#I had another picture in which you can see that the topside of the tongue is black (and pink) but it's all blurry so. this is what you get

[critter-captures]

Okapi (Okapia johnstoni) (male, female, young), family Giraffidae

Like the closely related giraffes, okapis have a long black tongue, used to pluck up food, and while grooming.

Also like giraffes, okapis have ossicones: horn-like structures on the head. Unlike giraffes, however, only male okapis have ossicones.

Safaripark Beekse Bergen, taken July 2024

[themafia-terrapins]

Into the night.

A/N: You should read the post before this to get an understanding of this AU. Fair warning, this is pretty long. Enjoy! 💚

Disclaimer: mention of child abuse ahead. Be warned!

Cold. Merciless. Dangerous. Mysterious.

They were the only words that many used to describe the Hamato Clan. No one wanted to mess with them in fear of what they would do, countless stories were told of those who had double crossed them and in result, hadn’t lived to see the next day. The most feared gang caught in a dark and ruthless world of crime, violence, blood and lust. Others wanted their wealth and power but not everything is what it seemed to be. 

The cold breeze hit Leonardo’s face, as he gulped down air quickly into his lungs. He was sure those horrid nightmares would have stopped, it had been almost 11 years for God’s sake. Cursing under his breath, he knocked down the tub of medication which rattled on the floor. The view of New York was beautiful from all the way up here and as frantically as he tried to focus on it, those poisonous thoughts blazed through his mind and he had no power to control it. 

“Father please don’t leave again” The young teen cried, trailing helplessly after the rat who swore angrily. Being only 13, he wasn’t able to grab those supplies that his brothers needed. They were forced to rely on Splinter but he would hardly help them. They were lucky if he even brought down the bare necessities for them to survive on. 

“How many times do I have to tell you leave me alone?! Enough!” Splinter growled, loosening his tie as he made his way to the sewers steps. But Leo had to try for his brothers, he couldn’t look at their pain anymore. He couldn’t go back empty handed, to witness Raphael put up a brave front despite actively bleeding and bruised practically everywhere on his frail body. He couldn’t see Donnie on the verge of another panic attack because he didn’t know how to fix them. He couldn’t bear to see Mikey trying to hold it all together but breaking down in the bathroom , when he thought nobody was listening because he couldn’t live in this nightmare. 

“R-Raph is hurt and we don’t have any more bandages” Leo spoke timidly, trying to sound clear and confident but his voice trembled. Splinter stood still and the turtle could already smell the sour whiskey from his clothes. It had been a bad day, he presumed. Whiskey was only drunk whenever a loss was incurred. And that usually meant he wouldn’t be home for days, much o the turtle’s pleasure. 

“What have I said about speaking back?!” Splinter bellowed, his arm whacking Leo backwards until his shell hit the tunnel. The side of his shell had already been damaged due to constantly training day and night to perfect the routine Splinter had set them. But an audible crack had been heard and a small gasp left his lips, already seeing a trickle of blood roll down his skin staining the previous bandages. He hadn’t even time to register the pain until Splinter loomed over his body, his eyes black and dangerous. 

“Father I’m-” Leo’s breath hitched in his throat, tears prickling his eyes painfully watching his hand raise slowly. ‘Not again, please not again’

“You’re absolutely hopeless, you hear me?!” Again Splinter punched the turtle, laughing each time when the terrapin recoiled in pain. Leonardo held his tongue, scared to further anger the drunken rat. Every slap, punch and kick was taken without a sound because the punishment for wincing was double the amount than the beating now. And he wasn’t so sure his shell could take anymore.

“Look at you! You expect to take on my legacy acting like a pathetic little girl?! Get out of my sight before I finish you” With one swift punch to Leo’s jaw, Splinter left to go topside. He could hear his evil voice cackle on the phone to one of his partners in this mysterious business he refused to utter a word about.

“Why do you hit us so much? What did we ever do to you?” Leo sobbed quietly, curling into a little ball on the floor. The punch on his plastron seared throughout his body, burning in hot white pain. Yet it must be nothing compared to what his brothers were going through. They were awaiting Leo but the eldest could barely move, let alone walk to their home. 

Home, usually described at being comforting and loving but he hadn’t felt any of these emotions since they moved in. He used to yearn for a mother to come and take their pain away but as he grew, that dream slowly died as hope in him also began to wither. 

Maybe one day things would be different...

---

Blaring traffic shocked the turtle out of his trance and with a shuddering breath, he took several deep breaths. He l

“Why must I be reminded of such memories?” Leonardo sighed, his hand drifting over his temple to soothe the dull ache. No matter how long it had been, the wound from his past was still fresh. They say time healed all pain so why did his still hurt? Some nights it was bearable and some nights it felt like he was being suffocated in his mind, slowly driving insane.

Physical pain definitely was a lot more tolerable than verbal, even now he could still hear the echo of Splinter’s voice reprimanding him whenever he failed. Those stabbing words ringing louder and louder in his ears, berating him for being stupid and weak. Laughing at how his ridiculous attempt of leading a team. Leonardo never wanted anything more than to make Splinter proud but during his years, he realised that it was never going to happen.

Splinter only cared for himself and Leo, along with his brothers, were merely pawns in his cruel game.

But now was not the time to dwell on these matters, things had to be done and completed. His phone rang jarring him out of his thoughts and he picked it up rather reluctantly.

“What is it, Silas?” His assistant/companion spoke quickly, picking up the disinterest in Leo’s voice. He was never one for sugarcoating his feelings or emotions, if the boss wanted something done it was pronto.

“Beast is requesting dinner with capo and the mob. Your presence is required, sir” Holding his urge to groan, the turtle glanced down at the lights that decorated the buildings of New York. They were so beautiful but he couldn’t even take the time to appreciate it, reality had called and with great reluctance he had to answer.  

Beast... what was there to say? He was a snob, ignorant, extremely wealthy but lacked any common sense or values. Leo’s patience was practically non existent whenever he communicated with him. While he provided a great reference for other business partners, Beast himself was on thin ice with the brothers.

“Dinner at... 1am?” Leo scowled, looking at his watch. Beast, while had been an average business partner, had constant demands and ideas that were completely absurd. The brothers were tiring of his constant requests and awful timing.

“I did not suggest the convocation at this late sir” The assistant began but Leo interrupted him, wanting to end this conversation. 

