, but the noise of it told you all you needed to know; it swiped past you, bending the air around you, and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming. No matter how many times you encountered them, they never ceased to terrify you. There would be nights where you would wake up from nightmares of them, and your mother would have to cover your mouth to keep you from screaming and crying. You tried your best to follow the monster, to keep your eye on it like your father had taught you, but it simply moved too fast. It flew past you again, its warbling growing louder as he zeroed in on your location, and a hot pain seared at your side. You couldn’t help the groan of shock that left you, and you looked down. Your shirt was slashed, blood pooling at your skin; it certainly didn’t look good. You needed to find a place to hide, somewhere where you could fully assess the damage, but you were in the middle of the woods. Town was closer to you than home was, or even Beau’s grave, but you couldn’t turn back. If there was one monster, there were more, and it was easier to keep moving forward.

You pressed yourself up against a tree, and you clamped your hands over your mouth to try to silence your breathing. All you needed was for them to lose interest in you, and that could only happen if you were quiet. Yet, your heartbeat still raged in your ears, and you felt like you were suffocating yourself as you tried to be quiet. There was no hope for you. You could feel their presence all around you, ready to strike, and you couldn’t help the terrified whimper that left you. 

Then, there was another presence from beside you, creeping out from the other side of the tree. You couldn’t even think about shrieking from fear before the person (yes, person, it had to be, since it hadn’t eaten you yet) was shoving their hand on top of your mouth and wrapping a strong arm around your waist. He was quiet as he tugged you back to him, and you stumbled over his feet as he held you close. Your instinct was to scream, to thrash and try to escape his grasp, but he was too strong for you; anyway, that level of noise would get you both killed. You couldn’t see him, but his hand was big and his chest was warm, and it brought you some level of comfort. The man quietly turned you to face him, and you saw him shrouded, wearing a hat to cover dark, messy hair, with a filthy bandana covering the bottom half of his face. He put a hand up to his own mouth and pressed a finger to where his lips were underneath the cloth, and you nodded. Keep quiet, he was telling you. His eyes were open and wide as he stared at you, waiting for a response, and it hit you like a train. His eyes. Big, pale blue, lined with dark lashes. You used to dream about his eyes. Emmett.  

Then, the arm around your waist tightened, and Emmett pulled you up onto his back, locking your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. He moved slowly, his footsteps careful and sure as he attempted to not disturb the crumbling, dead leaves, and it was after he took a few tentative steps that he situated your weight on his back, and he took off in a run. You held onto him tightly and buried your face into his neck to avoid even catching glimpses of the monster. Your head whirled as you gripped him, and you tried to remember the last time you had seen Emmett. Was it that very first day, at Henry and Marcus’s baseball game? You couldn’t remember a lot from that day, just the broad strokes of the alien invasion, but you remember how Emmett had been able to get you back in his truck so the two of you could go get oranges; it was supposed to be your father’s turn to give the baseball team orange slices after the game, but, like usual, Lee had forgotten. As soon as he had driven you out of sight, Emmett was on you, pushing you into the backseat and snaking his hand up your sundress. You had shoved that awful Van’s Auto Service mesh-back hat off of his head and pulled on his hair as he kissed you, and you continued your tugging as Emmett settled his big shoulders between your thighs and ate your pussy like he was starving for it. His hands held your hips down as he greedily nipped and licked at you, and you whimpered a little. Emmett had pulled away and given your wet, throbbing pussy a little smack, and he had said, “Don’t you stay quiet, let me hear you, baby girl.” That sentiment, the irony of it, was never lost on you. 

Did Emmett recognize you? You were twenty now, not the freshly-eighteen year old that he had known. Your hair was too short to pull into braids anymore, and, when you had smiled at baby Nicholas Abbott last night, that was the first time you had smiled in God knows how long. Reagan had jokingly told you a few months ago that you looked mean, and it never meant anything more than your sister making fun of you, but that wasn’t you. At least, that wasn’t the you that Emmett knew. 

Emmett only stopped running when he reached an abandoned building. It looked like a defunct factory of some sort, but you didn’t care what it was. He unceremoniously dropped you off his back and gestured for you to follow, and you moved quickly across the cold cement floor until Emmett reached a pipe in the ground. He wrenched the top open, nervously looking around when the old hinges squeaked, and he whispered, “I don’t got all day, honey, move your ass.” At least he still had his Southern drawl. 

The metal ladder leading downwards was so cold that it felt like it was burning the soles of your feet, and you collapsed on the floor once you made it down safely. Emmett was right behind you, shutting the lid and letting himself fall to the floor, and he landed steadily in front of you. The room was small and quiet, lit by candles and covered in discarded papers, and he grabbed your arm and forcefully shucked off your bag on your back. His iron grip still held you as he pushed you towards a smaller chamber in the wall, a cloth sitting on the handle to keep it from fully closing, and he shoved you into the small space. He followed just as that spine-tingling warbling sounded from above, and he shut the steel door to the boiler. 

With the door closed, the whole space was as dark as night. You held your hand over your mouth, feeling lightheaded as you struggled to control your heavy breathing from running, and Emmett’s rasping voice came softly to you. “It’s soundproof in here,” he told you. “They can’t hear ya. You can breathe easy.”

Slowly, you took your hand away from your mouth and panted in air, and the quick flick of a lighter illuminated the space. And you saw him. He was dressed for the cold, heavy denim jacket and jeans with boots and that stupid fucking Van’s Auto Service mesh-back hat on his head. His eyes had fallen back to their usual, non-startled size, and they seemed to twinkle in the small fire. Carefully, you reached out to him and lightly touched his cheek, and he looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time. “Goddamn it,” he whispered. You took that as an invitation to remove the bandana from his mouth, and you were struck by the sight of a bushy beard all along the bottom half of his space, the dark decorated with grey and ginger hairs. His lips were dry and cracked, but they were still pink, still perfect. “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought the same about you,” you told him softly, casting your eyes downwards.

“Two years,” Emmett mumbled. “A lot can change, huh?”

You nodded. You couldn’t even conjure up a laugh the way he intended. “Are the boys here?” you asked. “Or Lola?”

Emmett sighed heavily again, and he ran his hands down his face, exhausted. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “No, Henry and Adam… Lost them on the first day. And Lola, God bless her, she got sick. She was always in pain… I finally lost her about eleven weeks ago.” 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” you mumbled, and you reached out for him, but he turned his head just in time to miss your fingers. 

“How ‘bout you?” Emmett asked. His eyes weren’t even looking at you; he was avoiding you nearly as much as he could. “You were all alone out there.”

You shook your head. “We lost Beau maybe six months ago now,” you told him. “And Dad…” Emmett perked up a bit at the mention of Lee, and your bottom lip trembled. You hadn’t really had time to consider mourning your father, what with the monsters and keeping your mom calm and alive while she gave birth. But it was true: he was dead. “It just happened yesterday.”

“Fuck,” Emmett whispered. “And your mom? Reagan and Marcus… You?”

“Mom actually gave birth last night,” you said. “His name’s Nicholas. That’s why… Dad drew the monsters away from her and away from Reagan. Everyone else is fine.”

“Are you fine?” Emmett asked. The lighter flickered for a moment as it became harder and harder to catch a breath in the small, empty boiler, and it cast eerie shadows on Emmett’s gaunt face. Just as you were no longer his girl, he was no longer your man. The man in front of you had lost his entire family and had nothing left for him in the world. 

“No,” you said softly, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I just… It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I think tomorrow, once everything is calmer, I’ll be worse, but right now, I’m just… Not. I’m not feeling it, I’m not caring about it, I… I don’t know what to do.” 

Finally, the lighter flickered out as oxygen became scant in the boiler, and Emmett pushed the metal door open and helped you out. His strong hands on your waist felt familiar, and you were thankful that, at least, that didn’t change. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled, his deep voice dropping even lower. “You got swiped.”

Indeed, your shirt was cut to ribbons by the monster’s claws, and the fabric was stained with blood. Emmett moved you to the little makeshift bed he had, settled on a table with blankets and rock-hard pillows, but you were sure that it was better than sleeping on the ground. Emmett busied himself with gathering medical supplies, and you said, “Em, I’m fine, I promise. It doesn’t hurt.” 

“But it’ll still get infected,” Emmett said, dragging a chair up to the table and examining your wound. He sighed and lightly shook his head, and he took your filthy shirt in his grip and tugged it over your head. “If this was two years ago, I’d reckon I’d be going for your panties next,” he chuckled softly. “You, umm… Nevermind.”

“No, no, what?” you asked. “‘I, umm’, what?”

“It’s a dumb question,” Emmett said, wetting the corner of a cloth with something that you recognized by smell as disinfectant. “But… You didn’t find some other guy or something during all this, did you?” 

“No,” you said, and hissed when the cloth came in contact with your open wound. “Did you find any other girl?”

“No,” Emmett told you. “I haven’t fucked since you. It’s hard to get in the mood when you remember your children… And I didn’t fuck you, remember. God, I’m sorry for all that.”

“What for?” you asked, tilting your head in confusion. 

“Being so damn juvenile,” Emmett clarified as he cleaned up your wound, wrinkling his eyebrows when you winced. “Fingering you in my truck, eating you out in the backseat… I’m a grown-fuckin’-man, I should’ve just grown a pair and got a hotel room or something. I shouldn’t have done all that the way I did.”

“Or at all,” you shrugged, and Emmett looked at you with confusion in his big eyes. “Em, I wanted it, don’t misunderstand me, but I’m— I’m your best friend’s teenage daughter. Or I was. You should’ve just kept all that to yourself. If Lee knew, he would’ve killed you for even thinking about me like that.”

“I tried to not think about your dad catching us,” Emmett mumbled, returning to his work. “But I knew what I would’ve done if we had been caught. I would’ve taken the blame so you wouldn’t get in trouble. I dunno, say I was forcing ya to sleep with me.”

“Do you still think about me?” you asked softly. Your heart beat quickly as you tried to understand why you even wanted to ask him that, but you charged on anyway. “Because I think about you.”

“Do you really?” Emmett asked. He seemed nonchalant as he put down the rag, but you knew him well enough to know that he was nervous too. “What about?” 

“Just rethinking everything we did,” you told him. “I was fully prepared to let you take my virginity, you know. But… You know… Whatever. That doesn’t matter anymore. It’s funny how quickly priorities change.”

Emmett nodded, and you could tell that he wanted to say something, but you lifted yourself off the table. You took your shirt back in your grasp and started to pull it on, but then you felt Emmett’s warm hand on your hip. His fingers lightly touched your bare skin, just enough to remind you of what he had been like and how he had treated you. Even if he felt like he had treated you awfully, you thought he was good, better than any boy from school could have treated you. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his low voice rumbling. 

You smiled a little, enjoying his playfulness, but the smile disappeared quickly. “I have to get home,” you told him. “Mom and Reagan and Marcus, they’re waiting—”

“Absolutely not,” Emmett told you. “No, it’s almost night, you’re not leaving right now.”

“Why not?” you asked. “I can handle myself.”

“Can you?” Emmett asked. “Because, when I found you, you were hurt, crying, had no weapon, had resigned yourself. I don’t think you can handle yourself. Just wait here overnight, and you can leave in the morning once the light’s better.”

“Bullshit,” you replied, even though Emmett was 100% correct. “I’ll be fine.”

Emmett shook his head, completely unimpressed. “Listen to me,” he said. “No, you won’t. I’m not askin’ you to stay forever, just for tonight so I can make sure you’re alright. If that wound starts to get infected, I don’t want you to be alone for that.”

“Emmett,” you told him firmly, taking his hand and squeezing him hard. “I’m not a child. I’ll be okay.”

Emmett chewed the inside of his cheek, obviously hating the reminder of the years that have gone by. You weren’t a child. Even if he had known you since you were a child— hell, “Uncle Emmett” was the first non-family member to hold you after you were born— you weren’t one anymore. He obviously had thought about you during your absence, and you had thought about him, but he only had explained that he had been rethinking your history. Had he thought about doing it again? Now that Henry and Adam and Lola were gone, you doubted that he would ever want another relationship. 

“Em,” you said softly. Your ears prickled with the silence, and Emmet’s jaw tightened under his facial hair. You took a deep breath, feeling your wounded flesh complain at the stretch, and you said, “You understand that I’m not a child anymore, right?”

“You weren’t back then either,” Emmett said gently. He instantly understood what you meant, and his hand tightened around yours, holding you back. “You were eighteen. That’s not a child.”

“It’s not,” you said. “But it’s close.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” Emmett asked. “Or are you trying to get me to sleep with you?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” you told him easily. 

The moment was tense, and Emmett looked at you up and down. He looked at your hips, more filled out than before, and your tits, tugging at the bra under your shirt. You certainly had become a woman since you had last seen him, and you felt that stirring in your gut at the way Emmett looked at you. “You always teased mean,” Emmett chuckled lightly. His laugh sounded sad, though, and you sighed. 

“Em,” you whispered. “Kiss me, Em, please.” 

Emmett didn’t need to be told twice. The hand holding yours tugged you in close to him and he sealed his lips to yours. You had forgotten how good it felt to kiss anyone, let alone Emmett, and you melted into his hard body as his hands grasped your face. His beard felt weird and different, too scratchy on your cheeks than what you knew, but he was still a good kisser. He bit at your lips and grabbed your hair, and he disconnected from you with a huff. “Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “I’m already fuckin’ hard.” 

Your hand fell down to his pants, the rough jeans that you always used to think made his ass look good, and you grasped at his erection through the fabric. He was right; and you liked it. “Do you wanna fuck me?” you asked. “I want you to fuck me, Emmett. God, I’ve wanted it for so long.”

“If ya keep talking like that, darlin’, I won’t be able to control myself,” Emmett told you. “I’ve been actin’ like a damn high school boy, jerkin’ off and thinkin’ bout you for two years. Don’t you tease me, baby.”

“I won’t,” you told him, and Emmett grabbed you by the hips and pulled you back onto him. “I would never dream of it.”

[spacetickles]

The Mighty Nein: Tickle Headcanons

no one asked for this but I liked making the TAZ headcanons so much I did it anyway. 

the mighty nein from most ticklish to least ticklish

Caleb

A ticklish baby, he thought he grew out of it in the years since his academy days, but alas. He is ticklish everywhere, it cannot be helped. His worst worst spot (not a hot take at all) is the tops of his ribs, he cannot handle it. He’s definitely the number one victim of tickle attacks out of the nein, they all love getting their wizard to laugh. Caleb is a bit new to tickling, it's been a good long while since he’d known positive touch, but he warms up to it quickly. 

He cannot ler to save his life, lord knows he’s tried, he’s just so bad at it. It’s very very rare he gets the actual confidence to do a good job and it crumbles the minute revenge is even thought of

Essek 

Second most ticklish of the nein, and who’s surprised? It has to be a wizard thing. His worst spot is probably his hips or his legs, though his feet are definitely bad. He thinks tickling is so undignified, he says he’d rather fight a dragon solo, but the nein can see right through his lies. He not so secretly loves it. 

His ears twitch if you tickle anywhere near them and it’s adorable.

He is a better ler than Caleb but only marginally. Mostly because he’s so damn easy to overpower, just flops right over and takes it.

Fjord

He says he’s not ticklish but he’s also really bad at keeping the fact that he’s stupid ticklish a secret. His stomach and sides are 100% a weak spot, and is actually one of his favorites too. He didn’t really even know he was ticklish until he met Jester and the nein. 

This man can Tease, his ticking skills need some work, but he more than makes up for it with the teasing, it’s inescapable and no one is immune, NO ONE. 

Molly

Ticklish and loves it, he is a little slut for tickles and we love him for it. His back, tail and hips are definitely the worst. He says his hips are, but it’s only because he can’t handle his back and tail being tickled, he just becomes a pile of purple goo. 

The biggest ler next to jester, his tail is a weapon and he knows it. It's surprisingly effective as a tickle tool, just pointed enough, but not sharp, it feels similar to a pen or a chopstick. Even without his tail, he is killer, he knows everyone’s spots by heart and he could rival Fjord at teasing, and when he teams up with Jester, with the traveler as their witness no one goes untickled.

Jester

In comparison to some of her teammates she’s not all that ticklish, pretty much right in the middle. Her thighs and her stomach are the worst spots, though her tail is also pretty ticklish. She is very very comfortable with tickling, she has absolutely no shame, I am HERE for the “all tieflings are knismos” agenda, and Jester was raised by her mumma, who is equally shameless about tickling. She simply cannot be flustered by it, the only one to have succeeded in getting her flustered is Fjord. 

The undefeated tickle queen of the nein. Any tickle fight she wants to win, she will win. She loves tickling others as much as she loves being tickled, and frankly Adores how squirmy non-tieflings are on the topic. She could just talk about it for hours, but everyone but Molly always gets so red, she thinks it's funny. 

Beau

She will eat you alive, don't touch her. She's only ticklish in a few spots, her sides being the number one spot. But for the first little while she did not let the nein even close to tickling her. But once Jester gave her some puppy dog eyes she couldn't say no anymore. Don't let that fool you she absolutely loves it, she just isn't used to it, and was way too attached to looking tough. 

A wicked ler, she will absolutely use her monk shit, and paralyze her lee. She's really rough, and it can be unpleasant, but fjord, caduceus and yasha have been working to get her to be a little softer. 

Caduceus 

Mr zen cow man I loooovve you. He's not very ticklish, but his ears and neck can really get him giggling. His hands are surprisingly sensitive too. He’s used to his siblings knowing exactly how to get him to scream, so he’s not exactly threatened by the nein, he just lets them go for it, hes ticklish enough to satiate their curiosity without finding any of his bad spots, but he can also just pick up the ler and turn the tables just that easy. 

He's a really soft ler, and specializes in sleepy cuddly tickles. Plus he is so big and fluffy that he can just give his lee butterflies with, like, no effort. Up until when caduceus tried tickling him, no one knew essek could purr. 

Yasha 

She's not very ticklish, but if she's tired and off her guard, her stomach can get her giggling a little. It makes her a little sad she isn't as ticklish as some of the others, but she's more than willing to make up for that by being the ler. 

Another soft ler, she doesnt know her own strength, so she's extra careful with tickling. It's almost unbearable how soft she is, unlike caduceus, her soft tickling is the kind that lights every nerve up with lighting, and goodness she teases, though she isn't particularly smooth it’s all so endearing mixed with the unbearably soft tickling, she is one of the best lers in the nein, up there with Molly and Jester. 

Veth

Veth is not ticklish at all, and she lords this over the rest of the nein by being the biggest shit. She's little and hard to catch and she uses this to her advantage, anyone with a tickle spot from hips down is in danger of random attacks, and spots higher than that are susceptible to mage hand attacks. And the best(worst) part is that no one can get her back, since she is not ticklish in the slightest. (unless you are Yeza, in which case he knows her one secret spot and has been sworn to secrecy on it)

[elsinore-rose]

So much love right now, so much love for all the amazing widojest pouring out in front of me. I want all the WIPs, all of them, but I can only pick one, so Imma jump on the bandwagon with another request for the five things jester hates 🧡💙 it’s such a fresh take on a writing style for me and I love it and need more

you’re lucky, it’s the last part i wrote before the muse left me!

Jester hates Caleb’s caution. 

Not all the time. He isn’t even that cautious all the time — there are moments, exhilarating moments, when he throws his good sense to the wind and joins in with whatever chaos Jester and Nott have cooked up, and everything goes to hell, and it’s amazing. Yeah, sure, it usually ends with someone bleeding or in prison or banned from a library (or a city, or a country), but it’s worth it every time. Every time, at least once, Caleb has laughed. 

And sometimes his caution is good. Sometimes it’s comforting, how he takes the time to make sure that their plans are thoroughly talked out, how he considers every aspect of each potential course, calculating the risks and weighing the rewards. It makes Jester feel safe, like there’s at least one person in the room who can be counted on to have a handle on things. Caleb is reliable, he’s steady. She trusts him. If he says something won’t work, it’s too dangerous, they don’t have time, it isn’t worth it — well, he’s a genius, he’s probably right. 

Most of the time. 

He’s grabbing onto her wrist hard, and the rest of the Mighty Nein are watching, and Jester’s cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. “Do you have a death wish?” Caleb hisses at her, his eyes dark with fury. “Did you stop to think? Do you ever stop to think, Jester?!”

She wrenches her arm out of his grasp. She’s still stronger than him, even if adrenaline has heightened his reflexes. “It was fine.”

“You could have been killed.” Caleb steps closer and his voice is like a wildfire, unbearable and uncontrolled. “And none of us would have known. We would not have known where to find you, Jester — ”

“Well I wasn’t killed!” she snaps. God, she can feel their stares, Fjord and Beau and Caduceus and Nott, and she wishes they would just fucking leave, or that one of them would step in and defend her so she’s not alone facing Caleb’s disapproval, his disappointment. “I had my invisibility, and Dimension Door, and the only reason anyone even knew I was there was because there was a stupid alarm spell on one of the doors — ”

“Which I could have warned you would be there because I know the Cerberus Assembly, Jester, I know how they operate, and you should have talked to me!” Caleb shouts these last words, and Jester hopes he feels a stab of guilt at the way she instinctively flinches back. “Talked to any of us, instead of sneaking into the archives, alone, to — what, paint a dick on the wall? Leave behind one of your — ” He waves his hand helplessly at nothing — “Statues? Pamphlets? Was that really worth it?”

“That’s not why I went.” There are hot, bitter tears welling up in Jester’s eyes — she’s always been an angry crier and it’s humiliating, it just makes her feel weaker as she grabs the small cylindrical leather case from her belt and shoves it into Caleb’s hands. “I stole this. You’re welcome.”

She watches his expression turn from outrage to bewilderment as he stares at the case he’s now holding, as he slowly opens it with shaking fingers and pulls out the scroll of True Seeing. Nott scurries over and tries to get a look at it too — Fjord and Beau move closer as well, and great, at least now everyone’s attention is on something other than Jester. Not usually the way she likes things, but right now? This suits her just fine. 

Fjord gives a low whistle as he peers over Caleb’s shoulder. “That looks...complicated. And expensive.”

Caleb snaps the scroll case shut. His expression has hardened again. “I am tempted,” he says to Jester, his voice tightly controlled, “to burn this.” He’s holding up the scroll case in front of her with a white-knuckle grip. “The only reason I am not going to is because then the risk that you took would be worth nothing.”

Jester stares at him. “I stole that for you. To...help everyone, that’s a really powerful spell, Cayleb, don’t you want — ”

“It is not worth your death.” He tries to hand it back to her, and when she doesn’t move to take it he grabs her hand and presses the case into her palm, wraps her fingers around it himself. “Do you hear me? Do not do this again.”

“I’m not a child.” Jester’s breath is coming short and ragged and a few exasperated tears have made their way down onto her cheeks. Caleb has not let go of her hand. “Don’t talk to me like that. Learn the stupid spell and put it in your book and use it. That’s what you care about, right?”

She sees a flash of hurt in Caleb’s eyes. His grip on her hand goes slack. “I care about keeping you safe,” he says, and she can hear the desperate anger trying to make itself heard in his voice but it just comes out as a broken murmur. “All of you.” Caleb doesn’t take his eyes off Jester’s. “That is the only thing that matters. I would rather — ”

The words die in his throat. He swallows hard, and finally lets go of Jester’s hand. 

“Rather what?” she asks, heart pounding, indignant and guilty and flustered all at once. 

Caleb shakes his head and turns away, and as he walks off Jester hears him mutter, “No magic is worth losing the ones you love.”

She hates him. She hates how he makes her feel like this, like she personally has added to the weight he carries at all times on those thin shoulders of his, like she has somehow compounded his sins. She hates that he knows that cost, that loss, the hollow savor of power at the price of dear lives. She hates that he has a goddamn reason to be careful. 

That night she leaves the scroll on his bedside table, along with an apple and a note. I promise to tell you next time. — Jester

It will have to be enough for now. Danger is in her blood, and she will not stop running into dark places to steal treasures for her friends. But Caleb is right: she doesn’t have to run alone.

[iatethepomegranate]

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, Chapter 7

In which Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, is loved a lot by the Nein (including lots of Shadowgast in most chapters), and fights to protect vulnerable people from going through what he did.

Chapter summary: Time is of the essence. Caleb cannot let it end this way. He will not let more lives be ruined by Trent Ikithon.

Notes: CW: Caleb's backstory but REALLY BAD, references to child abuse, vomiting

More detailed warnings and a chapter summary can be found in the end notes on AO3.

If you need to skip, you can probably read up to Caleb telling Beau to use Step of the Wind. There is a reference to past child abuse a few lines above that. If that's an issue, stop reading as soon as Caleb flags down a villager.

Chapter title is from Eight by Sleeping At Last again.

****

Chapter 7: For the innocent, for the vulnerable, I'll show up on the front lines with a purpose

They landed. The stormclouds were heavy overhead. Caleb hadn’t witnessed a storm in Blumenthal for a long time, and it disoriented him.

“Caleb, which way’s north?” asked Beauregard.

He grounded himself, breathed, pointed. Beauregard angled herself in a northeastern direction and started off. He followed close behind; Astrid and Wulf were half a step behind him on either side.

Caduceus had mentioned an orchard. Caleb had his head on a swivel, but he couldn’t see any fruit trees. And the buildings seemed slightly… off.

Oh. Oh no.

Caleb felt sick.

“Wait,” said Astrid. “We’re in the wrong place.”

Caleb held himself very still, silently counting eins, zwei, drei, fier, fünf… “Okay.” He breathed deeply. “Around me, please.”

Of all the times for a teleport to send them off-target. He wanted to scream, but instead, he focused hard on every little detail Caduceus had provided. And he cast again.

Again, they landed. The orchard trees were in sight. Caleb pointed them in the right direction again. The road was muddy, squelching as they ran. There were a handful of people still in the street, making last-minute preparations for the storm, and they definitely looked askance at a group of (somewhat) strangers tearing down the street.

“Astrid, what’s the name of the family?” asked Caleb.

“Baumann.”

Caleb caught the nearest villager who didn’t look too freaked out, switching to Zemnian. “Excuse me. My name is Caleb Widogast. I am a teacher at Soltryce Academy. We are looking for the Baumann family.”

The man he had stopped looked him up and down for far longer than Caleb could stand under the circumstances. “What’s your business?”

“We need to discuss Nico’s tuition this year,” said Astrid. “He was set to graduate, but the seniors may need additional support after the departure of Master Ikithon.” She held out her hand. “Archmage Astrid Beck. I am Ikithon’s replacement.”

“All right. What’s the rush?”

Caleb sighed, because he had to let something out. “I had not wanted to speak of this in public, but if we must… Master Ikithon was arrested a few months ago for abusing his students. Nico and Felix have been missing since just before the arrest. We have located Felix, but we have concerns about Nico. This is time-sensitive.”

“This Master Ikithon did something to the boys?” The man’s face didn’t give much away, but he pointed down the street. “Head to the end of the road, turn right, and keep going until you see the house with the cabbage patch.”

“Thank you.”

They ran. That had taken far too much time. Caleb should have been pulled the abusive teacher card from the beginning. Fuck.

“Beauregard, Step of the Wind? We three can fly.”

“Got it.”

Caleb, Wulf and Astrid cast Fly on themselves, and Beau began to fucking book it. She was technically faster than them, even with flight, but she only pulled a little ahead. If they were too late, there wasn’t much she could do alone.

There was an odd scent in the air. Caleb wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, until Beau yelled over her shoulder, “I smell smoke!”

They turned the corner and pushed onwards, and soon it became clear looking for cabbages was the least of their problems. There was a house on fire.

Time stretched, before Caleb breathed and it snapped like a bowstring. They were coming up fast, and there was barely any more time to think.

“Wulf, find the boy,” Caleb said. “We’ll get inside.”

“I see him.” Wulf broke off towards a barn, where there was a young man half-hidden, staring at the flames. There was no time to determine his condition; that had to be up to Wulf.

They reached the house. There was a thick plank of wood jammed against the door handle. Caleb cast Telekinesis, threw it out of the way.

Beau charged ahead.

“Wait!”

Beau stopped. Caleb used the spell to throw the door open, and there was an explosion of flame outward, which would have hurt. Belatedly, rushing to open the door may have been a mistake, but there was no time to think about it. They raced inside and crouched low, coughing from the smoke. They could barely see, aside from flickers of orange light all around them. The heat was unbearable.

“I’ll start on the fire,” said Astrid, throwing out a Ray of Frost at the staircase. Aside from the roaring of the flames, there were not the noises Caleb could remember. It was almost… too quiet.

Beau got out her fan. “Split up?”

“I’ll go upstairs.” It would be safer for him to go. He could control the flames better than she could with her limited-use fan, or her Belabour. Best to keep her close to Astrid. “Be careful of backdrafts.”

She punched his shoulder and crawled deeper into the house, while Caleb ducked towards the staircase he could barely see through the thick smoke. Nico must have expended most of his spells to have burned the house this quickly.

Caleb had to douse and climb over a fallen beam to get up the stairs, pulling his shirt over his mouth and nose for a bit of protection. He could not shake his dread.

The smoke was thicker upstairs. Caleb’s eyes watered. He tamped down what flames he could see with his Control Flames cantrip. His hand found a doorframe. Door open, no backdraft risk. He peeked inside, squinting against the roiling smoke. But he couldn’t see far enough for just a glance. He cast Control Flames again, pushing down as much flame as he could.

He crawled inside the room, his hands quickly finding the frame of a single bed. Probably Nico’s. He felt around for a moment longer to be sure, but it was unlikely anyone was here. He moved on, coughing hard enough to tear his throat. His eyes streamed from the smoke. He cast again. But it would take time for the smoke to clear, even as the flames slowly dwindled around him.

Caleb crawled down the hallway, finding another doorframe. Felt for the door. Closed. Rested the back of his hand against it. Hot. Opening it was too risky without improving the conditions up here. Even if he was safely away from the backdraft by using telekinesis, if someone was on the other side of the door, they could get hurt.

Caleb aimed a Disintegrate spell for the ceiling above him and hoped it would punch a hole all the way through. Memories of what to do in a fire were slowly filtering through his scattered mind. Vertical ventilation mattered in a building fire.

He let the spell loose, and it punched a hole the size of Caleb’s head all the way into the sky. A horrible thought occurred to him, even as smoke began to escape and oxygen equalise, slow as it was.

Caleb knew a lot about fire. In a situation where a backdraft was possible, it was highly unlikely to find survivors. Caleb tamped down the flames around him again, which had grown with the presence of more oxygen.

Then he stepped back and Disintegrated the door, taking a huge chunk of it away. He kicked the jagged remains open and crawled into the room. Control Flames once more.

He reached out, and found a shape on the floor. Edged closer. A hand. Blackened. It twitched, and then fell still. Caleb gently felt the wrist for a pulse. Couldn’t find one.

He edged around the charred body, and found a second one. There were no discernible features left. Just a vague human shape, burned to a crisp.

Caleb flung out his Control Flames cantrip again, dousing the flames in the room. Then, he pulled out his copper wire. “Beauregard, call off the search. They are dead. Get outside. Astrid and I will finish putting it out.”

Beauregard’s reply was instant, raspy. “Okay. I’ll check on Eadwulf. Don’t take too long.”

Caleb was thankful she didn’t say anything else. He kept working his way through the upper floor, snuffing the flames until all that remained was smoke slowly curling towards the hole in the roof. His throat was raw from coughing. Fire gone, he opened all the windows he could find to help ventilate the building and make it safer for Astrid downstairs.

He found her in the kitchen, icing the flames over. “I heard.” Her voice was equally shredded.

Caleb wordlessly helped her put the rest of the flames out. They stepped out of the house. Beauregard had reached Wulf by now, who was kneeling in the grass, cradling Nicolaus.

They approached. Nico’s eyes were glazed over, unfocused, and he lay limp in Wulf’s arms. Astrid twitched.

“He got a little aggressive, but I handled it,” said Wulf. “Now he’s…” He looked up at Caleb. “Like you were.”

A muscle was working in Beauregard’s jaw, but whatever was on her mind, she said something else. “Take me back to the office and bring Caduceus. I’ll watch Felix.”

“Astrid,” Caleb said flatly, “do you have any teleports left?”

“Ja.” She approached Beauregard, moving stiffly. “I’ll be back.” She and Beauregard vanished.

Wulf gazed up at Caleb, his face serious but giving little away as it often did. “Lionett told me what you said.”

Caleb took a deep breath, which itched terribly, forcing him to cough again. “We have one thing left to try. It’s… a long shot.” He knelt in front of Nico, who did not react to his presence. “Do you…” He coughed again. “In your experience with me, do you know if he might…”

“You would sometimes react to things,” said Wulf. “Not often. I don’t know if you could make sense of anything we said. Astrid said you don’t remember anything?”

“I do not.” Caleb sighed; if there was even the slightest chance Nico could hear them, he had to say something. He switched to Zemnian, in case that would be easier for him to process on the off-chance he heard anything. “Nico, my name is Caleb, or Bren. Either is fine. I know you are not well at the moment, but we are going to help you. I promise we will help you.”

There was no reaction. Caleb hadn’t really expected one. Wulf certainly hadn’t. They caught each other’s eyes again over Nico’s head. Wulf’s expression cracked, just a tiny bit. Caleb breathed deep, and Wulf did the same.

Caleb coughed again. Breathing really hurt.

Astrid appeared with Caduceus a few feet away.

Caleb got up, every part of him aching. His fingers were blistered. “Caduceus, let us walk and talk.”

“You do not have to go back in there,” Astrid said.

“I know. I am choosing to go.” Caleb pulled his Transmuter’s Stone from his pocket. “I have a trick I want to try.”

Her eyes fell to the ground. “All right.”

Caleb turned back to the house. Blackened. Smoking. But the flames were gone. He led Caduceus across the ash-spotted grass.

“Beau said it was bad,” said Caduceus.

“It is bad.” Caleb cleared his throat, painfully. “Will you be all right here?”

Caduceus nodded. “We both know I’m not the one to worry about.” He cast a low-level Cure Wounds on Caleb as they walked, and his throat and fingers felt a bit better.

Caleb went through the front door first. A fair amount of smoke had cleared by now, but the acrid scent of burnt wood remained. They headed up the stairs; Caleb used Telekinesis to move the fallen beams.