“Be that as it may, unfortunately I cannot attend. Cancel my plans for tonight, I have a reconciliation to attend to and the conference will take up most my time” He ordered, observing the bonsai trees that stood on the balcony. One thing he grew to adore was his plants, they were simple and with enough care and love, blossomed into something gorgeous. 

“I don’t think Beast will be pleased with the rejection. He only wants a few words with the mob and especially you, Capo” Silas tried to reason but the terrapin was adamant.

“Enough. Reschedule this meeting tomorrow at 11pm sharp. Am I understood?” Leo commanded and Silas nodded, already writing it down in his notepad.

“Crystal. Enjoy your night sir” ‘Unlikely’... Hanging up, the blue cladded turtle inhaled a deep breath to collect his thoughts. Cancelling the meeting is a mistake but there were bigger fish to fry tonight. Other duties lay heavy on his mind and with a turn of his heel, he left his safe haven. 

As he entered his room, a young woman appeared at his door. Her heels echoed on the polished marble floors, grinding on his last nerve. God he really didn’t want to deal with her right in this moment. Her eyes settled on his and her face lifted into a small smile, one he did not mirror back.

“Katherine, what brings you to my quarters? Surely you’re old enough to understand you cannot barge in whenever you please” Leonardo watched as the young woman quickly stepped back, picking up the heavy discomfort that lay in the air.

“My apologies Leonardo. It’s Raphael, he said that you guys are attending a conference tonight but it’s our 3 month-”

“I fail to understand how this is my problem” He was quick in letting her know, he hadn’t the time to listen to her. Truth be told, he would never understand why Raphael stuck with her. She caused more pain and grief than anything to him.

“Okay... but could you tell me at least why?” She cocked her head and Leo turned, his face set in a hard frown.

“That is between me and my brothers Katherine. I do not appreciate when people interfere in my business. That much should be painfully obvious” His tone was calm but the harsh voice was clearly heard.

Opening his cupboard door, the small picture of Eva caught his eye. A small pang of sadness washed over his body before getting a grip on himself, refusing himself to succumb to the weakness. Eva was the past yet it seemed no matter how long the years had gone by, the yearn was as strong as ever. He wondered if he would ever be free from the shackles around his heart that locked tightly in his chest.

He had to accept that no matter how much he hoped on a wishing star or to the sky, she simply was not coming back. On the side showed a glass mirror, outlining all the features on his face. Sleep hadn’t come to the turtle much recently, he was lucky to get 4 hours and that was on a good day.

“You know you can just call me Kiki like everyone else” She raised her brow as he grabbed his navy blue velvet suit, the unreadable facial expression plastered on his face while his dark sapphire eyes burned into hers. Still standing at the doorway, she felt almost scared of him. Despite being with his brother for around 8 years, she never felt like she knew Leo. No one did, he kept to himself and only showed his true colours to those he cared about.

“Katherine, if that is all you have come to say then I highly suggest you leave me be now. It would not bode well for you to overstep your boundaries” With an almost snarl, he walked forwards and closed his door. 

---

“Would you like some champagne, Mr Hamato? It’s the one you specifically requested, Dom Pérignon” The waiter asked and Leo nodded his head, flicking through the newspapers as he awaited the rest of his brothers to join him. This meeting was better suited to the office, he didn’t need any extra ears or eyes to listen in on the information discussed between them. 

“God, I need a drink” He could hear the brute’s voice carry through the halls and into the meeting room.

“Right away boss” Greyson, his assistant spoke and vanished to make his preferred alcoholic beverage.

“What is the occasion, dear brother? As much as I like to spend time with you, I’m assuming you haven’t called us for fun” Donnie sat down, his ankle resting on top of his thigh as his attention diverted to his brother. Delicately folding the papers up and placing them to the side, Leo eyed his younger brother with a smirk. 

“Always straight to the point Donatello. And you’d be correct, I’ve called this meeting to discuss our next steps” He spoke authoritatively as the turtles settled in their seats, glancing at the board which held ideas and secret plans.

“Did ya cancel tha meetin’ with Beast tonight?” Raph asked, eyes skimming at the tablet. That was very unlikely of the leader, he was the one always nagging to keep up with business meetings and such. 

“Yes, I’ll be damned if I have to listen to another lie of his again. He cannot speak clearly and I have no time for beating around the bush. Once we’re done with this proposal, it will be a big relief to have him off our backs” Leo sipped his wine, flicking through his notes. A few names picked up but on the whole, everything seemed relatively calm. But there was no resting, they couldn’t afford not to be on their guard. Trouble was brewing on the horizon, he could feel it in his body. 

“Fuck sake, how many times do I have to tell you I hate when you organise my notes like this” Mikey sighed irritably as his brothers smirked, looking at each other with amusement. 

It was a running joke that Mikey couldn’t hold an assistant down for more than 2 months. Perhaps it was his picky way of being organised or that he had a short temper and hated his things being out of place, they didn’t know. This new assistant fumbled with the drinks, paling as his boss shouted his displeasure. 

“What happened to Donetti Licata?” Donatello asked, chuckling at his younger brother expecting another childish story about organisation as it as had been the story before. 

“Fired him. Caught him screwing Mia in my bed. Which reminds me I really need to employ someone who actually has a working braincell” Mikey spoke nonchalantly while his brothers looked at each other wide eyed.

“Oh... shit. M’sorry Mike, that must’ve been hard” Raph murmured, surprised at how well his little brother was taking the whole thing. Almost... too well in his opinion. Amelia had been the light of his life, his love at one point. They both brought out the best in each other but perhaps it was simply a mirage to the toxicity that lay just under the surface.

She wasn’t the Amelia he fell in love with and as he came to grips with that, the idea of losing her forever felt absolutely scary to him. He tried everything to put their relationship on track but it was Amelia who refused to partake in anything.

“Hmm? Oh.. yeah. It was tolerable once I beat the shit out of him. I can’t ever believe I trusted the fucker....” Mikey leaned back on his chair as another glass of wine was placed in front of him. Yet the lump in his throat felt unmovable, rendering him breathless. 

“Don’t tell me ya still wit’ her Mike. Yer deserve better than that” Raphael’s hand ached to knock some sense into the terrapin. Even if she would countlessly cheat on him, which she probably had done, all she had to do was flutter her lashes and sweet talk him. And just like that Mikey would forgive her in that second. In his eyes, Mia could do no wrong. She had Mikey on a leash but of course, he was oblivious to it all.