Light streamed into the upstairs from the opened windows and the hole in the roof. Caduceus looked up at the hole.

“Huh. You did that?”

“Vertical ventilation reduces backdraft risk.” Caleb led Caduceus to the second bedroom. Now that enough smoke had cleared out, he could see the reality of the room, the blackened double bed, compromised dresser, scorched mirror, the two charred human bodies on the floor, closer to the door than he had realised. And a very familiar stench of burned flesh.

Caleb swallowed against nausea, and knelt beside the smaller of the two bodies. “I can try to Raise Dead with my stone. Like Molly. I can only do it once.”

Caduceus knelt beside the larger body, taking in the damage. “Caleb.” He was about to tell Caleb how bad the chances were that they could fix this, and he really really could not handle hearing that from him. Him specifically. Caleb could not afford to break. Not yet.

“I know.” Caleb placed his stone on the woman’s chest. He had researched the Raise Dead spell since figuring out he could use his stone in this way. He knew the spell could close all mortal wounds, but would not replace body parts or organs integral to survival. If the Baumanns had died from smoke inhalation, this would have a higher chance of success. In this state…

Unlikely. But he needed to try. Caleb poured magic into the stone. Beside him, Caduceus placed a large diamond on the other body’s chest and prayed softly to the Wildmother.

Caleb’s stone shattered, and he could feel for just a moment a catch of something. Like he had snagged the corner of the woman’s soul.

“Frau Baumann,” he muttered. “I don’t know if we knew each other when we were children. My name was Bren Ermendrud, and I am here to help your son. He needs you. And this does not have to be your end. The world will be much poorer without you in it.”

The stone glowed, and he felt the soul drifting, snagged by the spell. For a moment, the soul seemed to dip, like it wanted to return. And then, as the stone shattered, it drifted away. He tried to grasp for it, but it slipped through his magic. And then it was gone.

The body was still just a body. There was not enough left of her for him to even recognise. The air was empty. Or maybe there wasn’t any air.

Caduceus sat back, shaking blackened dust of the destroyed diamond from his fingers, and raised his eyes to the window opposite them. “Wildmother, a terrible tragedy has happened here today. This is not the natural way of things. I know this is a huge ask, but… we would like to have these people back.” He waited. A full sixty seconds passed. Nothing changed. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Caleb.”

It was done. They had tried everything they could. And everything had failed.

The nausea crashed over Caleb once again. He tried to breathe, and smelled burnt flesh. He shoved a hand over his nose and mouth, swallowing hard.

Caduceus pulled him to his feet. “Let’s step outside.” He led Caleb out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door.

Caleb gulped the fresh air down. “Go to the others. I… need a… moment.”

Caduceus squeezed his shoulder and approached the barn, where a crowd was beginning to gather. Caleb walked, tightly-controlled, around the side of the house, just out of sight, and threw up on the grass. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Banged the side of his fist against the charred wood until he could think again.

Then he straightened, rolled back his shoulders, and approached the slowly-building clump of people.

Caduceus was doing most of the talking, with some input from a tense Astrid. Wulf had stood up, carrying Nico, who was still unresponsive. They were all out of teleportation spells, but Caleb had brought enough chalk and ink to draw a circle to the archives.

“All right,” Caduceus was saying. “We are going to take Nicolaus to Rexxentrum for care. I think we’re all a bit out of it after all of this.”

“Our gravekeeper will take care of the Baumanns,” said an older man, who Caleb recognised as the mayor. He’d avoided speaking to him last time he visited, so he had managed to not learn his name. “You take care of Nico, and send us updates as you can.”

“That can be arranged,” Astrid said, businesslike. “Thank you.”

“I’ll start drawing a circle to Rexxentrum,” Caleb said quietly. “May I use the barn? The chalk will vanish once we are gone.”

The mayor shrugged. “I suppose.”

Caleb stepped into the barn and cleared a ten-foot circle of hay so he could draw directly on the clay. “High Curator. It’s Caleb. May I bring Astrid and Eadwulf through the Rexxentrum circle? We will have Caduceus and a sick young man with us.”

“Hello, Professor. You may do that. If you are able to update me on your search on your way through, please do.”

Caleb would probably vomit again if he had to talk about it, but Caduceus could get the point across, probably. He knelt on the floor and began to draw the circle, honing down his focus so all he thought about was the next stroke of chalk and ink, and the specific detailing for the Rexxentrum Archives.

The others entered the barn seven minutes and thirty-two seconds into the drawing. “Caduceus, can you Send to Beauregard?”

“Can do,” Caduceus replied. “Hey. We’re coming through the Archives soon.” A pause. “She says she’s gotten Felix settled in a dormitory and is headed home to prepare for our arrival.”

“We should keep Nicolaus away from the Assembly, ja,” Astrid said quietly. “Until we think of something.”

“I have a spell for this, I think. Better to get away from here first.”

“Yudala wants an update on our way,” Caleb said.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Caduceus.

Caleb finished the last few strokes of the circle in silence. It came alight, and they stepped through.

He had to fight back the nausea again once they landed. Caduceus steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Yudala entered the circle chamber, taking in the ash-covered group and the catatonic boy in Wulf’s arms.

“The monks have informed me the other boy is safe,” they said. “Is this as bad as it looks?”

“It is,” Caduceus replied.

“Very well.” Yudala looked at Caleb specifically; they were smart enough and had enough access to Caleb’s past specifically to put it all together. “We’ll talk later. You all look exhausted.” They turned to Astrid. “I will send a formal invitation in due time.”

“We’ll see how much it panics the Martinet first,” Astrid said without inflection.

“I have my ways around him if need be.” Yudala led them through the archive personally, letting them out into the overcast afternoon. The storm was on its way here. “Get some rest. You have earned it.”

[maydaymadier]

i’m suddenly feeling very emotional about the mighty nein so i’m gonna vomit up some headcanons

Caleb is always warm to the touch, he personally doesn’t feel overheated or anything, he’s just The Warm Friend, doomed to a lifetime of his friends’ cold hands

Caleb is trans, i am right and i do not take criticism

Fjord is Trans, i am unbelievably right and refuse criticism on this point

Subnote: (and this is 1100% my own projection) Uk’otoa is a PCOS metaphor, Fjord, much like myself, has Evil Orbs

All of Fjord’s healing has ocean-flavoring, there’s still that warmth frequently described with healing spells but it’s like, ocean sunset warmth or warm sand, that kind of thing.

Molly didn’t actually have an Irish accent, that was for a different con he was working on

Taliesin “The one night I got his accent right was the night he died” Jaffe  

When you die and are brought back via a spell like revivify there are a few temporary side effects depending on the specific circumstances (how well the caster rolled, how many hp past 0 you were, the specific spell, etc).  This includes but is not limited to

dulled senses of taste and smell

becoming clammy/chill to the touch

And yes, Molly’s senses of taste and smell were super dulled when he first woke up, he was probably just starting to get them back by the time he met the nein

This isn’t a headcanon, this is just math I did for Reasons: a 6 mo old halfling is on average 13.83 in long/tall

Caduceus has a weighted blanket

i mean, a blanket is part of the cleric starting equipment

you wouldn’t think it’s that heavy but then you go to pick it up

he had it long before he was alone at the grove but it really helped him calm down/relax/sleep once he was alone

the guy misses cuddle puddles and that’s incredibly valid of him

art of the blanket here -> x

SPEAKING OF WEIGHTED BLANKETS

Preferred stim toys

Fjord: fidget cubes

Beau: twisty/tangle ones (idk the proper name)

Caleb’s second notebook is a journal, purposefully not written in Common (zemnian and celestial though he may through in a common word here and there where it works best) to keep the contents private

Beau has a casual understanding of Zemnian, she’s fluent in it the way an American kid who grew up watching Dora the Explorer and took Spanish in high school understands Spanish.  Bc medieval rich people had nothing better to do than learn languages

Beau wouldn’t grow her hair all the way back out from the undercut bc she can handle/likes how long her hair is on top but can’t stand the feel of her hair curling against the sides of her head, also shaved sides go scritch

Jester actually goes through sketchbooks super fast, there is a library of filled sketchbooks in her haversack

Jester painted a flower in her sketchbook for each day without Yasha when she was taken

Yasha is colorblind

Yasha might have some sort of curse or notable past injury she’s hiding, her left hand is completely gloved and covered in both of her official outfits and i’ve heard some interesting speculation about it

!!!!!!!! Yasha tried to Healing Hands someone who was already dead dead and it fucked up her hand

Trent Ikithon has jaundice and will die of liver failure in the next six months

The magical darkness over Rosohna unfortunately acts like a magical black tarp to some extent so during the summer it absorbs a lot of heat and makes the city below unbearably hot.

Essek never learned Find Familiar because coming from a powerful den he was expected to wind up in a position of high power/authority and everyone around him thought other spells were a more important use of his time and training.  By the time he got a chance to learn on his own, level 1 spells like Find Familiar were far beyond his concern.

[fivegoldpieces]

"Do we have a deal?"

The hag leans forward and extends her hand, fingers hooked unnaturally as she grins. Saliva pools at the corner of her mouth, constantly dripping on the table.

"Deal."

Soulless eyes pin the monk, but Beau doesn't flinch, not when she feels the leathery texture of too-old skin, not when fingernails dig into her bruised knuckles, not when shadows move towards her as she shakes the hand offered.

The hag reclines in her chair, head thrown back in satisfaction, a bark of almost-laughter pulling itself from her chest. She waves, and the monk hears the thud of the door open behind her, "Better start saying your goodbyes soon."

"How long do I have?"

The grin on the hag's face grows impossibly wide. "As long as I give you."

Beau says nothing, does nothing but turn around and walk out of the hut, jaw clenched and fists shaking.

---

She manages to ignore the burn at the corner of her eyes, up until she closes the door to the hut. She feels rather than sees the Nein - the prickle of attention on the back of her neck, the bated breaths as she turns to to them, the itch in her throat begging to be let out as she sees the fear on their faces.

She tries not to cry when she tells them, she does, really.

But Fjord is making the same face he does when he's about to collapse during their workouts, and Caleb is staring off into space - his hand twitching as if he's looking for her shoulder to hold onto, and Yasha has the same expression she did when she woke the day after they left Lorenzo dead, and Caduceus looks more scared than he had ever been on the Ball Eater, and Nott is looking at her with such loss and gratitude and pain, and -

Jester has drawn back, her tail rigid behind her, the tinkling of jewelry familiar to the monk's ear absent, her hands slowly curling into fists, her body shuddering with each breath as if she was being punched in the gut, her eyes full of hurt and confusion and anger, fangs almost poking out in a snarl, the ground below her starting to harden and freeze.

A sight to behold. Something she had hoped to see more than once.

Beau falters, lets whatever words on her lips tumble out into silence. She steps towards Jester, hand reaching out for hers -

Her hand grabs nothing but air.

---

Beau blinks and she finds herself standing in a room, boots tracking mud onto hardwood floor, hand falling limp by her side.

Her stomach churns and the room is spinning, so she finds somewhere to sit, let's her eyes jump around the room. In the corner, a large bed meant for a dog. Shelves all around her full of trinkets and books. A familiar statue tucked in between a book and a potted plant. Almost unnoticeable, if Beau hadn't been privy to how it was hidden.

She feels the tingle of magic climb up her spine and curl around her ear - Sending.

She sucks in a breath as she hears Jester, asking if she's alright, asking where she is, asking her what she did, sent one after the other.

"-don’t you answer-"

She tries to make a sound, a noise, something, but pain sinks its claws into her neck, chokes her until she can barely breathe, the voice in her head the only thing keeping the shadows of unconsciousness at bay.

"-love you so much, Beau, why-"

The tears come slowly, warm like the rain in Kamordah.

---

Reani finds her in the living room, hours later. Her delighted smile fades into worry at the sight of Beau: alone, freshly-bruised knuckles, scratches from brambles and thorns, clinging scent of swamp, eyes puffy. She sits down next to her - gentle, as if she's afraid Beau would run away.

Beau almost laughs. There's nowhere for her to go now.

---

Beau tells her the gist of what happened and Reani insists on letting her crash on the couch as long as she needs, says it’s the least she could do for a friend. Beau doesn’t know how to thank her, so she resolves to make herself less of a burden than she already is.

She may not be a monk anymore, not in name at least, but she'd always been quick on her feet and smart with her fists. The guard reckon her too skilled for perimeter watch, so they send her out with the patrol groups to fight dire wolves, wyverns - any creatures that get too close to the mountain.

Some days she visits the forge with Reani, learns how to communicate with her hands from Deilin, even picks up some smithing skills from Umi. Other days she finds herself deep in the stacks of the Vellum Steeple, reading anything and everything she could get her hands on. A couple of times she helps the archers with target practice - Fen always manages to land in a few good shots.

Days blend together. Umi doesn’t glare as strongly when she calls him Umi. Fen even shoots her a not-frown every once in a while. She falls into routine.

---

Early mornings she works out behind the house and tries not to think about tusks and the scent of seawater. She helps take care of the plants and tries not to think of carefully pressed flowers or the taste of freshly-brewed tea. In the Archive, she finds herself listening for the rustle of pages and the scribble of ink on paper to accompany her own. The thwack of arrows and bowstrings remind her of the thud of crossbow bolts and the swish of alcohol.

She refuses to set foot inside the bakery.

---

Everyday, magic crawls its way into her ear and whispers of what she gave up. Sometimes it’s Caleb, bringing updates about the war. Other times it’s Caduceus with cryptic messages that make her head hurt. Most of the time it’s Jester, talking about her day, who they saw, what they did.

Some days all she hears are snippets, their voices broken up like waves against rocks. Other days it’s as if they’re right next to her and she has to fight the urge to talk back, the pressure in her lungs growing unbearable if she even entertains the thought.

On those days, she finds herself wandering around the city. Every society has a criminal underbelly, and Uthodurn is no exception. Beau pieces together locations and meeting places from conversations she and Reani have over dinner.

She joins a fighting ring, let’s the crunch of bone and the warmth of blood drown the voices out. Afterwards, she steals mail. She never gets caught.

From criminal, to monk, to Expositor and hero of a nation, back to where she was before. She expected as much.

---

It’s almost impossible to see stars from the back Reani’s house, but if Beau presses on her eyelids hard enough, explosions of color paints the barren ceiling of rock above her. In a way, it reminds her of Hupperdook - this time, she doesn't have flower necklaces, but goodbyes she has plenty. 

She wonders how Kiri is, wonders if her and Luc and TJ would’ve gotten along.

Reani joins her sometimes. Sometimes they just stare at the ceiling, sometimes they talk. When they do, it's mostly Beau listening and Reani talking.

"Your friends are strong," she says one night, the light of her halo making interesting patterns in Beau’s vision, "The war is over now. I'm sure they'll find a way to break the curse."

If they still wanted to.

Beau bites her tongue until she tastes metal and stares up until the explosions blur together.

---

“Beau, I know you can hear me. I don’t know why you won’t answer, but I hope you’re okay, wherever you are. We’re trying to-”

“- find a way --- the hag --- traveling to ---”

“- be fine --- Just hold on, okay? --- you so much. I wish --- showed you --- I’m sorry.”

---

"You loved her didn't you?" Reani asks one night as they limp towards her house - dire wolves had caused trouble in the woods north of Uthodurn.

Beau pauses by the door, then bends down to unlace her boots. Distantly, she thinks of her first battle against a remorhaz - fists burning with each punch, taking note of the half-orc, keeping track of the tiefling in the creature’s grasp, ears tuned to the murmur of arcane magic, hardened bone sinking into her side, taste of metal filling her mouth, then warmth as her muscles stitched itself together, strong arms holding her, purple eyes full of anger directed at the slithering creature.

She pulls herself out of her memories, the weight of the Aasimar’s stare still trained on her making her shoulders tense. She places her boots by the door.

“Yeah,” Beau croaks out, coughs to clear her throat, turns and meets her gaze “I- Yeah.”

Reani simply nods, something akin to understanding in her eyes. She shuffles closer to Beau, lays a hand on her shoulder and pulls her into a hug.

---

The Sendings stop coming.

One shot becomes two becomes five becomes ten becomes twenty becomes more and yet the dullness doesn’t come, doesn’t drown the burning in her lungs nor the searing ache in her chest nor the tiny bit of relief that she doesn’t have to listen to her friends move on without her. 

A dwarf is eyeing her, brown eyes and light brown skin, smirk playing on her lips. Pretty. Beau smirks back.

She places a platinum piece on the bar, feels the confused stare from the dwarf as she leaves.

---

One hit against the jaw, two steps to the right, five jabs in a row, ten seconds to take a breath, twenty minutes deep into the forest.

She cleans her boots outside, leans them against the house to keep the floors clean. Reani is nowhere to be seen, but there's a healer’s kit on the table waiting next to a plate of food. 

She swallows down the scream in her chest and curls up on the couch until morning comes.

---

Reani tells her to wait at The Broken Stool, said she had something exciting to show her. Why she told her at the crack of dawn, Beau didn’t know.