“You still with Kiki?” Mikey retorted, venom in his words while his eyes glared at his brother. Raphael’s frown deepened, holding his gaze. While he knew it was in the heat of the moment, he wished Mikey could see the damage Amelia was doing to him. Kiki was different only because Raph knew her past, knew that she was damaged too. How could he, of all people, leave her hanging alone?

“Children, behave. What do we do about these last few payments? I’ve talked to Xavier and he’s saying Gomez hasn’t responded to anything. It’s high time we pay a special visit, he’s got to know who exactly he’s messing with here” Donnie rolled his eyes at the quarrel and adjusted his glasses, raising them closer to his eyes. Leonardo seemed to be in deep thought for a few seconds before looking at his family again.

“If that’s the case then I want you and Mikey to check it out tomorrow. Me and Raph will deal with Beast, we all know how dramatic he likes to get when he doesn’t get his way” They all knew the last time they messed with Beast, how he threatened to take his money away and leave them bankrupt. Regardless of his filthy money, the turtles were not affected without it.

Years of investing and saving up had allowed them to live luxuriously. They had everything they ever wanted, Beast was just a liability to them. They needed him to increase potential business partners. To be able to stay at the top, they needed to associate with people at the top. If that meant doing business with idiots who couldn’t hold their ground and lacked any sense of morals and values, then so be it.

This was the mafia, after all. Nothing was pretty here.

“He’s clearly trying to inherit the property, why not just kill him altogether” Mikey pointed out, leaning back on his chair but Leo shook his head.

“Too risky. He may be a fool but he’s a smart one. He has plenty of connections with others, much powerful than the ones we have. We’ll keep him on the side but don’t turn your eyes, he will strike when least expected. Once we secure this deal, you can unleash all your anger on him. For now, we stay in his good books. However long that may be” He grimaced at the thought of the meeting they were supposed to have instead of this one. How long the turtle brothers would remain on his good side was unknown but hey, only a few more months of his bullshit and it was home run. The brothers continued to talk about upcoming events and nearing the end of the meeting, they all grabbed their belongings. 

“Wait a sec, Amara’s coming here tomorrow?” Mikey read out the small note on the board and Leo nodded, finishing off his wine. 

“Yes, well technically she’s visiting but we needed some help around here and she agreed to stick around for a while” She was a close friend to the turtles, meeting them after they newly escaped Splinter’s clutches. She had found them at a time when they were barely breathing and even without knowing who they were, she nursed them back to health. They all were indebted to her. Throughout the years, she went back to Italy since her father was part of their own mafia but her loyalty to the turtles never wavered. 

“At least we get ta see a new face ‘round here. But goin’ back ta before, I can’t wait ta finally kill that bastard” Raphael cracked his knuckles, unbuttoning his vest. He never was one to take orders from people, he was incredibly stubborn and arrogant to take commands from someone else. He barely followed Leo’s on a good day, let alone someone who continually threatened him and his family. If it were up-to him, he would have Beast’s head on a silver platter and sent directly to his team 

“All in due time brother. For now, let’s focus on getting our money back and dealing with Beast”

[birbleafs]

[fic] Strange Creatures

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Beckett Fowl, Myles Fowl, Mulch Diggums, Juliet Butler, Holly Short and Artemis Fowl II Summary: Mulch Diggums finds himself abruptly enlisted by the Fowl twins, Myles and Beckett, to create the best Eldest Brother’s Day gift for Artemis, much to Holly and Juliet’s amusement. A/N: Here’s my full piece for the Artemis Fowl Fanzine: A Fowl Mood! It was really fun to be part of this project - many thanks to the mods & fellow contributors for all their hard work. Thanks also to my bro Digi for being a wonderful beta ♥  There are still some leftover merch for sale if anyone’s interested. This fic is set a few years after The Last Guardian, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins (as I’d finished writing it last July). Fic can also be read on AO3. _______

“What strange creatures brothers are!” -Jane Austen- ~.*.~ Mulch Diggums was once again on the run and back to his old habits of skulking among dastardly rich Mud Men, pilfering trinkets and valuables from their homes. And once again, word of his not-quite-earnest—or legal, for that matter—endeavours soon reached the LEP’s ears. In fact, his current whereabouts had turned up as a flashing blip on Foaly’s screens when the centaur had been running one of his routine surveillance sweeps of the surface. That, however, is another story altogether, one that Foaly would happily indulge in if you let him. But Captain Holly Short is a busy elf—short on time and even shorter with patience. So alas, Foaly’s tale would have to be shelved. For now, at least.

So it was that Mulch found himself abruptly cornered by an LEP Retrieval squad in his own home—well, he was house-sitting at the moment, but hey, same difference—just as he was settling into a nice, warm mud bath. That’s the thing about the LEP. Always with the atrociously bad timing, never an ounce of tact. So much for being role models, upstanding fairies of the People. The last thing Mulch saw and heard was a deafening blast as the bathroom door burst wide open, and the zipping sound of a fabric-like netting whirling tight around him. There was a flurry of movement as he struggled in the velvet darkness enclosing him, before he found himself promptly hauled back to Haven City and into the dimly-lit interior of a drab holding room, sitting once again before Captain Short. “Holly! Mon chéri… Compadre!” Mulch cooed, tuning his natural dwarfish charm up a notch. “How’s my favourite elfin lady today?” “Cut the chatter, Mulch. I’m sure you know exactly why you’ve been detained.” Truthfully, Holly didn’t have any hard evidence for Mulch’s arrest this time—not yet, at least. But Mulch had hardly ever been innocent, even when he wasn’t actively committing a crime, so it wasn’t too difficult for her to pretend the LEP knew of his most recent of illegal endeavours (which they didn’t). Besides, she’d lost a stupid bet during a party several weekends ago, and—well. You reap what you sow. Holly made a mental note to never take another sip of a certain centaur’s home concoction of sim-alcohol, recreational study or not. Anyway, back to the plot: She had lost a bet and now she had to pull this dumb prank on Mulch in return for a favour for a certain Mud Boy’s family. Holly could almost hear said Mud Boy’s tired sigh of disapproval upon hearing of his friends’ latest shenanigans. Still, she’d also promised Artemis she would visit the twins soon and she figured this was a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone. Technically, it would be two Fowls and a dwarf. Holly chuckled at her own joke, certain that Artemis wouldn’t have appreciated that quip at all, figurative murder or not. Before Mulch had a chance to explain his innocence this time, Holly began listing down the years he’d have to serve, the cell block they had carefully picked out for him this time, the terribly cold draft they had made sure would pass into said cell every night. And just as Mulch was about to get suspicious, Holly shifted gears and offered a compromise instead. Even though he was still confused and rightfully wary of the sudden turn of events, Mulch tentatively accepted Holly’s deal. And soon, he found himself whisked away on a shuttle topside, piloted by the Captain herself. “So where are we headed?” Mulch asked once he’d settled comfortably into his seat. “Now that it’s just you and me, Captain… I’m allowed to be privy to the details of said ‘deal’, right?” Holly was tempted to reveal the truth then, but she figured it’d be funnier if she let the dwarf discover it for himself. Mulch was a crafty one, after all—it wouldn’t take him too long to realise what was really going on. She only gave him a knowing smirk and murmured ominously, “All things in good time, Mulch.” * From the E1 shuttle port at Tara, it was a quick jaunt to the Fowl Manor. Holly could already hear the voices of the twins drifting over the wind as they made their way past the last cluster of Artemis’ fairy roses and to where the twins and their nanny Juliet Butler were seated by the fountain in the courtyard. Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your…er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas.” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts.  “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face. “Now that that’s settled, someone can finally knead clay with the kids and get some work done before Artemis gets home from his conference this weekend.” She quickly stepped away, disappearing into the nearby garage for several minutes before she returned carrying a craft box packed with an assortment of smaller items inside. “These rascals had me running to art stores all over Dublin the past two weeks looking for all kinds of overpriced play-dohs, and yet hardly asked if I could help them to sculpt!” She grumbled, not quite unkindly, as she shook the items out from the box, laying them out on a patch of grass before them. Holly looked over at Juliet in surprise. “I didn’t know you were into sculpting.” She thought of all the hours the young woman had spent whooping over her favourite wrestling matches on TV as a teen. “Never pegged you as the artistic type.” Juliet snorted. “Pfft, me? Nah, I don’t sculpt. That’s more a pretentious Artemis thing.” “Why would you expect the twins to ask you to teach them, then?” “Well, I’d like to be asked first, at least! I took the time to buy all these fancy play-dohs for them, didn’t I?” Mulch leaned forward in interest, looking over the packets of “play-dohs”. He spotted several labelled as Creative Paperclay—at least Juliet managed to get some of the good stuff. He grinned toothily as he rolled up his sleeves, feeling a spark of excitement at getting to work with clay again. “Okay then, kiddos. Let’s get cracking and moulding.” * “What’s this Eldest Brother’s Day thing you Mud Men celebrate like anyway?” Mulch asked. They’d made their way from the courtyard into the Manor basement where Artemis had set up a work space for Myles’ messier experiments and tinkering projects. The group stood now before the large experiment bench. Juliet covered the top with a large plastic mat, and turning the craft box over, shook packets of Creative Paperclay and several plastic and wooden crafting tools out on the bench. At Mulch’s question, she turned and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. Then she let out a short laugh when she realised he was actually being serious. “Silly fairy,” she snickered, glancing over the top of Myles and Beckett’s heads before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “There’s no such thing as Eldest Brother’s Day. It’s just something the twins came up with but I’m not going to ruin it for them and tell them it isn’t actually a thing. I’m not a monster, you know.” “We know it, Juliet,” Beckett said suddenly, blinking up at her with those large blue eyes filled with mischief and daring. “But Artemis’ a simple-toon—” Myles giggled at his twin’s use of their brother’s old nickname, even as he fought to keep his expression stoic. “—and simple-toons need Eldest Brother’s Day. So we celebrate.” Beckett finished with a nod, as though he’d just gifted both his human and fairy nannies with his brand of enlightenment. “Riiiight,” Mulch said, shaking his head. He figured some things were best left unasked and unexplained, especially when dealing with incorrigibly irreverent Fowl children. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that impromptu alliteration (it was the playwright blooming within him, he was sure of it) and turned back to the project at hand. The twins had already decided early-on the sort of sculpture they had wanted to create. After ruminating over it weeks before, Myles had settled on recreating a 5-inch figure of Jayjay the silky sifaka, the fluffy white lemur whose whimsical escapades were often included in the bedtime stories Artemis read them. Beckett, on the other hand, had chosen to fashion an honorary tribute to Artemis’ late Syrian hamster, Lady Maeve, poised upright on her hind feet in an impassioned stance, gnawing away at a two-headed wyrm. Once the twins had sketched out their preferred designs on paper, Juliet pinned the sketches up on the cork board on the wall for easy reference. Then they got to work. Mulch placed two cups of water on the bench, and proceeded to show the twins how to gauge the amount they needed for their sculptures and how to knead the clay to warm it up and make it more malleable. “It’s a bit like baking extravagant pastries,” he said as he cut a block of clay into various-sized pieces. “You roll the individual shapes out like this and then stick them together to form a whole creature. Like