She moves to drink her mug of ale when a hand yanks on her shoulder, bringing the tankard down to her lap. She swears, snaps her head up -

- but then -

The clink of jewelry. Strong arms around her shoulders. Rough pointed bone against her cheek. Cold weight on her wrist, hot tears on her collarbone, the scent of pastries and blood and sweat and smoke -

"Jes’?" Beau chokes out, muscles locked and heart pounding because this can't be real, "Is this- Is it really you?"

The hold on her tightens and Beau feels a nod, a horn jutting into her chin. The pressure in her lungs leaves with one breath and she melts against the tiefling, wraps one arm around her waist, runs her fingers against the base of Jester’s horns. One moment stretches into two, and the stares from the other patrons make her skin itch but she doesn't care.

Jester pulls herself from the embrace, just enough to be able to face her. Soft hands cup her cheeks, thumbs tracing the dark circles underneath her eyes. Purple stares so intensely, flit everywhere its gaze could reach - lips to chin to temple as if the tiefling was committing each shape and feature to memory, like she's scared Beau would disappear if she looks away.

Her lungs ache, breathless in the best and worst way, and she can’t stop herself -

"I'm sorry." 

The gentle strokes against her skin stop. She catches a flash of something in Jester's eyes, too quick for her to figure out but potent enough to make her shoulders tense. She averts her gaze, tries to chase away the sudden feeling of cold creeping into her stomach.

Silence seeps in, floods the space between them until she feels like a ship chasing the horizon. Beau finds herself eyeing the entrance, the windows, muscles locked and ready to flee but she doesn't want to leave.

A quiet sigh barely reaches her ears. She feels Jester's palms slowly drop from her face to her hands, their fingers intertwining.

"I was mad at you, you know?" says Jester softly, rueful smile tugging on her lips, "So so mad."

Beau tears her gaze away from the window calling to her and turns to Jester, slew of words ready to run out of her chest - apologies, explanations, neither. She meets her gaze, expecting to see anger, hurt, disappointment, all three even.

Yet all she sees is tiredness, a mirror to her own, and suddenly all the words on the tip of her tongue vanish.

Jester watches her own fingers trace circles on the back of Beau’s hand. “I think I scared the others a bit, how angry I was” she laughs, short and subdued, “I wish you were there to see it, you would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m still mad. And we still need to talk. All of us.” she looks up at Beau, gives her hand a squeeze, smile growing a little bit brighter, “But right now I’m just really glad you’re not like, dead or something. Like, the hag was saying all of these crazy things when we were killing her, like she was all like ‘she’s already dead!’ and we were all like ‘fuck you!’ and then she was like ‘her soul is bonded to me for eternity!’ and - ”

“Wait,” Beau interrupts, “You guys killed Isharnai?”

Jester rolls her eyes. “Well duh. How do you think we got to you?” her brows furrow, “We Sent to you like, right after it happened, did you not get it?”

“No. I got the other ones, and then they just kinda stopped coming, like a few weeks ago,” Beau shrugs, rubs the back of her tingling neck, “Honestly, kinda thought you guys were dead. Or finally got tired of me.”

Jester jerks back, sputtering, “Tired of you? Beau, we would never, we love you so much!”

Beau makes a noncommittal hum, shrugs again.

“We do,” she insists. “I love you so much,” Jester finishes quietly, blinks once, twice.

Beau feels dizzy, the somersaults in her stomach doing nothing to help. “I love you, too, you know that.”

“No!” Beau’s face falls, and Jester panics, lets go of Beau’s hand and waves her arms around, “Wait, no, I mean, yes! I know, you love me, but I mean -”

“BEAU!”

They jerk away from each other, the shout clearly heard over the din of the tavern. Her heart stutters - she knows that voice.

Nott bursts through the entryway first, almost unrecognizable to Beau in her halfling form, if not for the crossbow on her back and the jade bracelet on her wrist. Yasha runs in afterward, Frumpkin resting on her head, almost trips on Nott in her haste to get inside. Caduceus hurries inside, nearly hits his head on the door frame. Caleb and Fjord stumble in right on his heels, both of them out of breath.

Caduceus sees her first and begins to squeeze his way towards her, murmuring apologies to the bar patrons he jostles. Fjord follows suit, dragging Caleb by his coat sleeve. Yasha and Nott keep close behind them, Frumpkin slinking between a half-elf's legs. 

Jester pulls away from her, keeps a hand on her back and her tail wrapped around Beau’s wrist. The somersaults in her stomach are back again, except this time they’re jumping on her lungs and scratching under her skin and beating on her throat and -

She closes her eyes, imagines the resounding splash of breaking waves, gritty sand in her mouth, the blast of wind against her skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. She counts one, two and breathes a little more loosely.

Her eyes blink open.

Standing in front of her, panting, sweating, questionable stains on their armor, growing grins of disbelief - the Mighty Nein.

---

A second passes, then two, then more - no one saying anything. The longer the silence stretches, the more her stomach drops, the more the door calls to her.

"Um.” Better that it’s her who breaks the quiet, she figures. “Long time no see?" Her voice cracks, and her eye twitches, "Fuck, shit, I mean-"

Then. The shape of buttons against her calf. Calloused hand on her shoulder. Scent of incense and ink and saltwater and tea. Furry chin digging onto the top of her head. Strong arms around her. Mix of green, pink, white, blue, ginger, blurring together.

The tears are sudden, but she welcomes them all the same.

---

Reani arrives later, knowing grin on her face as she slides next to Beau at the table. The rest of the Nein waves, busy playing a Xhorhasian dice game Yasha was trying to teach them.

“Exciting enough?”

Beau snorts, nudges her on the arm with her shoulder. “You’re such an ass for not telling me,” she says, no actual malice in her voice.

Reani just laughs, shoves her back, Beau doesn’t even budge.

“Really though,” Beau says, tapping the table, “Thank you. For this. For everything. I owe you.” She coughs, rubs at the corner of her eyes.

Reani pretends she didn’t notice Beau’s voice crack, her grin settling into a smile. "We're friends. You don't owe me anything," she pulls Beau into a quick side-hug, lets go. "Just visit more often and take care of yourself."

They watch Fjord lose against Nott, cackling as he gets even greener, being forced to drink a mix of Caleb’s ale, Nott’s whiskey, and Jester’s milk. Nott slams her flask onto the table, flings the dice towards Beau. She catches them easily, rolls them around in her palm.

“I challenge Beau to this - Bunions and Dice? Whatever this game is called - and whoever loses has to pay for the drinks of everyone in this tavern,” the halfling gestures wildly, nearly toppling Yasha’s ale. Nott holds out her hand, eyes squinting, “Do we have a deal?”

Beau stares at the hand, smirks, and squeezes the hand offered to her.

"Deal."

[have-some-gotdamn-faith]

Oh friend... do I have a request for you. Fem!reader x Pining!Micah. He finds her having a complete breakdown (crying, like the kinda crying you'd only do in the shower cause no one's going to interrupt you and the water is so loud... [guess who's still in her depressive state =D]) but anyway angst, fluff, nsft, sft whatever you'd like. Please and thank you. If you don't wanna, as always it's totally okay and I understand.

I’m sorry to hear you’re still in the dumps, but I’m more than happy to try and help! Order up :D

Additionally, I’m making this my celebratory post for 242 of y’all! I thought it only fitting, considering you were one my first friends in this cowboy hell fandom

Word Count: 1,893 (but it seems WAY longer)

An Unwitting Shoulder (fem!Reader)

Clemen’s Point was a good place to be reflective; water lapped at the shore lazily and, on days where one could manage to get away from camp, there was almost a lulling quality to it.

A cigarette landed on the water with a soft ‘plonk’, and Micah watched it bob for a while with a frown. He hated the silence; it made one think, about things what needn’t be thought about. Thoughts, that led to something even more dangerous:

Hope.

Glancing up, the early morning sky had begun to sink from a dusty blue to hazy and grey—the clouds rolling in were heavy with the promise of a downpour, and soon. The soles of his boots crunched against the harder sediment in the wet earth and, unbidden, you came into his thoughts again.

It was fortunate you were away on duties; he was thankful for the wide brim of his hat, ducking his head down to shield himself from the first trickles of raindrops and any wandering eyes that might fall on an uncharacteristically wistful half-smile. Casting a surreptitious glance into your tent, he saw the small gathering of flower’s he’d left—no name, nothing to identify the origin—resting on your pillow, and Micah’s chest tightened happily.

You’d kept them.

The rain began to come down proper, now, blanketing the camp in a gentle, whispering lullaby. Come to think on it, the errands you’d been sent on shouldn’t have taken quite so long as they were. Before he had a chance to continue that line of thought, hooves thundered through the mud as your companions—Arthur and Charles—returned. Your absence was glaring, and defensive concern spurred him towards the hitching posts.

“You’re back late,” he spat, offering his hand to take as though he were actually being helpful in the burden of spoils. On that regard, he was unanswered—instead, Micah was met with a scoff from both men.

“You keepin’ track like some hen?” Arthur quipped. “We’re back, s’what matters.”

The blond man retracted his offered ‘assistance’, the corners of his lips turning down.

“You’re comin’ back a little light, ain’t’cha?” Micah tossed back, looking over them both with smug disapproval. “I seem to remember three of you leavin’.”

At this both Arthur and Charles looked between each other, sharing a look he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Wasn’t our decision,” Charles hummed, shrugging.

“What’chu mean by that?”

Charles shouldered a hefty haversack, ignoring him in favour of wiping hard at the soaking stains melting down his shirt and making off towards the camp’s communal funds. Arthur followed and, huffing at being so quickly dismissed, Micah brought up the rear.

“I don’t like repeatin’ myself, dar—”

“Then don’t—do us all a favour and shut your mouth.” Charles hadn’t stopped moving, but he shot back a look that threatened any further snide commentary to be met with physical rebuttal.

Arthur barked a laugh, catching the brief moment of baffled surprise on Micah’s face before it snapped to his customary scowl.

“What’chu so adamant for, anyhow?” It was Arthur’s turn to be inquisitive. “You think we’d just leave her without a reason, or makin’ sure she’s okay?”

“I think Dutch’ll wanna know why yer leavin’ our womenfolk all around the countryside—” Micah gestured vaguely, swinging his arm wide behind him. “—when there’s work to be done!”

“I ain’t leave nobody,” he reiterated. “And if you’re so worried, be useful for once an’ do it’cherself.”

It was all Arthur offered, throwing a hand towards him that bordered on shooing, as he turned back to catch up with Charles. Micah’s fingers twitched, itching so badly to go to his pistol. Why he was so fired up over you was hardly a question, but he had to remind himself that he weren’t yet your beau—no one knew how much of a weak spot you’d become to him, and no one would for as long as he had say.

To keep suspicions low he had to let the issue drop, and instead circled wide towards their charismatic leader’s tent. Knowing Dutch’s pet, he’d report dutifully and prompt—sure enough you’d been left in the Saint’s Hotel, and Arthur was already slated to ride back out to check on you first thing tomorrow morning.

How fortunate, then, that someone was already making his way to saddle up Baylock.

Before heading out, Micah grabbed a fresh shirt—his union suit was mildly damp, but not unbearable—and ignored any passing inquiries to his destination. Valentine was a quick ride, made infinitely more tolerable by the rainstorm’s passing, and within a few hours the train station bobbed into view. The high noon sun had warmed the dew to an almost strangling degree and, before hitching his horse to the post, Micah tugged a couple buttons free before stepping inside the wooden building.

Asking for a ‘miss Kilgore’, he was directed up to the last room on the right. He’d barely cleared the landing when your choked sobs made it to his ears, and Micah approached his destination gingerly to keep from giving himself away. 

The noises you made were strangled, and skipped any time you fought to take in a breath. Your sorrow was wet, deep-bellied and, unthinking, he pressed the flat of his hand against the door. Micah was absolutely, entirely certain he’d never heard anything so harshly guttural from you—he lost track of how long he spent, listening.

A rapid succession of sniffles and coughing brought him back to reality and why he was there at all, and suddenly his throat was gripped by an invisible hand.

Comfort wasn’t his strong suit, unless it erred on the physical side, and he was very much aware that he had no actual plan, here. He pursed and unpursed his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before placing his hat on his chest and running uncertain fingers through to smooth his hair.

Knuckles rapped against the door, and the hiccuped attempts at muffling the crying inside only twisted his throat harder.

“A-Arthur?”

“No, but it ain’t any less a friendlier a face.”

The doorknob clicked, and you cracked the door open ever so. Bloodshot eyes met his blue ones, and he couldn’t help but reach up towards you. You watched him, studied him with an occasional hitched breath, and under your gaze he faltered—instead, the pads of his fingers fell on the door gingerly, and a hard exhale left his nostrils.

“I, ah, just wanted to check on you,” he murmured slowly, forcing the words out. “You…didn’t come back with the boys, and, ah…”

His mouth was dry, and Micah snapped his lips shut in the hope he could restore some moisture so he wouldn’t look like a damn fool—

Your hand came up to cover his, thumb running gently back and forth across his knuckles, and he found himself mesmerized. Saying nothing, you gestured to invite him in before stepping further back; he followed your lead, walking inside before closing the door behind him with nary a sound.

You had nothing but a chemise and your skirt on—modesty was the furthest thing from your mind, right now, and Micah wasn’t one to object. He hung his hat on the rack nearby before approaching closer; to test the waters, both hands rested on your bare upper arms.

His touch was rough and calloused, but warm, and you heard him take in a breath when you leaned backwards into his embrace. Leaning down, he very nearly pressed his lips against your shoulder, but his proximity ignited a fresh wave of tears—it was alarming, and Micah stiffened as you buried your face in your hands.

When you turned to push yourself into his chest, it took him a few moments before realizing he ought to wrap himself around you. Any time he tightened his arms, you only cried harder, and it was difficult to decide what it was you truly wanted.

“Come on, sugar pie,” he murmured. It was surprisingly tender, to his disgust, but the gravelly rumble of his low voice pushed you further in, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad. “What’s got you all riled up?”

You shook your head, and your shoulders shook harder.

“Did them boys do somethin’ to you?” It was unlikely, he knew, but having a physical target gave Micah enough resolve to lock his arms securely around you. “You can tell me.”

You shook your head again, confirming what he knew to be logically true. A shame, really—he would have loved any excuse to stroll back into camp with the distinct pursuit of decking Arthur or Charles into the dirt. He might still, if he inflated the fact you were bawling your heart out in his arms. The idea drew a wicked grin across his face.

You choked out something indiscernible, and he pressed his lips into your hair. Micah was deeply grateful you were too wrapped up in your sorrow to see him marinating in such cheshire glee.

“Don’t matter now, I’m here. I gotcha.”

Newly inspired with an ulterior motive, and the chance to be the one to soothe the hot tears spilling down your cheeks, he hummed sweet things to you as one of his hands pushed a heavy, soothing trail up and down your back. Truly, what a unique position he found himself in.

It distracted him from the thought he continuously kept shoving backwards—again, those thoughts. He didn’t dare let it take a foothold that being here, alone, with you threatened to encourage something else.

Happiness.

Contentedness.

The thought alone snapped cold in his gullet, and Micah pushed his attention even harder on you. Cradling you close to his own body and setting his feet apart, he began to sway softly at the hip to ease your nerves. It seemed to be working—your sobs had softened back to hiccups and gurgles, and he whispered sweet encouragement. Fingers combed slowly, awkwardly, through your locks, and he breathed you in when you dug your hands into the breast of his shirt.

“My girl, you gonna be alright,” he whispered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

He kept digging himself deeper and deeper into this rabbit hole of tenderness, but the reactions Micah got out of you made the lurching vulnerability in his throat easier to bear.

“How’s about I get you some more flowers. Would you like that?”

Bleary-eyed you looked up to him, and he did his absolute damnedest to school his expression into what he hoped could be interpreted as a soft smile. He bore himself against every instinct beat into him, claiming ownership of the flowers waiting for you at camp—he locked his legs into place, hoping to stop the trembling that had taken hold in the joints.

Micah pressed a light kiss to your forehead when you said nothing, unwilling to linger on your skin for his sake more than your own. When you nodded, though, he kissed you again.

“Wash your face, doll—let’s get you some fresh air.”

For now, he could show you that he was a stable foundation, that he was reliable. He needed to buy some time to calm the fluttering in his belly, anyhow, as you pressed a kiss to his cheek before he left you to tidy up.

[maddie-grove]

Little Book Review: In for a Penny

Author: Rose Lerner.

Publication Date: 2010.

Genre: Historical romance (Regency).

Premise: Young Lord Nevinstoke’s carefree lifestyle is brought to an end when his father dies in a senseless duel, leaving him responsible for a crumbling country estate mired in debt. Economizing and selling off other property will barely put a dent in what he owes, so he proposes marriage to Penelope Brown, a new-money heiress he barely knows. Usually sensible, Penelope shocks even herself by accepting. His people skills and her accounting prowess make them an effective team, and there’s a real spark of attraction between them, but is that enough to overcome the impossibility of ethical consumption under early-stage capitalism? 