an animal jigsaw puzzle, so to speak.” “They aren’t edible or taste any good though, not like pastries,” Holly added quickly when she noticed Beckett staring a little too longingly at the piece he’d been kneading. She tapped his fingers away just as the boy lifted the clay to his mouth for a quick nibble. “No tasting?” Beckett asked mournfully. “No tasting.” The elf shook her head. “But I do have some special treacle and espresso power bars from Haven City. It’s much better than consuming bland clay. I’ll let you have a bite later when we finish sculpting Lady Maeve, okay?” It seemed like a good bargain, so Beckett closed his mouth and chewed at his lower lip instead, rolling his clay pieces under his palms with renewed fervour. They continued shaping their pieces. Mulch showed the twins how to score the ends of the individual pieces they’d made for the limbs with a plastic knife. Then they connected the scored ends of the limbs to the body, blending the seams and smoothing it down carefully with their fingers and dabs of water. They continued in a similar fashion for the heads, noses, ears, and tails. Once the twins were satisfied with their sculptures, Mulch carefully placed the pieces on a cool, clean shelf to gradually dry and set over the next 24-hours. When they returned later to check on their work, the twins found the dried sculptures were now off-white and grainy to touch, quite unlike the squishy beige blobs they had been pinching and moulding with their hands the day before. “And now for a good splash of colour to make your pieces really pop,” Mulch said, dumping several tubes of acrylic paints and brushes on the bench with much more flair than necessary. He had a paint brush stuck behind one of his hairy ears—it helped him feel attuned with the art connoisseur in him. “Jayjay has a mostly pure-white coat,” Myles mused as he picked out a few choice colours, “but I think a gold accent to his fur tips, ears and tails would bring out his features more.” “Gold, huh?” Mulch looked over the boy’s chosen colour scheme with approval. “Good aesthetic you got there, Mudling.” “A very Fowl aesthetic for sure.” Holly couldn’t help the quip, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Artemis would certainly appreciate the touch. “Lady Maeve wants to be purple like rain,” Beckett declared solemnly, having been uncharacteristically silent for five whole minutes. “Purple? But Beck, Lady Maeve was a golden long-haired Syrian.” Myles tilted his head towards his twin. “If you paint her fur purple, Arty might not recognize her.” Beckett’s attention, however, seemed to be two steps ahead of the conversation. He’d already dipped his brush with paint and was dabbing streaks of purple all over the hamster’s body. “The Lady requests a cloak of purple rain, so purple she shall be.” The adults could barely stifle their chuckles while Myles groaned once again in defeat. He decided it was probably for the best and turned his attention back to painting his lemur. It was nearly noon when the twins added the last dabs of paint, after which Mulch proceeded to spray a coat of clear acrylic varnish over the sculptures to preserve and seal the colours. Then, he stepped several paces back from the bench to marvel at the fruits of their labour. “We have finished at last.” Myles’ voice was soft, awe pooling in his eyes. Hesitantly, he turned to Juliet and Holly, and then glanced back at the dwarf, searching for reassurance. “What do you think, Mister Mulch? Will Artemis like it?” Mulch rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. Both sculptures looked very much like what you would expect of two seven-year-olds’ valiant attempts at artisanal clay work. “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly as he paced around the work bench, reaching into his inner art critic for the right words. “Now, Myles: Despite the crooked tail, you did a fairly good job at carving the fur textures on your lemur. Plus, adding gold accents to the white fur is very innovative and makes Jayjay glow nicely under the light. A very regal and classic touch overall.” Mulch came to a dignified pause before the second sculpture, rubbing his palms together as if in deep thought. “As for Beckett’s recreation of Lady Maeve: It seems far more… robust than the original, almost challenging anatomy and even physics itself. But the bright mixes of purple and gold contrasts nicely with the green and gore of the flailing wyrm, adding a surprising dynamism to the entire piece. All in all, two very good attempts, my young apprentices.” Holly and Juliet were already sighing halfway through Mulch’s needlessly opulent commentary, but even they agreed with the dwarf’s final assessment, much to the relief and delight of Myles and Beckett Fowl. * When Artemis Fowl the Second arrived home from his two-week long conference on Wildlife and Biodiversity Conservation, he was surprised to be greeted only by an unusually silent living room, devoid of the typical sounds of playful bellowing and childish laughter. Leaving Butler to unload his luggage from the Bentley, Artemis wondered briefly at the absence of his two brothers and Juliet, their sitter, before he noticed a strange sort of rumbling noise and vibration coming from somewhere below him. Curious, he headed for the basement, moving cautiously towards the noise. It was there that he found the twins asleep and cuddled around a familiar rotund shape sprawled upon an old velvet sofa. The fairy had his head thrown back against the cushion and was snoring rather noisily. “Ah,” Artemis said, eloquent as ever. He steepled his fingers together, taking a moment to process the scene before him. “Arty…? Oh, you’re finally back.” Holly’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to see his old friend curled up on a second sofa, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Welcome home,” she yawned a greeting. “Juliet’s in the kitchen fixing up some snacks, I think.” “Hello, Holly. It’s good to be back among familiar faces again. It seems that I’ve missed quite a party while I was away…” Artemis trailed off when he caught sight of the strange creatures placed on Myles’ experiment bench. “They’re supposed to be a surprise for you when you returned. For Eldest Brother’s Day.” Holly explained when Artemis raised a delicate eyebrow. He lifted up one of the sculptures for a closer inspection, his forehead creased in confusion at what looked to be a purple rodent gnawing on a plump string of green linguine—Beckett’s. “Eldest Brother’s Day?” Artemis echoed. He reached for the second sculpture—Myles’ lemur—before walking over to take a seat beside Holly on the sofa. Holly stretched her arms as she sat upright. “It’s kind of a long story.” “I expect so. Do enlighten me, if you will.” “Well, let’s see...” Holly began, brushing the side of her cheek with a finger. “Once upon a time, there were a pair of twins who, Frond only knows why, admired and looked up to their chaotically unhinged older brother greatly.” Artemis gave her a slightly wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest in a show of mock offense. “I’m appalled, Holly. You of all people know I prefer calculating to chaotic. There is a method to my madness, after all.” “Ever the theatrical misunderstood genius, aren’t you?” Holly rolled her eyes, even if she couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, a show of affection. “Myles and Beckett adore you immensely—you know that, right?” Artemis beamed, warmed by Holly’s laughter and the comfort of being close to friends and family once more. He watched his sleeping brothers, curled closely towards each other much like two peas in a pod, before he turned his gaze back to the sculptures in his hands. “I know,” he said softly, still marvelling at the twins’ recreations of Jayjay and Lady Maeve. And for the barest of moments, in the quiet that stretch comfortably between them, Artemis Fowl knew that this may only be the start of the first (of many) Eldest Brother’s Day he would experience, but it was already a very good day nonetheless. And he was content. —End—

[mikejonespens]

“After eighteen years of silence, he was finally learning to speak with his hands…”

    Jamie made his slow-winding way to a bar stool. He lifted himself with a hollow grunt, sliding one leg across to the other side and planting his aching buttocks onto the worn leather cushion. He’d have the usual Long Island Iced Tea. Heavily arched over his drink, he drew from its contents and exhaled. The thrusting of his breath mimicked the exhaust dispersed during a launch in Florida, swiftly scattering whatever dust was beneath his jawline. The bartender, Callie, a seasoned woman with silky black hair that draped her broad tested shoulders, glanced along her cat-eye to his direction. She conjured another beverage and walked it to him, with a slight raise of her aging cheekbones and subtle squeeze between the angles of her lips. Jamie broke the chalk of his skin to resemble a reciprocate smile but mustered merely minuscule motions, confusing his facial muscles with an unfamiliar request.

    Callie removed three glasses from in front of him, wiping the rims with a used rag and placed them in a bin for Al, the busboy. “I heard the birds singing some sweet tune earlier,” she said as she pushed the fresh drink toward him. Trailing serpentine behind the sweating dish, her dingy rag hardly drying the mahogany topside. “You’re not thirsty, suddenly?”

    Jamie gripped the handle and tilted the liquid to investigate what it could be. It wasn’t a long island. Perhaps vodka or gin. He dismounted the lemon from the rim and strangled the juice into Callie’s fluidic offering, then stirred deliberately. Before partaking, he reached into his jacket pocket, maneuvering between his keys and loose change to reveal a pad of sticky notes. He dabbed the tip of a ballpoint on the surface of the drink and wrote What song?

    Callie looked down the bridge of her thin rounded nose into the blot left behind by his pen. Her waning smirk lowered in pendulum contrast with the opposite brow. “Before your time,” she shrugged.

    Jamie sighed and lost any interest he summoned. In his neck, the gears ground sharply against each other to turn his attention outside the windows. The windows’ frame stretched upward and on days as this one, luminous bright white beams land softly through the transparent entity onto the floor. The wooden planks were stained and mildly warped. Each watermark tallied the years Regular Joe’s Bar maintained, from hosting state championships to mediating political debates among local drunks. Jamie remained stage right intrigued with the performance but seldom participated. On rare occasion, he exercised expression, contributing dim chuckles or shaming head wags. Though in the midst of riveting yet quarrelsome discussion, he was easily distracted by the light that coated the topmost layer of the uniform planks. When Jamie remembered to raise his sight line (the chiropractor urged his minding his posture) and the light gleamed through the glass, to him it blurred their facial features and transformed agitated faces into abstract, animate characters trading wit rather than clashing their egos. After too long, he knew the atmosphere was different than his own perception alluded and needed to filter the deceiving light.

    Thump! A bird, a pigeon likely, rammed its beak into the glass windows and descended quickly unto death. Jamie’s neck jerked down into the cavity of his upper shoulders, returning to Callie’s glare, a numb right glute and chilling perspiration in his palm resting against the unidentified fluid object.

    Reality haunted him, its deceptive nature is unmatched and omniscience all the more daunting. Even his imagination, a supposed remote destination, the alteration of uncomfortable present events, was often aborted before developing into sustainable thoughts or hopeful notions or definitive ambitions or anything notably intangible. Its reach is boundless and where no presence is welcomed apart from his own conscience, reality would refine the grainy images that pleased him. Stills and motion pictures that, when lacking resolution, invited his interpretation which seldom translated trading blows to genuine animosity. Must’ve been a simple misunderstanding, he thought or, What sport! Plausibly, Jamie was simply naive to bend the light of truth, refracting what’s plain and direct into colors that satisfy the need to see something more (or less). So when annoyance turned distressed in the widening of Callie’s eyes and her focus stretched past his position, naturally, he expected some minor occurrence like the elderly tumbling or a stickup.

    “Keep your hands off her! Last time I’ma tell you,” a recognizable voice warned.

    “Man, back th-the f-f-fu’up. Tha’s my woman. I can do the hell I please with m-my woman.” An upchuck flirted with his tongue, attempting to diminish his prowess and save the man from an inevitable scuffle. Four shots into a young evening and little would reel back his cognizance, thus seven shots earlier ruined his chances of returning home unscathed.

    The two men invoked a forming congregation. Rumbling floorboards tickled the hairs sprouting Jamie’s neck and the unrest of the crowd pulled his helix to face them, but not yet his complete concern. Men along his peripheral gained interest and abandoned their brew to consume this other distraction. Still, he remained in the impression of his seat. In part because he lost sensation where his backside occupied space, but also the gleaming rays began to again beckon his presence in the void of his imagination.

    Sloppy rebuttal continued, “Mind your own business, boy. Tha’s my wo-man.” He dragged his rubber limb like a ball-and-chain from behind him to the direction of his opposition, shifting his balance from one side to the other. In another attempt, he landed his flailing knuckles against a sober clavicle.

    The man with the familiar voice clasped his grip to the drunkard’s collar chuckling with amusement, almost embarrassment for his upcoming victim like watching your nephew stumble on his lines at his first play, “You messed up, family.”

    Family? Jamie thought. His spine whipped upright and rotated toward the source of jargon. Lincoln the Third, his brute of a confidant, was planted right knee first in the drunk’s gut. His bloodied fists scraped the whites through punctures of thick cocoa skin. The surrounding persons began to close in and barricade Jamie’s view. He stood, but his slender tower failed in effort to overcast the spectators. His steps gradually accelerated haste. The slew of observers, in a sudden uproar of excitement, shock, discomfort, and guilty pleasure, became dense and forcibly resistant. Jamie thought, Lincoln the Third must have finished him off. Must’ve gone for the throat or pierced his intestines or yanked the jerk’s collar straight out or… no, he’s honorable—an air-tight stranglehold would suffice.

    When he broke the edge of the crowd, with Lincoln the Third in his sight, another man was abusing his gut, presumably in favor of the drunk. That drunk bastard. Lincoln is taking some tough blows, there. He—wow, he’s really in deep shit.

    The rampant punches continued and Jamie became eager with rage and impulse. Around him, their bubbling skin and entertained eyes begged for the ongoing onslaught, and that annoyed him. His tongue crawled back into his throat the same moment “Get your ass off!” hiked up his esophagus and made post in the cave of his mouth. Grunts and moans replaced his call for truce and plea to stop the scene before witnessing manslaughter. An invisible tightrope bordered the match, and Jamie dared step in the ring. Amidst a loud simultaneous bellowing of amusement (louder than their excitement following this other man sneak attacking Lincoln the Third), he dug his unkempt, dark-rimmed fingertips into the man’s posterior and yanked him up off of Lincoln, then plummeting the man’s back into his bony kneecap. The laughter turned into agonized surprise and a hum of disbelief. Gasps and varying exclamations.

    Jamie pulled his friend by the wrist from the blood on the floor and thought, I couldn’t let him keep at you! Discomfort, embarrassment and pride blanketed his faint smile.

    Lincoln the Third, with whatever strength he had left and the brace of Jamie’s extended arm, hoisted himself into Jamie, leaning and panting on Jamie’s jacket. He pushed himself back just inside Jamie’s field of vision, patted his chest twice, open palm, and sighed a relieving gust of air. “Are you okay?” He looked toward the lady he had been protecting, “Really hopin’ I ain’t take those licks for nothing.”