Thoughts: If you got all your information about early nineteenth-century England from Regency romances, you might get the impression that it wasn’t a particularly eventful period. Although the Napoleonic Wars, the Prince of Wales, Beau Brummel, Jane Austen, the Romantic poets, and more obscure events and figures often play a role, many Regencies are stories that happen to be set during a particular time, rather than stories about that time. In some ways, this is an advantage; for example, Regencies rarely feature celebrity cameos that suck all the air out of the main characters’ stories, something that often happens with Tudor/Stuart and ancient romances. In many ways, though, it’s a drawback, because there’s so much historical material to be mined. One particularly interesting aspect of the time is the rampant economic inequality and resulting unrest, which came to a head in the tragic Peterloo Massacre. Lerner explores this territory masterfully, not only in the characters’ reactions to the Peterloo Massacre, but also in the ethically complex, almost unbearably suspenseful estate-management subplot. 

Like countless poor people of the time, Nev’s tenants are expected to provide the same strenuous labor their ancestors performed, yet are being cheated by reactionary aristocrats and greedy opportunists of even the meager benefits that their ancestors enjoyed. (In a detail chillingly reminiscent of modern-day disability benefits in the USA, they cannot receive any poor relief if they own a cow or chickens, which aren’t enough to live on by themselves but are a sustainable source of eggs and milk.) Nev and Penny are both kind people who rightly feel responsible for their tenants, but personal kindness isn’t enough. In a simpler romance, Nev and Penny would find out the wrongdoers, fire them, and maybe have to deal with retaliation later. Here, they have more money and power than their tenants, but it’s still not enough to buy off or shut out everyone who’s getting rich off the cruel poor-relief scam. Neither do they have all the information they need to stop the scam; the tenants are understandably distrustful and have their own ways of dealing with things, which sometimes conflict disastrously with Nev’s and Penny’s efforts. The protagonists really have to work to do the right thing (or, sometimes, the least wrong thing available). The book is essentially about the importance of trying to do good, even though you know you’ll never be able to fix everything.

That beautiful messiness extends to the rest of the novel. Nev in particular is a wonderfully dynamic, imperfect character. He starts the book callow and, even though he vows to reform after his father’s death, he’s kind of a dumbass in how he goes about it, rejecting every aspect of his old life even when it doesn’t help anyone. Penny generally has a good head on her shoulders, but she still marries Nev out of a combination of pity and sexual attraction...when she’s informally and secretly engaged to a seemingly much more suitable man. The minor characters are just as delightfully human, from the good (Penny’s warm, generous, and self-assured parents) to the bad (a creepy, extremely conservative neighboring lord with some French Revolution trauma that’s neither scoffed at nor used to justify his behavior). I also like the folk-horror feel, which adds some spice.

Hot Goodreads Take: I love pretty much everything that other people hate about this novel. The darkness, the messiness, the large cast of characters who all have their own thing going on, the sweetly awkward sex scenes...there is no accounting for taste. I love the dark, I love slippery things, etc. 

[costello-music-cr]

the bright lights are fading away, it’s not such a beautiful day

It was a disgustingly beautiful day. The sun was too bright, the birds were too loud, and Caleb was really regretting getting out of his bedroll that morning. He thought he would be fine, it should have passed long ago. But he was never that lucky.

Caleb falls ill while on the road and Beau, Jester, and Nott are the best bros.

Link to AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080333

So I’ve fallen hard into the Critical Role Fandom. I just finished episode 34 as I’m posting this, so this is set in some nebulous time around then. I also won’t be doing the full whumptober, so this is my meager offering to that. 

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there was a faintly floral scent in the air. The Mighty Nein had nowhere pressing to be, and nothing pressing to do. It was all in all a lovely morning for every member of the group, except for Caleb.

He had been fine the night before, he had had no trouble setting up the hut for everyone and Caduceus was a far better cook than anyone else in the group, providing a surprisingly delicious dinner.  

The others were already up when Caleb sluggishly came to that morning. The first thing he noticed was that he was still incredibly tired despite the full nights rest and that his head hurt. It was clearly going to be one of those days so he thought nothing more of it as Nott prodded his side.

“Caleb, hey Caleb. Are you awake?” she said. Shifting a little Caleb groaned and responded.

“Ja, ja I’m awake,” he said as he turned to face her. His voice was a little rougher than normal, but he had just woken up so neither of them thought anything of it.  

“Great. Caddy has breakfast ready and once you’re done we’re good to go,” she said grinning down at him.

Sitting up he could see Beau and Jester sitting by Caduceus, who was prodding something on the small cook fire. The smell tomatoes and something else he couldn’t identify sizzling in the pan wafted over to him with the realisation that he wasn’t that hungry. Frowning slightly he started rolling up his bedroll and putting his things together, ignoring the gentle thudding in his head.

“Caaayleb! Good morning!” Jester called to him, her mouth full, as he put his pack in the cart.

“Guten Morgen,” he grunted back at her.

Jester giggled at him, holding up a plate to him as he join her by the fire.

“Here Cayleb we saved some breakfast for you. You slept really late,” she said pushing the plate at him.

The smell was almost overpowering as he took the plate from her. His stomach turned faintly and he realised he was really not hungry. His frown deepened as he poked at the bread and various vegetables that Caduceus had uncannily gathered the day before. They didn’t have anywhere pressing to be but there was still a good day’s travel before they made it to the next town. He’d travelled on an empty stomach enough times to not want to do it again so he nibbled at whatever seemed the least offensive to him, as the others finished packing up their nights campsite. While he slowly made his way through his breakfast Nott came back and sat next to him as Caduceus started putting out the fire. He could only make a small dent in it before he couldn’t eat anymore.

“Do you want this Nott? I am not so hungry this morning,” he offered. Nott’s hand twitched as her face fell slightly.

“Are you ok Caleb? You seem little off this morning,” she said, concern bleeding through her voice. Caleb gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Ja, I’m ok Nott. Just a bit of a headache but I’ll be fine,” he replied, pushing the plate at her.

“Are you sure. You didn’t eat much. If you’re not feeling well we don’t have to leave yet,” she said in a rush.

“Nein, we don’t have to do that. I’ll be ok. Don’t worry Nott. It’s not that bad. I’ll eat more later,” he hastily tried to reassure her. She looked slightly sceptical but accepted it by wolfing down what remained of Caleb’s meal.

“I’m sorry Mr Caleb. I just put out the fire. But if you want I can relight it and make you some tea that will help,” Caduceus interjected quietly. Caleb flushed, regretting that he even opened his mouth in the first place.

“That’s really not necessary, I’m fine. It’s not that bad really. I’ll be fine in an hour or so,” Caleb replied, preparing to make a hasty retreat from this conversation. Caduceus didn’t say anything else as he eyed the wizard up and down, noting the slightly too pale skin and slight rasp in his voice.

“Alright then,” he replied.

xxx

It was a disgustingly beautiful day.  The sun was too bright, the birds were too loud, and Caleb was really regretting getting out of his bedroll that morning. What had started as a bit of a headache and faint nausea was morphing as the day dragged on into a blinding headache, a dry sore throat, and a faint general achiness. The sun was bright but it wasn’t warm, the wind was cold, and no matter what he did Caleb could not get warm. Which was a direct contrast to his head which felt like it was on fire. He had never been more grateful for the cart. He didn’t even want to imagine how miserable having to walk, or even ride, would be.

Nott was sitting in the front of the cart with Caduceus while Jester and Fjord were riding the horses. That only left Beau in the cart with him. He was doing his best to ignore both her and his headache by attempting to read, with only the occasional jolt of the cart distracting him. The morning was dragging by agonisingly slowly. Despite his best hopes his headache had not abated at all and focusing on his books was getting hard. The dry ache in his throat was periodically irritating him.

“What’s up with you?” Beau broke the silence after a few hours of travelling. He looked up to find her staring at him intently.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Why,” his answered her, his voice was rougher then he wanted it to be. Beau lifted an eyebrow at that.

“Ok,” she replied. “Do you want some water or something? You clearing your throat is starting to get real annoying.”

“Ah,” he replied. He couldn’t deny that one. “I’m good. I have a water skin here thanks Beau.”

“Well maybe you should drink it or something,” she replied.    

He grunted in response before pointedly taking a drink and returning to silence.  He returned to his reading for a few more minutes before giving up on being productive. Putting his book away with a small shiver he snapped his fingers and called Frumpkin to him. Frumpkin mewled at him as he jumped up onto his lap, kneading at him before curling up. Focusing on patting Frumpkin he briefly allowed himself to feel terrible. His head was pounding, the thought of talking was unbearable, he was shaking slightly and he was weirdly cold.

He probably had a fever. Nothing too bad he thought, but it was the easiest explanation for the brand of bad he felt. It was enough to make him feel terrible, but not enough for him to ask either of his friends for healing. It wasn’t bad enough to ask them to use up a spell slot they might desperately need later on. Not on him. Not for this.

The cart seemed to be jolting more than usual now, sending pulses of pain through his head.

“You know, you can just take a nap or something,” Beau spoke up again, after restraining herself for an impressive five minutes and 25 seconds. Caleb blinked and looked over at her, absentmindedly continue to pat Frumpkin.

“Huh?”

“I don’t know man. You kind of look like shit and it’s bumming me out,” she continued, floundering out of her depth.

Caleb didn’t look her in the eye. “I’m ok Beauregard, your concern is touching though. This isn’t anything I can’t handle,” he replied, his voice still rough. Beau’s eye twitched.

“Whatever dude. Just trying to be nice,” she replied gruffly.

Caleb hands traced over his books as he contemplated studying them again. His hands were shaking, along with the rest of him, which did not help his head at all. A pillow landing on his lap on top of Frumpkin (who jumped off his lap to glare at Beau) startled him out of his thoughts. Beau was rummaging around their packs and pulling out a couple of bedrolls. She didn’t say anything as she threw them at him too with a glare. Also without saying a word, and with a badly suppressed shiver, Caleb unrolled the bedroll Beau had thrown at him. Whatever faults he had pride was not one of them and a blanket would do wonders to stop the cold wind biting him. His friends already thought he was squishy anyway, and if they didn’t mind the cold then that was on them.

Getting as comfortable as he could in the now padded corner of the cart Caleb dosed for a while, initially aware of the time passing and never falling fully asleep. Frumpkin quickly stopped glaring at Beau and came up to curl by his side. Caleb could have sworn he didn’t actually fall asleep but one moment he knew it was around 1 o’clock, and the next Frumpkin had moved up to cuddle into his arms and it was definitely much later in the afternoon. He did not feel much better, his head still pounding and his throat much worse. Between Frumpkin in his arms and the blanket on top of him he felt that he should be much warmer, but he still felt vaguely chilled. His head was hot and it was clear his fever had not broken. The cart felt like it was still moving underneath him and he could sense that there were more people in the back of the cart then before. It felt like Nott was sitting at his feet, the small goblin girl was easy for him to recognise. And his other companions were not usually the most quiet or subtle.

“Ohhh, that’s so cute,” Jester squealed in what she thought was a quiet voice. She must have just jumped onto the back of the cart, delighted by the scene of the sleeping wizard cuddling his cat before her. “Frumpkin you are such a good cat.”

Caleb was immediately grateful that Frumpkin paid Jester no attention and so didn’t encourage her, not moving while curled up in his arms. He didn’t feel like opening his eyes yet, hoping that Jester and whoever else was back here would leave him alone.

“Isn’t Frumpkin cute Nott?” she whispered loudly. Nott grunted in response but was much more respectfully quiet.

Jester shuffled next to him, putting her hand on his forehead. Usually Jester ran warmer than he did, as Tieflings often did. But her hand was neither warm nor cool to him, which confirmed the fever he thought he had.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Beau was not wrong he is warm. Well not warm to me but usually you’re all cooler and he’s not cool to me right now so he must be warm. Poor Cayleb! He mustn’t be feeling well,” she rambled as she retracted her hand.

“I thought something was wrong this morning but he said he was ok. He’s usually right so I thought he’d be ok,” Nott replied sadly. Caleb frowned at that.

“Caleb, are you awake? Cause if you are and you’re not feeling any better I’m going to try to heal you ok?” Jester said in her lilting voice, shaking his shoulder gently. Caleb opened his eyes to acknowledge her.

“Ja, I’m awake,” he croaked out, his voice evidently had deteriorated in the few hours since his conversation with Beau.

“Ooh Caleb, you don’t sound so good,” Jester cried as he sat up. “You don’t look so good either.”  

Caleb frowned, wanting to deny it but it was getting harder to do so. Sitting up he looked around the cart, Nott was indeed sitting at his feet, with Caduceus sitting on the other side quietly observing. Beau had left the back of the cart and only Fjord was at the front of the cart. Jester was kneeling next to him, her Traveller symbol ready in her hand.

“Ja, but I’ll be ok Jester,” he replied as an attempt at a protest. Frumpkin shot him a look and jumped onto his lap. Jester frowned at his response.

“Don’t be silly Caleb,” she said as she started to concentrate on her healing spell. “I’m going try to heal you now ok.” It was not a question as her hands started glowing their customary green. The wave of healing magic that went through him felt good for half a second, but did nothing to help.  

“How do you feel now Caleb?” she glanced over him, frowning a little as she took in his still pale face and the slight tremors going through his shoulders and hands. He didn’t get a chance to reassure her. “Oh, that didn’t work did it?”

“Nein,” he agreed, rubbing his head.

“Is there anything we can help you with Mr Caleb?” Caduceus spoke up. “Healing may not work but I’m sure I have some herbs here that might,” he started rummaging through his bag.  “You have a fever, headache. Is there anything else?” he asked with his low calming voice, shooting him a pointed look.

“My throats a little sore,” Caleb admitted hoarsely. Caduceus hummed in response.

“Ok. I have something that can help with that,” he said as he got off the cart. Looking down Caleb finally noticed that the cart was still and there was the remanets of a meal around a small cook fire that Caduceus was heading towards.

Nott climbed up next to him and didn’t say anything as she settled beside him. Caleb looked back down at Frumpkin and zoned out for a moment.

“Here, drink this. It might not taste too nice but it will definitely help,” Caduceus came back up to the cart, holding out a mug. Next to him Nott rubbed his shoulder to get his attention. With a sigh Caleb took it and started to drink it. It wasn’t the most awful taste in the world, but it also wasn’t the most pleasant. It was warm and soothing at least, and he had nothing to lose by drinking it. Caduceus smiled at him as he started drinking and went back to clean up the fire.  

“Are you alright to continue Caleb?” Nott asked, obviously concerned.

“Ja, ja. You didn’t need to stop on my behalf,” he replied.

“Ok. Well we should be too far from the next town anyway. So you can go back to sleep if you really want,” she said. Taking the mug back from him as he finished it. Caleb nodded and curled back up under the blanket with Frumpkin, whatever medicinal herbs Caduceus had put in starting to take effect.  

xxx

He had never been more grateful to see a tavern in his life. The rest of the afternoon had passed in a haze of half dosing and an acute awareness of everything that hurt. The sun was just setting as they passed through the gates of the small town. Nott had remained next to him for the rest of the afternoon with Jester, who was trying to be comforting by dramatically reading Tusk Love out loud. She was quiet enough that he could tune her out in intervals.

He didn’t pay much attention as Beau and Fjord asked a couple of passer-by’s where the nearest and/or best inns were. The town was small enough that it only took a few minutes to get to the place that had been pointed out. Once the cart came to a stop Caleb opened his eyes and sat up. Nott gave him a toothy, reassuring smile.

“We’re here Caleb,” she said, pointing to the inn to the left of them.

Caduceus was at the edge of the cart and was offering a hand to help Caleb off the cart.

“You really need to eat something Mr Caleb. I’m sure you’d rather continue sleeping but you’ll be better for it I promise,” Caduceus said as he put a gentle hand on Caleb’s shoulder, to lead him into the tavern like he was seeing through Frumpkin’s eyes. Caduceus frowned at the irregular trembling he could feel off the uncomfortably warm shoulder beneath him.

“Ja, ok,” Caleb mumbled, allowing himself to be lead inside.

He was hoping that the interior of the building would offer a warm relief but while it was a bit warmer inside it wasn’t the wave of warmth he’d been hoping for. Caduceus steered him towards a table by the fire as Beau and Nott headed over to the bar.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling sick Caleb and I’m sorry we couldn’t heal you,” Jester said as she slid onto the bench on his other side. “But I’m sure you’ll feel real better real soon.” Caleb nodded, not wanting to speak anymore then he had to.

Caleb allowed the chatter of the rest of the Nein to wash over him as they joined them at the table. Nott periodically tried to get him to eat some stew once their meal arrived, with less and less success. His shivers were getting stronger despite his proximity to the fire. His head was still aching, his thoughts were getting hazier, and his entire body was starting to ache and throb. He hadn’t been feeling well all day, but sitting in the tavern he started to feel worse by the minute. He lost the thread of conversation as he stared at the pattern on the table. His eyes feverishly following the swirls and stains in the wood.  Fatigue was crashing down on him and although he’d spent most of the day napping in the cart the need to lie down again was slowly becoming more and more overwhelming. He couldn’t pin point the exact moment it happened but he eventually realised that he felt beyond awful and that his temperature had probably risen.

Next to him Jester shifted and for the second time that day he felt her hand on his forehead. It was cool against the fire in his head and something about that seemed wrong to him. She hissed at the heat she found under her hand, not use to her companions being warmer than her.  

“Cayleb, are you ok? You feel really warm now,” she said quietly. The chatter around the table faded. Caleb continued tracing the patterns with his eyes, but gave a slight nod in acknowledgment.

“Caleb?” Nott asked hesitantly from his other side.

He turned to look at her, his vision tunnelling around her.

“I. I think I just need to lie down. I don’t feel so good,” Caleb muttered.

“Oh. Well we have a few rooms for tonight. We can take you upstairs that’s no problem,” Jester said as she slipped off the bench. She helped steady him as he stumbled to his feet with Nott beside him. He didn’t hear Caduceus mutter something about finding some hot water for tea or Fjord and Beau awkwardly telling him to feel better. He could barely focus on Jester leading him to the stairs and up to the second floor.

The rooms were small but comfortable. There were two beds with a nightstand between them. On one side was a small chair and a dressing table, and a chest of drawers next to the door.  Someone had already bought their stuff off the cart and into the room. Caleb ignored all of this as he collapsed onto the nearest bed. Nott prodded him to sit up to help him take off his coat and shoes. The shoes he didn’t resist but gave a stronger shiver when she tried to pry the coat off him.

“Caleb, you’ll be more comfortable without all this on,” she said tugging gently on his coat again.

“Es ist kalt, cold Nott,” he mumbled half in Zemnian.

“There’s another blanket here if you want it Cayleb,” Jester said as she went to the other bed and started stripping it. Too tired to fight her anymore Caleb allowed Nott to remove his coat and book holster.

“I’ll put these right here, ok Caleb” she said as she put the books on the nightstand next to the bed, making sure they were in his line of sight. Jester threw the spare blanket on top of him and Frumpkin jumped up next to him again. He meowed at him before curling up at his side.

Caduceus quietly entered the room at some point, holding a steaming mug of tea.

“Hello Mr Caleb, can you drink this for me before going to sleep?” he asked gently.

Jester and Caduceus had left him and Nott to their own devices not long after Caleb managed to choke down half of the mug of tea. Nott had settled onto the other bed to keep an eye on him, and Caleb fell asleep within seconds of lying down again.

xxx

The night was dark and quiet. Caleb jolted awake, unsure of how long he’d been asleep. Glancing around the room he could see that Nott still had the lamp on, which was confusing since it had to be early in the morning.

“Was. Wie spät ist es,” he mumbled, looking around the room. Nott was by his side in a moment.

“Caleb? Are you ok?” she asked, putting a hand to his forehead. He blinked at her. “You’re still really warm,” she added, obviously concerned.

“Wie,” he cleared his throat and switched back to Common. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, voice rough and broken. It felt like an eternity since he’d fallen asleep, but the fever was messing with his impeccable perception of time.

“It’s only been a couple of hours at most Caleb,” she said gently. “Are you feeling any better?”

He blinked back at her. That didn’t seem right.

When he didn’t respond she grabbed the glass of water Caduceus had left on the bedside table and wordlessly offered it to him. He blinked at her once more and took a drink.

“I don’t feel so good Nott,” he answered at last, still shivering slightly. She hummed indistinctly at that as he closed his eyes and huddled back down in the bed.

Nott turned the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. Caleb relaxed marginally with the increased darkness easing his headache. Nott climbed up onto the bed and sat next to Caleb leaning against the headboard on the side Frumpkin was not. Caleb muttered something indistinct in Zemnian as she settled next to him.

“It’s alright Caleb, go back to sleep,” she said, patting his head slowly. Under her hand Caleb relaxed marginally again, the coolness of her small hand providing some relief. Once again Caleb fell asleep.  

[walkthegale]

let me fall - beau/yasha

Also on AO3.

For @soofdope for @critroleexchange 2018!  Spoilers up to and including campaign 2, episode 46.

Beau has missed a lot of things about being on dry land, but being crammed into Caleb’s hut spell for a night is definitely not one of them.

Jester snores next to her, and Caleb mutters in his sleep, and Nott wriggles again and kicks Beau in the leg and Beau thinks of her cramped cabin on the Squall/Ball-Eater with a rose-tinted fondness she didn’t know she had.

Yasha’s awake too.

Beau knows she is - she can tell by now what Yasha’s breathing sounds like when she’s actually asleep. So she’s not surprised when she hears Yasha scramble to her feet, clearly aiming for stealth but that’s really fucking hard in this small space even when you’re not nearly as tall as she is. Beau cracks her eyes open and watches Yasha pick her way to the edge of the hut and slip past the barrier, murmuring something to Cad as she passes. He says something back, too low for Beau to make out, then settles back to his watch.

Beau waits.

It doesn’t get easier to do, waiting, but she does it. She waits, and she considers, and she decides. And after a moment, she gets up, as silent and light on her feet as Frumpkin, and she follows Yasha outside, nodding to Cad, who nods back in turn and doesn’t give her away.

She gets her bearings and the first thing she notices is that she can smell rain on the air. It’s not here yet, but it smells fresh and green and imminent, and it solidifies her resolve. She slips through the night after Yasha, keeping to the darkest shadows, minding her footsteps.

After a little distance, Yasha leaves the surrounding woods, emerging on a grassy cliff top that Beau knows in daylight would overlook sweeping plains and distant mountains. Beau hangs back at the edge of the undergrowth, unsure of her next move.

“I know you’re there, Beau.”

Yasha’s voice is clear in the quiet. Clear, and kind of annoyed. Shit.

Beau steps out into the open and waves awkwardly. “Uh. Hey.”

Yasha sits on the edge of a hulking rock outcrop, where she has an unobstructed view into the reaching darkness, and doesn’t look at Beau. Faint, on the edge of the horizon, a flicker of lightning forks through the sky, and the dull roll of thunder follows.

“So, uh, you leaving then?” is what Beau says eventually, when the weight of silence becomes unbearable. Damn it, she was hoping she could find a better way to come at it than that, something a bit less blunt at least.

Yasha breathes deeply, a gulp of storm-scented air, but she doesn’t reply.

“‘K. I mean, ‘s cool if you need to leave. I get it.” Beau finds herself filling in the gaps and she hates the way her voice almost shakes. “You’ve got your duty or whatever. When you gotta go, you gotta.” She knows she’s not first mate anymore. You can’t be first mate on a ship you don’t have. She knows it’s not her job to take care of everyone. Like she’d even fucking want that job. Like she’d be anything other than terrible at it if she had it.

She would be terrible at it, wouldn’t she? Had she been terrible at it? The crew hadn’t fucking killed them in their sleep or anything. That had to count for something.

So whether or not she’s first mate, whether or not it’s her fucking responsibility, she’s the one who’s fucking here, and damned if she’s going to let Yasha take off into the night without saying goodbye. Without knowing whether the Mighty Nein care about what happens to her. Without knowing whether Beau cares what happens to her.

She could say that to Yasha. She could. Or she could just as easily set herself on fire and learn to raise the goddamn dead. So, instead, Beau gauges the distance between herself and the rock. “Hey Yasha, watch this!”

She somersaults, head over heels, gives an extra flip and a kick that really wasn’t necessary but looks cool as hell, and makes perhaps the least graceful landing she’s ever managed on the rock next to Yasha. Pinwheeling her arms madly, she regains her balance and sends a quick thanks to whichever gods might be listening that she doesn’t actually fall.

She feels her cheeks burning. Maybe it won’t matter, surely Yasha won’t actually have looked at her.

She glances down. Yasha definitely looked. Yasha looked and Yasha… is she smiling? It’s hard to tell in the darkness, even with her goggles on, but Beau thinks Yasha might have been smiling at her, just a little bit. In her head she does a fist-pump of triumph, though outwardly she’s quite proud of how calmly she sits down beside Yasha.

There’s a long moment of continued silence that Beau doesn’t know how to break, but then Yasha takes an audible breath.

“I am not planning to leave tonight,” she says, quietly. “I came out here to… to watch the storm. To see if the Storm Lord chooses to send me another vision, I suppose.” Her cheeks are a bit pink, Beau notices. Or, like, a different shade of grey in the dark, but she’s going to assume it’s pink.

“Yeah, I heard a bit about the last one. Jester told me, uh, just a little.” Beau pauses, considers. “Sorry if it was, like, a secret or something.” She doesn’t think Jester would have told her, if it was a secret, but it occurs to her that she didn’t check, and she doesn’t want to fuck up Jester and Yasha’s friendship. That would be a low she hasn’t hit in a while.

Yasha looks at Beau, and then off into nothing again, just long enough that Beau thinks maybe she’s fucked up by even mentioning it, though Yasha mentioned it first, damn it. But then, “It’s not a secret,” Yasha says. “It is hard to talk about, but not a secret. Zuala is never a secret.” Her voice is wound as taut as one of Nott’s bowstrings in the moment before release.

Beau nods. “Yeah, I get it. There’s stuff I find hard to talk about too,” she offers. “It’s not secret either, but it hurts, you know?”

It’s Yasha’s turn to nod. If Beau didn’t know better, she’d think maybe Yasha was crying, just a little bit. If Beau didn’t know better, she’d think she wanted to cry herself maybe. Just a little bit. Fuck. She can’t go soft, not now. She gathers herself, shakes her head to clear it.

“Hey, uh,” she begins, without really knowing where she’s planning to end. “I won’t push, yeah? But if you do want to, like, talk about stuff, I’m here, and I know I’m not real good at knowing what to say, but I’m here, ok?”

She’s getting used to Yasha’s pauses. Maybe it doesn’t immediately mean that Beau has said something wrong. Maybe this is just how Yasha is, taking a moment to think before she speaks, so that her words, when they come, have weight behind them. It’s one of the things Beau’s trying to get better at herself.

“Thank you, Beauregard.”

She sounds calm and clear, and not at all annoyed this time. She sounds like she might have meant it. Like Beau might have helped her. A shiver of something runs right down the back of Beau’s neck, through to the tips of her fingers.

Without a thought, Beau reaches out and puts her hand on Yasha’s arm, and for a moment it feels absolutely right, but then Yasha flinches. So slightly that another person might not have noticed at all, but one thing Beau is good at is keep tracking of all the tiny movements a body can make, whether hers or someone else’s.

Beau pulls her hand away as quick as lightning. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She’s stumbling over the word, drawing her body back as best she can without actually getting up and moving away. “Sorry.”

Yasha’s eyes are wide. “No! Beau, no, don’t be sorry, I…” She trails off, helpless, and Beau knows she somehow has to fix this tear before it rips too wide and destroys the fragile thing they’ve built here tonight.

“Look,” she says, launching into yet another sentence that she doesn’t know the end of until it comes out of her mouth. “Yasha. We both know I think you’re hot, I’m not real fucking subtle about it, and you’re so fucking hot, but I’d never, y’know. I’d never want anything from you that you didn’t want.”

With a blush so deep Beau’s sure she’d be able to see it even without her goggles on, Yasha half-smiles, though she doesn’t quite meet Beau’s eyes when she answers. “I do know that. But thank you for saying it.” She takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. “I am not uninterested in, um, physical things, you know. But I do not want anything, anything more than that at the moment, not with anyone. I do not know if I ever will.”

Beau, who has always spoken better with her body than her words, thinks about Keg, and about the courtesan at The Landlocked Lady, and about all the women she’s known before that, and maybe even the women she suddenly suspects Yasha’s fucked along her road from there to here. She lets herself grin, flexes her arms as dramatically as she can. “I can do physical. I’m real good at physical.”

And Yasha laughs, a deep, bubbling sort of laugh that makes Beau laugh too, pride ringing through her head. She grabs onto that pride and uses it as the leverage she needs to push forward, with an eyebrow raised and her best smirk firmly in place. “Why don’t you find out? Come on, Yasha, want to spar?” She hops to her feet, dances into a fighting stance. “I bet I could take you.”

“Oh, you think so?” Yasha stands, slowly, unfolding her full height with the grace and power of a stalking tiger, each angle calculated to show off the lines of her muscles, and fuuuuck, Beau can’t take her eyes off her, thinks she could just watch Yasha move forever...

Yasha’s fist flashes out, any trace of her prior languor vanishing, and it tests Beau’s reflexes to their very limit not to let herself get punched in the shoulder. Instinct kicks in and Beau ducks to the side, the blow glancing off the edge of her arm, and she can feel the strength behind it. She lets out a wild sound halfway between a whoop and a laugh, and gets her head in the game.

Yasha is strong as hell, and Beau is quick as a cat, but Yasha isn’t slow and Beau isn’t weak, and they’re just as well-matched as Beau assumed they would be. She’s watched Yasha fight a hundred times by now, and fought alongside her, with moves that seem to gel so well together naturally that you’d think they practiced it or something, but she’s never fought against her before, though she’s pictured it. There’s a fierce joy in this, in how hard she has to work at this, in how well she trusts her body to know what to do - a joy that’s pure and all-encompassing.

Beau keeps her feet for a long time, using every bit of her speed to her advantage, but the goggles make it hard to see, and she’s tired, and if she’s honest, she can foresee how she wants this to end and she knows how to get to it. When Yasha takes her down, when she gets in past Beau’s guard and brings her to the ground, pinning her in place with hands and hips and delicious weight, it might have been because Beau let her, just a little bit. Beau really isn’t sure, and she doesn’t want to think about it too hard just now.

She wriggles against Yasha’s grip, panting, and is gratified to notice that Yasha’s breathing heavily too, beads of sweat visible along her hairline. She’s worked as hard as Beau to get to this. Beau makes herself fall still, with Yasha there above her. She wants to know what will happen, what Yasha wants to make happen.

Beau waits.

Again, she waits. Again, it doesn’t get easier, but perhaps, just perhaps, she gets a little better at it.

Yasha looks down at her, with a strange intensity that Beau can’t quite place, and then she leans in and kisses Beau on the mouth. It lasts a moment, her lips soft and hot against Beau’s, and it feels almost like a test, rather than a kiss. Like a question Yasha’s asking of Beau, and of herself.

Beau doesn’t know what answers she finds, but when she pulls away she’s still smiling, at least, and Beau can live with that.

They get to their feet, a few moments later, and untangling their limbs is awkward, but that’s ok too.

“I can go?” Beau asks. “Or, uh, I could stay? If you want? Watch the storm with you?” She doesn’t know if it’s too much, what she’s asking, if she’s too much, right here and now, so she braces herself for rejection.

“I would like that.”

Oh.

“Cool. Right, yeah, awesome.” Beau settles herself next to Yasha, facing the place where the dark sky is darker still, where lightning sparks and thunder rumbles, a little nearer than it was before.

Somewhere, far away and beyond the clouds, the sun begins to rise.

[mithrilwren]

ok idk if this has been asked yet but #22 for shadowgast or #23 for beaujes?

I finally finished this!! Thank you so much for your patience

soulmate au prompts: the one where once you meet your soulmate, it’s physically uncomfortable to be apart from them for too long.

[also on Ao3!]

1.

Jester doesn’t realize it, at first, that anything has changed.

Her whole body is in pain, everything is in pain, she has never felt pain like this before. She doesn’t think she could bear to again.

Three days in the dark, with manacles around her wrists, a gag in her mouth, and her heart clenching every time she hears a scream ring out from the chamber beyond. Sometimes, it clenches with no reason, an ache in her chest like a scarf wrapped too tight around her heart, and no way left to tell if oxygen is still making it into her lungs. Her fingers have long gone numb.

She thought she heard Beau’s voice, while they were on the cart, crying ‘Molly’ into the open air. In her mind, she cries ‘Traveller’, who has never left her alone before, and when he does not answer, she cries out to the only others who’ve stayed. She cries ‘Molly’, and ‘Caleb’, and ‘Nott’, and ‘Beau’, and doesn’t let herself lose hope, though she doesn’t know how long she can hold onto it.

(Cries ‘Beau’, softer now, as she relearns what it is to sleep alone.)

—

Beau doesn’t realize it, at first, but that’s not really surprising. She had nothing to compare the feeling against.

She’s never had anything like this group before.

(Had never had-)

The squeeze in her chest as she looks over to Jester’s bedroll and finds her blanket empty is disproportionate to the gravity of the situation, at least then, before any of them know what’s happened. Later, she’ll call it a premonition, that aching churn inside of her - not a fortune or a magic trick, but just the inevitability of it all. Like she should have known that this would fall apart.

Molly is dead, and the others are gone, and she never said goodbye to Tori, and thought that was what loss was. She was thrown out of her parents’ house, and thought she knew then, better still.

She didn’t.

She doesn’t know if she’ll live through this, if they don’t-

They have to.

She can’t do this alone.

(Not anymore.)

2.

I’m going to go sleep in my own room.

Jester shrinks back, cheek smarting like she’s been slapped, though Beau is across the table, too far to reach her-

Too far to-

But it’s only one night, right? And- and Yasha will be there. It won’t be the same as waking up next to Beau, but at least she won’t be by herself.

There’s an empty pit in her chest, growing hollower, and Beau is still there so she really shouldn’t feel this bad already, but what if this is the end? What if Beau never wants to room with her again?

(What did she do wrong?)

—

I thought that’s what you wanted.

Of course it’s not what she wanted. Of course it’s not. Beau wants-

Well, she only said it because she thought if she didn’t, then she’d have to hear Jester say the same thing to her. That she wanted a garden room to herself, filled with all the pretty things that Beau can’t provide: luxury, security, a door that latches with a key. Peace and quiet. Something beautiful to wake up to.

(And besides, pain’s always a little easier to bear when you’re the one holding the switch.)