     “I’m—I don’t even know him. I’m so sorry,” she seemed ashamed. “Thank you, really.”

    “Mhm.” Lincoln dragged himself along Jamie’s pace, his arm loose around his rescuer’s shoulder.

    Jamie rested Lincoln into the same stool he’d been in then sat adjacent, gazing at his own hands. Lincoln knows I’d do pretty much anything for him. He’s done good by me, but now he knows I’m good for it. He knows.

     Barely a word had been spoken between the pair for so long, Jamie wondered what Lincoln stayed around for. His words of appreciation, of camaraderie during their drinking sessions, of interest in Lincoln’s stories eluded him very often, but after eighteen years of silence, he believed he’d learned to speak with his hands. He looked to Callie, who was still stunned by recent events, and he pointed to the sweating glass she gifted him, suggesting curiosity.

     “Lemon water,” she replied.

[hannahindie]

We Need To Talk About Sam

Characters: Reader, Soulless!Sam, Dean Winchester, Jake (OC) Word Count: 1,727 Warnings: Sam being a jerk, not really non-consensual since the reader is sassy as balls but there’s a hint, language, alcohol use A/N: I just randomly had this thought and even though I have stuff I actually need to work on, I figured I’d get this out of my head. Beta’d by my lovely @pinknerdpanda: “gah! what an evil way to end this! ;)” Thanks, pretty lady. :) As always, tags are at the bottom. If you’d like to be added, please let me know!

Y/N sat at the bar, swirling her nearly empty glass as she stared blankly at the television which was showing some football game she had no interest in.

“Want another?” She shifted her gaze from the television to the bartender, then slid the glass across the worn wood.

“Is that even a question anymore, Jake?”

He chuckled, “I guess not.” She went back to staring at the television, and he quietly dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and filled it with what he had come to learn was her favorite whiskey. He slid it back to her, and she reached into her pocket for the few crumpled bills she had left. “This one’s on me tonight. You look like you've had a shit day.”

She frowned at him, “Try a shit year,” she sighed as she wrapped her fingers around the now cold glass, then gave him a sad smile, “Thanks.” She took a sip of her drink and grimaced as the amber liquid burned on its way down.

Jake leaned against the bar and raised his eyebrows, “Anything you want to talk about? You’ve been coming in here for almost a year, and you’re one of the only ones that never bitches about anything. Although you have pretty much paid for my night classes with all that whiskey, so I guess I should thank you for that.”

Y/N snorted quietly, “You’re welcome, I suppose.” She took another sip, then tilted her glass so that the melting ice spun lazily around the bottom, “There’s not really anything to say. I, uh...I lost someone that I cared for very much, and then I lost everything else. I never got the chance to tell him. Sounds like a country song, but it is what it is. It’s not something you can really fix, and I suppose drowning it all in alcohol isn’t the best plan. But I don’t really have any other ideas, so here we are.”

Jake began to wipe down the bar, “Well, everyone has their thing. I can’t say I ever believed in ‘everything happens for a reason’ or ‘what doesn’t break you makes you stronger’ or whatever, but if it were true for anyone...I think it would be you. You’ll be alright.” He cleared his throat, “Heads up, there’s a guy coming this way. Looks like he’s got his sights set on you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “He can set them elsewhere.”

Jake laughed, “Well, you can tell him that. Big guy is coming up on your left. I’d say let me know if you need anything, but I’m pretty sure that guy could kick my ass.” He tossed the towel over his shoulder and walked to the end of the bar to serve someone who had just walked in.

“Thanks for that,” Y/N mumbled under her breath, making a mental note to take it out of his tip later. She felt someone slide onto the stool next to her and sighed, “Listen, I’m really not in the mood to deal with-” Her sentence was interrupted when she turned to look at the person she was getting ready to berate and saw familiar hazel eyes staring back at her. “S-Sam?”

“Hey, Y/N.” Y/N stared at him, her eyes raking over his features as she tried to comprehend that it was actually Sam she was looking at. His hair was a little longer, and the angles of his face seemed sharper somehow. Although his eyes were still the impossible to define hazel that had always reminded her of sunflowers, something seemed...different. Otherwise, everything was her Sam.

“Is it really you?” She whispered, her chest tight with anxiety as it occurred to her she could just be going crazy and that the person in front of her just simply looked like Sam and wasn’t really him.

“Yea, it’s me. It’s really me.” He tucked a rogue strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear and she leaned into his palm, the warmth almost shocking as he cradled her cheek in his large hand. She closed her eyes and let her hand move up to cover his.

“How? I tried….God, I tried everything. I tried to sell my soul, I ….I tortured demons...nobody would talk to me. They wouldn’t make a deal. I don’t understand, how are you back?”

“I honestly don’t know. I just woke up and I was topside. I’ve been trying to find you, but Dean said he didn’t know where you were.”

Y/N slowly opened her eyes and met his concerned gaze. “We umm...I haven’t seen Dean in months. I haven’t spoken to him, it was just too hard. He tried texting me a few times but when I didn’t answer, I guess he gave up.” Y/N reached out and touched Sam’s face, her eyes wide as she felt the rough stubble graze her fingertips. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Sam’s hands moved down to her waist and she sighed as his large hands spanned her hips. “Well, believe it. Because I’m not leaving you again.” He crushed his lips against Y/N’s as he pulled her tightly against him, and for a moment she allowed him despite the shock of what he was doing. His kisses were violent and desperate, and Y/N pulled back so that she could catch her breath. Sam tilted his head, “Are you okay?”

Y/N nodded as she clumsily slid off her bar stool, “Yea, I’m fine, I just need...I need a minute.” She stumbled towards the bathroom and immediately splashed her face with cold water in hopes that it would jolt her back into reality. As much as she had always wanted Sam, this was not what she had expected. She had never had a chance to tell him how she felt, and though she had suspected he might have felt the same, this somehow felt wrong. She gripped the edge of the sink and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself.

The door creaked open and she groaned, “It’s occupied! Go use the men’s room or something.” She heard the lock click and looked up in the mirror to see Sam standing behind her, his back to the door. “What...what are you doing?” The look Sam gave her was almost frightening; his eyes were dark, and the glint in them seemed almost dangerous. He smiled and something about it made shivers run down her spine. She had felt those shivers before he’d jumped into the cage, but this time there was an underlying fear that made her feel on edge. She’d never been scared of Sam before, and she hated to admit she was now...but something was different.