But now Jester’s hurt too, and Beau doesn’t know how to make it right, other than to take back her words, pulling them back inside herself with a new sprinkling of guilt on top. Guess it’s true what her father said: she somehow manages to break everything single thing she touches.

(How’s she supposed to be there for Jester, in all the ways she needs, when she can’t even fix herself?)

3.

Beau doesn’t need to think hard to come up with an offer.

It needs to be a sacrifice, of equal weight to what Nott’s suffered.

It would hurt, to be alone. It would hurt more than anything else she can imagine. But she knows now she could bear it. She can bear a hell of a lot more than she knew. And even if she can’t, well- Nott can’t bear much more either. And it’s better that it’s Beau. It’s better. Then at least, if it’s all got to end sometime, the pain could actually mean something.

She doesn’t look at Jester as she walks into the hag’s cottage. Doesn’t look at anything but her own feet.

At least if it’s only her, nobody else has to feel this way.

—

Beau walks out the door, and says what she offered, and Jester can only think in syllables.

No.

No no no-

No time for thinking. No time to contemplate the way her heart is pulling out of her with every step she takes away from Beau, pleading with her to stay.

If she closes that door, she might not come out alive. She might not survive this, if it all goes wrong.

But if she lets Beau go, Jester doesn’t think she’d survive that either.

She shuts the door before anyone can stop her.

4.

Jester always thought it was strange, that her body should feel so hot inside, when what comes out of her is ice. Tieflings are supposed to burn, but it’s frost that courses in her veins.

And still, she’s always felt warm. Her mother used to tell her so. Even Beau gives her most of her share of the blankets on nights they share a single bed, saying she doesn’t need them with how hot Jester runs.

(Beau never lets Jester close enough to see if her olive skin is just as warm as Jester’s blue, though her feet are always cold in the morning.)

Lots of things in this world are cold. Jester’s magic is cold. The ocean is cold.

Stone is cold.

She watches Beau’s skin turn ashen, that skin that might have been warm go icy and grey, and she freezes too. From her throat to her stomach, any trace of warmth snuffs out, and she is screaming, and she is running, and she is-

—

-glad this is the last thing she sees: a blue lake, and violet eyes, open wide and shining. Beau gets just enough to time to turn her head towards Jester before her neck locks in place, before her vertebrae fuse and her spine becomes one rigid column. She gets to see her, one more time, before everything goes dark.

She’s almost glad, that it’s her chest that petrifies first. By now, she can hardly stand to be out of Jester’s sight - mere minutes before the ache becomes unbearable. She’s not sure her organs could take the pain of saying goodbye with a look, instead of words.

If she has to live forever in a body that will never touch Jester’s again, then at least her heart will hold together. It won’t have a choice.

Her vision fades, and fades, and she sees grey. Grey water, grey eyes, and-

Blue.

So much blue.

The tension releases from her shoulders first, as small hands knead warmth back into her bones, and Jester is here, in front of her, alive and smiling, and as the oil drips down her back and seeps between her ribs Beau’s chest feels-

—

-warm.

[voidendron]

The Outside: Chapter 59

Series Ask Blog: @asktheoutside

((  Sorry for delay! There may be one in the next chapter, as well. My current laptop is nearly to the point it’s unusable, so I’m looking into getting a new one that can handle my programs better and actually run at a functional speed. :/ ))

Chapter Warnings: Food, Starving Animal (Dog) Characters: Jacques Septique, Silver Shepherd, Roxanne POV: Jacques Septique

April 2, 2031, 12:11 PM Los Angeles, California

“Jacques. You need to eat somethin’.”

The artist could only offer a glare over his cellphone. Though he couldn’t help but grimace when his stomach rumbled and he relented; phone placed on the table so he could reach for his untouched sandwich. At least the little coffee shop they’d found was quiet.

The other two were eating quietly across from him. He hadn’t wanted to come. He’d also needed better Internet than what the motel offered.

A huff and Jacques leaned his chin in his hand as he chewed. His eyes were scanning the sketchbook in front of him. It was turned to Michael’s page. They hadn’t figured much else out about the Figments in his sketchbook. They knew Angus, Natemare, and Jane now. But what about the other two? Beau and Michael Garring? They had no idea who either of them were. The most they had to work with was that Beau was an android, and Michael was a security guard. Had he been created as one, though? To hell if they knew.

“Hey.” Jacques glanced up to Silver’s voice. “Ben’s lookin’ into it. We’ll figure it out.”

There were so many possibilities as to who those two could be. Even with Bing (and the Googles? Maybe? Jacques hadn’t heard anything about them in a while) doing the searching it could end up taking a good, long while before they found any identities. Not knowing for certain who they were was maddening!

Setting his food back down on the plate, Jacques picked at the crust. Was anyone doing anything about the other three they did know about? Or were they just… “Are we just waiting for something to happen?” he asked.

All Silver offered was a shrug. The artist grit his teeth in irritation. They couldn’t just… A huff. They couldn’t just wait around for something to happen!

“I—”

Silver put up his hand in a “one moment” sort of gesture, and Jacques could only click his mouth shut. It’s not like he had any ideas. But did Silver? Probably not, he thought while suppressing a roll of the eyes.

“We dunno anything about these people,” the hero said with another little shrug. “We dunno if they’re threats, and how big of ones they are if that’s the case. We don’t know anything about them. We decide to confront ‘em blind, they could kill us.”

At that, Jacques flinched. Roxanne reached across the table, as if to put a hand on his arm, but thought better of it and pulled it back into her lap.

Silver offered a reassuring smile. How could either of them still be so kind to Jacques when he was such an asshole to them?

“We know where Angus and Michael work, now. That’ll at least make it a little easier to avoid them.” He brought his hands up to wrap around his coffee cup. The barista had spelled his name wrong. “Sheppard,” it read. That was kind of funny, at least. She’d spelled “Jacques” correctly, but not “Shepherd.”

Another bite. This time Jacques had to force himself to swallow as anxiety made his stomach churn.

“It is not safe for us to even be out of our room anymore!”

Roxanne shook her head. “We can’t be forced to live in fear. If we did, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

…She was right. The Outside was a scary thing to them. Something unknown. Something new. Something different. Had they all been scared to come out here, he wondered. Yet, they still did. Every one of them. They would rather meet something unknown than watch themselves fade. Even if that “unknown” was causing more and more problems for them. Silver had said that just a few days ago, Oliver was hit by a car and had to kill the driver. Androids “didn’t exist” after all, and. Well. With Oliver bleeding oil and his leg apparently broken off? That definitely wasn’t human. Something was wrong with the Host, though Jacques hadn’t caught exactly what was wrong. A little over a week ago, Marvin had severely injured himself. They’d risked him dying in the hospital, which would have revealed his aura to the nurses and doctors tending to him, in the hopes they could save him.

Had he died on the operating table, Marvin could have given them all away. No, not could have. Would have. Had any of them even thought of that?

Jacques swallowed as his stomach twisted.

Humans wouldn’t take kindly to the Egos’ presence, would they? What happened if they found out that these…these extremely powerful, non-human beings existed among them while successfully passing as human? That these beings who could in theory kill them in an instant were able to hide in plain sight? Would even the former fans accept them when they knew how dangerous some of them could be?

That was a frightening thought.

“Jacques?” Silver and Roxanne were standing; discarding of their cups and wrappers in a nearby trashcan. “We’re leaving.”

Stumbling to his feet, Jacques wrapped what remained of his sandwich. He held the food in his free hand after tucking his phone in his back pocket; the other arm occupied with keeping his sketchbook tucked under his arm.

For a day in Los Angeles, the streets were oddly quiet. It was hot out. Unbearably so. Apparently that was unusual for April in the area? That would explain it. The sun beat down on their backs and made the sidewalks hot; it could easily become miserable if they stayed out too long. All three of them were in tank tops and either capris or shorts.

Jacques squinted against the sun. Sunglasses would sure be nice…

Silver and Roxanne were chatting a few steps ahead of the artist. Fingers laced together.  Roxanne’s long hair pulled into a ponytail, and Silver’s in a messy bun. The artist ran a hand through his own hair; short, tight coils catching his fingers.

One of these days, they just needed to part ways. Jacques didn’t like them. Why? He scoffed to himself. Who did he like anymore? Bitterness was a lonely thing.

Dark eyes raised to the sound of a small “whoof.”

A dog was trotting from person-to-person. It’s ears pulled forward and tail wagging slowly as it looked up with begging eyes. When it was ignored, it moved on to the next. Its ribs were showing, and a grungy collar hung loosely from its neck.

Roxanne knelt and clicked her tongue. The dog abandoned the man it had been begging from so it could trot toward her. Its tail was wagging faster now, and it nudged its head into her hand.

“Jacques? Do you still have your sandwich?”

A little nod, and Jacques started unwrapping the food. He tore a piece off; tossed it to the starving dog. The chunk was gone in seconds. How long had it been since it had eaten? He tensed when the canine abandoned Roxanne and sat at his feet instead. Its head tilted; eyes flitting between Jacques, and the food in his hand. Another chunk torn off, then gone in a moment. Poor thing was just swallowing the food whole!

People were giving them looks, but Jacques just glared back. The dog needed to eat!

Roxanne was undoing her hoodie from her waist. She looped one of the sleeves around the dog’s collar and tied it. “Let’s get her some water and out of the sun,” she said as she rubbed the dog between its floppy ears. “She’s got a collar, so we’ll clean off the tag and have Bing figure out who she belongs to.”

Owners? But she was so underweight! Jacques had to wonder if she’d been thrown out, or had simply run away and gotten lost. It was a big city, after all. It was just a wonder she hadn’t been picked up by animal control yet with how people-friendly she seemed to be.

When they reached the motel, the dog was panting and her head hanging low. It was too hot for her to be running around without water. With her collar removed and having lapped up the water offered to her fast enough the other three were worried she’d make herself sick, the dog draped herself over the foot of Jacques’s bed and promptly fell asleep. They’d cleaned the tag off, and now Silver was on the phone with Bing so he could relay the information on them to the android. It was a fifteen minute call. If that. One tag had been broken off. The name tag, thankfully. That left the one with a phone number and vaccine information still intact so Bing had something to work with.

“Well,” the hero started, “it sounds like her owner passed away a few weeks ago. She was elderly, I guess.” Silver leaned toward the dog to rub the top of her head. “Neighbors called police for a wellness check on the owner when they hadn’t seen her for a few days. Police startled the dog when they tried gettin’ her, and she bolted out the door. She’s a purebred Doberman Pinscher and has no where to go with her owner gone, so she’d just be taken to a pound or shelter if she was turned in. Bing couldn’t find what the dog’s name is.”

“No one’s gonna want an adult Dobie,” Roxanne murmured with a shake of the head. “She’d be stuck there for the rest of her life, or until her time there ran out and…” She didn’t continue.

Running a hand over the dog’s bony back, Jacques furrowed his brows. They couldn’t turn her in!

“…Can we keep her?”

Jacques decided to call her Muse.

[plounce]

caleb/jester just rip this one to shreds thanks

just answered this one but here are some highlights from my cr gc since my friends are way funnier than me and we all can’t stand this ship because we are almost entirely bitchy lesbians

me:

we are in such a state of crisis that i am happy to see fjorester in the ao3 tag bc that means it's not widojest

(in the context of the widomauk d*kes chat) just googled it and apparently cats see purple as another shade of blue... / frumpkin: i know you like the blue one. you want to kiss the blue one and hold the blue one blah blah blah. it is none of my concerns. / caleb: [thinking of jester making fart noises next to him all of last night as he tried to read] ...... do i need to reboot my familiar

also you wanna hear an unbearably straight concept i just came up with that is making me writhe in agony? jester as christine, caleb as the phantom, fjord as raoul, beau as christine's friend she sings angel of music with

my overall feeling is "dismay"

mauve @phantomsteed​:

man jester is the most comphet of us all if she sees a man who needs to fix himself and thinks that love is her fixing him instead

widojest is like the opposite of getting a hot older sugar daddy

it takes a true galaxy brain to be like "huh i guess jester is disillusioned with fjord so naturally she should date the one person who has been there for her and who shes leaned on for support and help and who shes been roommates with this whole time..........Caleb.

i love how this concept is basically Chad Douche Fjord and Nice Guy Caleb. how more het can we get

man jester really has only ever had like 3 men in her life and they're all manipulative weirdos with their own agendas huh. once again this is going by the rule that molly and caduceus arent mean 

jester is the heart of gold little girl and caleb is the mature older man who is the only one to truly care about her and understand her and give her "what she needs"... barf / he understands her so much more than young foolish chad (me rob mollyglock: "swag is for boys... class is for MEN")

mila @dungeonmeal​:

WIDOJEST IS SO BAD TO THE POINT OF BEING FUNNY LIKE... HELLO? HELLO? 911 CAN I HAVE SOME BRAINCELLS

there is more these are just good little soundbites that i could find by searching

[fierypen37]

The Oasis

Here you have a plot fragment I’ve been kicking around. Held Captive takes precedence, but this is fun to play with.

‘The Oasis’ was a rather pretentious name for a glorified hole-in-the wall, she thought. Then again, as one of the most recognizable faces in the known world, such places could be counted upon for their discretion. Crammed between a seedy tavern and an even seedier lawyer’s office, The Oasis sat in a neglected shopping district on Visenya’s Hill. A perfect place to escape her life. The pressures of running her own law practice in addition to her family’s billion-crown conglomerate, her fiancé Daario, her miserable brother Viserys . . . Pain throbbed between her shoulder blades and at the base of her skull, urging her beyond her prevaricating. Missy would help. Missy always helped.

Daenerys shoved open the heavy wooden door, embraced by the cool, humming quiet of the foyer. The cool of central air was a breath of relief after the sticky heat of the day. A water feature bubbled in the corner, soft strains of harp music floated in the air. The counter was empty, despite the tinkle of the door’s bell giving away her entry. Daenerys frowned, her body strung taut as piano wire.

Her lone ally on the Board of Trustees, Tyrion Lannister, flicked a card on her desk three weeks ago with conspiratorial wink. It was a memorable occasion, she remembered. Her face was splashed across newspapers and magazines, photographers of dubious reputation swearing she had sacked Daario for cheating . . . again. The wedding had taken on a demented life of its own, her brother snidely offering the hall of their old family estate on Dragonstone to hold the boatloads of the King’s Landing elite planning to attend. In Meereen, the Harpy Triumvirate shirked her injunction on human trafficking. Company stock had taken a dip in light of the scandal revolving around her COO Cersei Lannister and her brother Jamie. That, plus three nights without a wink of sleep had led Daenerys to find some very creative words for the Meereenese chief officer seated across the arbitrating table from her.

At first, Daenerys had taken umbrage at Tyrion’s casual implication. Nothing raised her hackles more than some idiot implying it was ‘her time of the month’ when her temper soured. Over morning tea, brewed strong and sweetened with sugar, Tyrion reassured her that this place had maintained his sanity during his time in government work. Daenerys took his advice with some reluctance.

Missy’s soft hands and patient touch worked years of tension from her body. Daenerys had made it a weekly ritual. Sometimes twice weekly, if her schedule allowed. It became a craving, to replace the sweet Lysene cigarettes she quit for the last time three days ago. Shae, The Oasis’ proprietor, was an ex-girlfriend of Tryion’s, with a certain low humor and disarming demeanor that Daenerys admired.  

Shae emerged from the dim recesses of an inner office.

“Miss Targaryen, we did not have you scheduled today,” she said, a soft accent smoothing the syllables. Daenerys managed a weak smile.

“I need an hour. Please,” she said. Tension sent bolts of pain up into her skull, the edges of her vision pulsed red. Shae’s finely shaped eyebrows puckered.

“Missy isn’t here. She and Grey had an appointment with the fertility doctor today,” Shae said. Daenerys’ fists curled, and, absurdly, tears gathered in her eyes. The hope of relief snatched away was almost unbearable. Daenerys gave a nod, blinking away moisture.

“May I sit a moment?”

“Of course. May I fetch you some water? Tea?” Shae asked.

“Yes. Tea, thank you,” she said.

Daenerys sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, kneading the back of her neck beneath the coil of her braid. She rolled her neck, listening to the vertebrae crunch like tires on gravel. The soft trickle of the water feature reminded her of Dragonstone, where no matter how high you climbed, the ocean was never far away. Once, she and Vis splashed in the shallows in summer . . . it felt as if it belonged in another lifetime.

A glance at the magazines on the table featured a picture of Margaery Tyrell, the lovely and glamorous actress, and her beau Robb Stark on a yacht on the Sunset Sea. Another bore the image of her own face, looking harried and irritated as she barked into her cell. The headline read: Dragon CEO Fallen Off Cloud Nine?    

“Tea, my dear,” Shae said. Daenerys accepted the foam cup of hot tea with murmured thanks. She savored the rich, spicy mix as it slid down her throat. It was Braavosi if she remembered right.

“Rough day?” Shae asked. Daenerys smirked, gesturing to the array of magazines.

“I’m sure you’ve read of a more interesting sequence of events,” she said dryly. Shae gave a graceful shrug, the fitted gold-hued sweater clinging to her sleek curves.

“That magazine is a rag, but at least it’s entertaining. You know retreats to the Summer Isles are all the rage this summer, yeah?” Daenerys gave a reluctant snort of laughter, polishing off the last of the tea.

“I do have another masseur if you would prefer. He trained with Missy,” Shae said. Daenerys frowned.

“He?”

“Yes, he’s excellent. Knowledgeable, perfectly professional.”

Her first instinct was to refuse. Male attention had never been in short supply, not since she was thirteen. Public attention had hovered around her like an obnoxious glittery cloud since she was born. A wealthy heiress from an old and influential family like her mother marrying the mercurial and charming politician Aerys Targaryen had turned heads, and tongues wagged at the very public and sordid fallout of their divorce—made more torrid given her father’s tenure in public office.

Daenerys bowed her head and a knife of white-hot pain shot up the back of her neck. She blinked away tears, studying the ragged, bloody edges of her cuticles. A nervous habit, her mother had tried for years to break her of it. Daenerys exhaled a long, slow breath, caught between pain and embarrassment.

“I’ll book an hour,” she said. Shae patted her knee.

“You won’t regret it. Come on, you’ve earned some pampering.”

Shae led her to one of their rooms, and Daenerys felt her knees weaken at the thought of impending relief.

“I’ll get Jon. You get comfortable,” Shae said, squeezing her hand in passing.

“Thank you for working me in, Shae.”

“Think nothing of it, dear.”

The door shut behind her with a soft thump and Daenerys breathed a sigh. The soothing melody played through overhead speakers, the lighting dimmed to a golden ambiance. Daenerys stepped behind the changing screen and disrobed, shedding the flowing trousers in charcoal grey and black leather ankle boots, the sharp-shouldered suit jacket and ruffled crimson blouse. She paused to adjust the dragon pin on her velvet lapel, three dragons joined in a circle. Hastily she unwound her braids and tied her crimped hair into a sloppy bun.

Naked, she slipped under the sheet and blanket on the massage table. Gentle heat radiated from the table padded surface, a curved pillow supporting the backs of her knees. Daenerys screwed her eyes tight shut and tried the meditation techniques her counselor taught her, breathing in and out to a lengthening count of numbers. By the time her exhale reached eight, she heard a quiet knock.

“Come in,” she said, hating the way her voice warbled.

The sound of his step was muted by thick carpet, but soon there was a gentle tap on the table near her shoulder. Daenerys cracked open her eyes and was instantly grateful the dim light hid her expression. Jon was nothing like the sketchy image she imagined. Admittedly, she had little idea what a masseur should look like, but the muscled, rugged person that met her eye certainly didn’t fit her suppositions. Shaggy black hair tied back, a short beard framing full lips, and those eyes—gods, those sooty lashes and rich dark eyes could tempt any woman, magnified by the lenses of his glasses. Simple, wire-rimmed frames, the noseband a bit crooked. Her heartbeat quickened, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath the fragile protection of the sheet.

“Miss Dany, my name is Jon. I’ll be your masseur for today. Are there any areas you’d like to work on?” She blinked at the name, dimly remembering that is an alias—albeit a thin one—she’d given Shae. His voice too, was full of surprises. A rich, deep voice holding the burr of the North.

“My . . . my neck and shoulders,” she said in a small voice. Jon nodded, his expression composed, polite. One curly strand of hair fell loose from its tie to hang in his face.

“And light to medium pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Warm towels ok?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like scalp massage, as well?”

“Um, ok.”

Jon nodded, scratching notes on a notepad. Something about his manner was disarming, Daenerys felt some of her trepidation evaporate.

“Ok. I’ll get started. Just let me know if you need anything,” he said. The lights dimmed even lower, to a murky half-dark. Daenerys felt the tension ratchet up between her shoulders, in anxiety or anticipation, she wasn’t sure. Jon settled on a stool above her head.

“Scoot a bit farther up. We’ll start with your scalp.” Clutching the sheet to her chest, Daenerys squirmed toward the upper edge of the table.

“Good. Right there. Just relax,” Jon said, cupping her head.

Thick fingers parted her hair, smoothing along her scalp with gentle pressure. Nerves tingled at the touch, a low fission of pleasure. His thumbs glided along the muscles around the base of her skull, then down to press firmly where her neck and head joined. Missy usually paid attention to her neck and back, murmuring poetry in Valyrian. Daenerys had learned the old language at her mother’s knee, and the lilt of its syllables was soothing. The talk was distraction enough to allow Daenerys to relax. But she found that Jon’s silence was comfortable rather than grating.

After several minutes of his unhurried work, Daenerys forgot her trepidation. His hands rubbed behind her ears, then his thumb moved up to press at the crest of her forehead. Pleasure melted through her like butter on a hot skillet. Daenerys bit back a cry. Gods, that felt good.

“The pressure ok?” Jon asked. Even, his voice was caress, low in tone, roughened by that subtle northern burr. Daenerys blinked her eyes open only to be swallowed by those wide, dark eyes. His gaze felt warm, intensely focused.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s ok,” she said. Daenerys closed her eyes, determined not to open them again during their allotted hour. She was here to relax, not ogle her masseur. The table’s heater kicked on, a fine vibration beneath her.

Jon brushed her hair out of the way, and she heard a faint click. A wet glug and Jon’s warm, lotion-slicked hand smoothed down the back of her neck. Yes, the smooth glide, the soft perfume of lavender, the perfect pressure on those angry, painful knots in her muscles. Jon’s hands were very warm, and the texture just the slightest bit rough. So massage wasn’t his only job. Missy’s hands were soft as silk given all the lotion she used with her clients.

Little by little, Jon kneaded and pressed and smoothed and pinched until she lay pliant under his touch. He moved from her neck to her shoulders to her upper chest along her collarbones in smooth, even sweeps. There it was, that warm, floating place, beyond worry, beyond pain. Daenerys simply existed, soothed and tended by a man with magic hands and the face of a young god . . . Oh no. Gods, she didn’t need this now. She did not need to be attracted to her masseur.

“Dany, I’ll have you roll over now. Lay your head in the cushion,” Jon said.

Daenerys hurriedly obeyed, thankful to hide her burning face. She was perving on her masseur. This was the height of embarrassment. She should just end the session early and leave . . . a broken moan left her as Jon smoothed his hands down either side of her spine, pressing hard enough to shift muscles and undo hidden knots of tension. How hadn’t she noticed him peeling back the sheet to her waist? Daenerys’ fists clenched on the table, wishing she could melt into a puddle and drip away down a drain. She waited for the chuff of laughter, or an awkward fumbling away from the table. Neither happened. The silence was unbearable.

“Relax, Dany,” Jon’s voice said, quiet and unobtrusive. Tears of gratitude gathered at the corners of her eyes, hidden in the curve of the pillow. Even if his expression mocked her, she was grateful for his easy professionalism.

Jon’s hands performed delicate work, then followed by the broad even pressure of his forearms, smoothed by sweet-smelling lotion. Even the chafe of the hair on his arms was pleasant. A sparkling wave of feeling danced behind her eyes after each stroke, every nerve shivered in delight. A fine dew of sweat rose on her skin. She craved more, the heat sank in her blood like fever, on her skin, her back where he touched, her breasts, between her thighs . . .

Jon’s hands lifted from her skin and she nearly cried out at the loss. After a couple clicks and rustles in the corner of the room, Daenerys understood. Get a grip! she told herself sternly. Now not only was she perving on her masseur, she was now aroused. Very aroused, she noticed, clenching her thighs around a sweet, wet ache. She thanked the gods for small mercies. Lying on her stomach, at least he couldn’t see her hardened nipples.

“Warm towel,” Jon said in warning.

The searing damp heat was a shock, but far from an unpleasant one. Daenerys hummed, deeming that sound to be acceptable. Jon pressed the towel down, smoothing away excess lotion before peeling it away before it became too cool to be comfortable. The brief loss of contact was needed to restore a proper frame of mind. Jon was a fantastic masseur, but that was his job. He was in no way responsible for her body’s reaction, or any of the needy, desperate thoughts that came to mind.

The sheet and blanket were straightened back over her back. It was delicate balance, made with care, the need to access her body while preserving her relaxation and modesty. Daenerys marveled at the implicit trust in massage. A person naked before a stranger, alone in a dark room. Jon moved down her arms, kneading the thin skin on her wrists and palms. Daenerys concentrated on keeping her breaths smooth and even. Gently, Jon tucked her arms back under the sheet, moving down to work on her legs and feet. As she shifted, a faint wafting of her arousal rose up.  

“Tender spot?” Jon asked, his thumb lightening the pressure on her calf. He sensed her sudden tension. Her face on fire, Daenerys forced herself to relax.

“Yeah, a little,” she lied, “running stairs on Aegon’s Hill makes them tight.”

“I hear you. That last bit up to Targaryen Palace makes me want to die. My dog doesn’t seem to mind, though,” Jon murmured, before returning to his patient work.

It rested on her tongue to offer to join him on a run, anything to prolong their interaction. She dismissed it out of hand. How pathetic would he think she was? Some deeper part of her mind was storing up details of pour over later in the privacy of her queen-sized bed, the exact texture of his hands, the warmth of him, the magic channeled through his touch.

Jon worked his way to her feet, kneading the arch with his thumbs. Daenerys bit her lip around any more embarrassing sounds, despite how good it felt.  A soft chirp announced the end of their session as Jon wrapped hot towels around both feet. Despite the alarm, Jon seemed in no hurry to end their session. Instead, he smoothed more lotion up her calf, cupping the muscle with gentle pressure. Hidden knots of tension shivered and relaxed. He did the same at the small of her back, then again at the base of her neck. Through his subtle shifting, she caught a whiff of his scent. Soap and woodsy aftershave, with the faint tang of sweat. The room was very warm, after all.

“That ends our session today, Dany. I’ll leave you to dress. Remember to drink plenty of fluids,” Jon said, with a farewell squeeze on her shoulder. The words steadied her. Professional, polite, considerate. He was exactly what she needed today, in Missy’s absence. The problem was, Daenerys was left with only the taste of disappointment. She wanted more.      

                                                        ~

 Jon closed the door behind him with a soft click, as he had a thousand times before with a thousand different clients. Massages were a sensual experience, one made awkward when done with a stranger. People made noise when touched just right, it was a sign he was doing his job. Professionalism came easy to him. It made him a good masseur. Ever since mastering the art, he liked to impart healing, comfort and relaxation to his clients. He slipped into almost a trance, focusing on the muscle and bone beneath the skin, sweeping away the curled knots of tension and pain. With that focus, he could tune out other sensory input. He’d given massages to every shape and size of woman—men too. Beautiful or plain, overweight or thin, it made little difference to him.

This time was different. This time, he was hard as steel.

Jon made his way down the narrow hallway and into the laundry closet. The door was solid against his back, the room humid and warm as dryers hummed and washers rumbled. Jon exhaled a shaky breath, wiping the last of the massage lotion from his hands. Gods, what great fucking timing for his libido to rear its ugly head! It had been years since his high school girlfriend Ygritte dumped him, and female companionship had been superficial and mostly physical since. He got regularly laid, but now his throbbing dick was determined to puncture a hole in his trousers.

“Fuck,” he said, trying to breathe it down.

He closed his eyes and saw again the silky knot of her hair, a determined curl draped against her nape. The graceful slope of her back, the twin dimples at the base, just above the luscious curves of her buttocks. Had he dreamed up the scent of her cunt, so rich and female? That sound . . . Jon thumped the back of his head hard on the door, fisting his cock through his trousers. He hadn’t imagined that. Leaned over the table as he kneaded her back with the heels of his hands, she had moaned. An entirely unobjectionable sound by the current context, but with her—it woke some lustful demon inside him. It didn’t help that his cock was inches away from her mouth at the time.

Jon exhaled a sharp breath through his teeth. His cock pulsed through layers of cotton and denim. He was at work, for gods’ sake! He couldn’t jack off to the thought of a client. A perfectly innocent (gorgeous) client. He also couldn’t walk down the hall to his next client in his current state. Mrs. Pepperidge, a matron in her eighties with gouty arthritis in every joint, would object.

“Damn it,” he said. It was a credit to the mysterious Dany that even with the mental image of Mrs. Pepperidge’s crepe-y skin and dowager’s hump didn’t kill his erection. Nope, that just turned his thoughts back to the milky pale perfection of her skin, warm and smooth beneath his hands. There was a mole high on her left shoulder, her littlest toe had crooked nail. He might know her as well as a lover, he mused. The most private secrets allured him. Those high, bouncy breasts, her nipples pert against the sheet, that mouthwatering whiff of her cunt . . . fuck, fuck, fuck!

Jon yanked off his glasses and marched to the sink. The wrenched on the tap, and doused his face with cold water. Over and over, that cold sharp jolt, little trickles creeping down his neck and wetting the collar of his polo. There. Mercifully, his arousal abated. A rap at the door. Taptaptap.

“Jon, are you in there?” Shae’s accented voice floated through the door.

“Yeah, I’ll be right out. Just washing some linens,” Jon said.

“Ok. Your next client is in Room Four.”

“On my way,” he said, scrubbing his face and neck dry on a clean towel. He crammed all those thoughts of Dany into a box in his head. She was Missy’s client; it was chance that she’d been paired with him. It would never happen again. He needed to get used to that.        

[unpickingthetangles]

H2 A4 D2 R2 I5 A5 N1 for... well, Hadrian. :B

Thank you for the ask! I did end up getting to it tonight! 

H2. do they prefer summer or winter?

Winter for sure! Hadrian does a lot of manual labor as a teenager and Albrundian summers can become unbearably humid and hot very quickly. The only reprieve from the heat would be when the shadow of the large Achian floating island passes over. Hadrian can be rather vain, so he isn’t fond of being sweaty and sticky. Also, Douglas’ birthday is in the middle of winter and he always has these huge parties at the Blue Manor. Hadrian is always invited, of course. Best meal he has all year. (And before he gets with Douglas, Hadrian usually has an excuse to stay in bed with one of his beaus. ‘It’s cold out there! Lets stay snuggled in!’)  

A4. what things are they bad at?

Money! Hadrian can’t balance a budget to save his life. When he officially takes over for the Oar Daily Newspaper at the extremely tender age of 23, he has no experience with budgeting money. He has never had more than a handful of coins his whole life, how would he ever know what to do with more? Douglas has to hire professionals to help him out– who Hadrian promptly fires because they suggest cutting the staff by half. 

He is a mess when it comes to establishing long-lasting personal relationships. Every major relationship he’s ever had has ended poorly because Hadrian will leave him. It has to do with his low self esteem. He believes he doesn’t matter to people, so in leaving them, he doesn’t quite understand why they would miss him. Hadrian is, when all things are considered, a coward. 

D2. how would they decorate their child’s room?

This is a toughie! Hadrian is canonically a terrible parental figure. Not for lack of intent or interest. More-rather, he is clumsy with teenagers, since he had a lacking father figure growing up. 

Since Gretchen is kind of his surrogate daughter, let’s use her as an example. Firstly, everything would be in lavender, her favorite color. Lavender, not purple, that is important. He’d have a hard time telling her no when she flashes those big brown doe-eyes at him. She’d have everything she wanted. A wall to wall bookshelves, curtains with sparkling beads, huge potted plants everywhere. There would also be a massive closest full of dresses and shoes for her, mostly because Hadrian would more or less kick open her door once a month and say “It’s been a rough week. Let’s go clothes shopping, dear thing.” 

Gretchen isn’t the type to want stuffed animals, but Hadrian is 1000% the kind of guy to ignore that and buy her a big stuffed cat because it reminded Hadrian of her. If Hadrian is in a secure financial situation (hell, even if he wasn’t) he’d constantly be bringing home adorable toys. It would get to the point where he would leave it on her bed and she wouldn’t even notice it was new. 

R 2. would they be a strict or laid-back parent?

I think I accidentally answered this with the above question, haha! He would be far too laid back. He would be the kind of parent that would want to be friends with his kid. All those bad habits? They’d learn them from him and he’d be well aware of the fact. 

I5. how long would/did it take for them to come out?

Hadrian is from the city of Albrundia, which is the largest in population but not the capital, that would be Valcludia. Albrundia is the far more liberal city made up of 82 distinct districts (83 including the Graveyard District), and Hadrian grew up in the most liberal and free-thinking of all of them, the Oar District (named for its shape). It wouldn’t occur to him that he would need to come out in any sense of the modern use of the phrase. 

Hadrian is pansexual and is attracted to people and less so genders. If there is anyplace in the entirety of the world were someone could be genderfluid, transgender, nonbinary, genderqueer, agender, any orientation, and living their truest life openly, it would be in the Oar. So to answer the question, Hadrian wouldn’t have much of a need to ‘come out’, he would find other like-minded people easily enough in the Oar, and it wouldn’t garner any negative attention. (It is very different for Douglas, who is from the Thomas District and comes from a wealthy family. Rules are different for him.) 

A5. what is their most impressive talent?

Hadrian’s got those spidery limbs and is weirdly quick with them. He can disarm someone holding a gun to him before they can blink. In their first scene together, he goats Raif to putting a loaded pistol to his head and before he can react, disarms him of the gun, uses his cane to loop through Raif’s loose cravat, and jerks his head into his knee, almost breaking his nose. 

N1. what would they never do?

Cheat on his partner. Hadrian is deeply monogamous. If he is with someone, they are the only person in the world to him.