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” He charged across the space and grabbed her by the hips, lifting her onto the sink as he pushed himself between her legs. His lips captured hers again and for a moment she began to melt into him as his hands explored her, his fingertips like electricity as they slipped under her shirt and traveled across her bare skin. His tongue swept along her bottom lip and she moaned into him as he nipped at her. His hand traveled upward and cupped her breast roughly, which is what pulled her out of the fog she'd fallen into.

“Sam…” she said breathlessly, trying to force herself to put a stop to his ministrations, but not quite successful as he moved slowly down and began biting along her neck and collarbone.

“I know. This shouldn't have taken so long,” he whispered, his breath like fire against her neck. She felt his hands move to the buttons on her shirt, and after a moment of fumbling, he jerked it apart. Buttons clattered against the floor and bounced off the sink edge, and it was enough of a distraction to make her try to pull away from him.

“Sam, this isn't how I pictured...I don't want to do this here. We need to talk.”

Sam smirked at her, and for a second, he didn't even look like himself. “Oh, come on,” he said as he reached for her belt and began to unfasten it, “I know you wanted me before. I wanted you, too. You can't tell me you don't want this.” Before she realized what she was doing, Y/N slapped him hard across the face, shoved herself off the sink, and walked towards the door.

She turned, tears in her eyes as she clutched at her ruined shirt, “I wanted Sam before. I don't even know who you are.” She stormed out of the bathroom and toward the parking lot, ignoring Jake as he shouted after her. Once she got outside, she pulled out her phone and scrolled until she found the last person she wanted to talk to. She hesitated, her thumb over the dial option, then finally tapped it. Part of her hoped he would let it go to voicemail, but her prayer went unanswered as she heard the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester.

“Y/N? He found you, didn't he?” The first words out of his mouth, and Y/N didn't even need to say anything. Anger consumed her as she got in her car and fishtailed out of the parking lot.

“You knew? He made it out of Hell and no one fucking thought to tell me?”

“It's not that simple-”

“Bullshit! You knew how I felt, and you didn't tell me. I have been miserable. I was alone and broken, and you should have told me.”

Dean was silent for a moment and when he answered his voice was low, “You weren't the only one that was alone and broken, Y/N.”

“Dean…” He was right. Y/N had left, and refused to talk to him. She was just as guilty.

“We need to talk. There's something wrong with Sam.”

“I noticed. He's a complete jackass. He's not...he's not my Sam.”

“He's Sam...he's just…” Dean paused as he tried to think of the best way to put it, then decided that it would be better to do it fast, like ripping off a band aid. “He’s soulless, Y/N. Whoever brought him back...they left his soul in the cage.”

Forever Tags: @trexrambling @pinknerdpanda  @wheresthekillswitch @emilywritesaboutdean @arryn-nyxx @emptywithout @escabell @charliebradbury1104 @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes  @deanssweetheart23  @canadianjelly @super-not-naturall @aubreyreadsstuff @dean-winchesters-baby @melissaj616 @fandomismyspiritanimal @keepcalmandcarryondean @assbutt-still-in-hell @owllover123 @rosie-winchester @amionthetumbler @duubaduu @hiimaprofessionalfangirl @goldenolaf25 @authoressskr @nanie5 @mrssamfuckingwinchester @zincomms @kathaswings @crazynerdandproud @barbedwireandbubblegum @sandlee44 @boxywrites @justanotherdeangirl @smalltowndivaj @captainradicalpassion @myloveforyouxx @atc74 @mrsbateshotel53 @easelweasel

[feynites]

Hello, the anon reading to her mother here! I passed on that you were happy she enjoyed your story and I think she's a little starstruck; she's still not used to a community where writers and fans interact freely haha. She then told me not to bother you too much, but to ask if you could write about Zevran showing Brosca Antiva City for the first time? She's always had a difficult time picturing Antiva beyond the fact that it's Spain-esque. She wants to hear how beautiful it is!

The trip to Antiva is a longone.

She and Zev get on their boat in Amaranthine, very nearly undercover of darkness. They don’t set sail until morning, but they’re both eager toavoid having her recognized.

 It’s not that she doesn’t really want to check in with anyone else,per se, it’s just that she doesn’t want to have to go and deal with some othercrisis (or ten) before they can even get out of the docks. The two of them steer clear ofthe keep, and the wardens they spot on patrol as they make their way to the port. The last letter she got from Nathaniel had been depressing, but at least not urgent. She’d collected it topside, from a warden drop box she’dset up herself, not long after reuniting with Zevran.

Most of the wardens she’d recruited for the Amaranthine keep aregone. Anders, Justice, Velanna, Sigrun – all had left no less than a week aftershe had set out to investigate the Deep Roads again. Orlais had sent over a man, Jean-Marc Stroud, to mind the territoryand oversee some repairs in her absence. He’d brought a load of Orlesian recruitsalong with him, and part of her thinks she’s going to have to… deal with this,somehow. At some point. The Ferelden distaste for Orlesian soldiers is still strong enough toextend towards wardens, from time to time, and from Nate’s accounts, Stroud’sabout as charming as mud and nearly as thick.

But Zevran’s got businessin Antiva, and that’s important, too. And she honestly doesn’t think she couldhandle more months of fending off darkspawn and dealing with warden politicsand the horrors therein. Not… not now. It feels like she’s been shunted fromone crisis to the next, from politics and werewolves and abominations, armiesand archdemons and talking darkspawn, the surface and the Deep Roads and enoughhorrors to make her almost miss Dust Town. Assassins, she can handle. Assassinsare normal.

The sea, though…

She almost regrets it once they’re on the open water. The sway ofit disorients her, and the sky overhead and the vast, choppy blue all aroundmakes her feel dizzy. She empties her guts over the side of the boat so manytimes that she loses count, and after a while Zevran even stops making quipsabout land-legs and develops is a furrow in his brows instead. He pours enoughginger tea down her that by the time they dock, she’ll be happy to never tasteit again.

Her first sight of the Antivan shoreline is kind of anticlimactic.Mostly because she’s just focusing on staring at the ground and resisting the urgeto kiss it. By the time they make it to an inn, she’s recovered enough to atleast look around some, though. Bright,she thinks. The first thing that catches her eye are the flowering vines thatgrow along the outer walls of the building they’re heading for. Ruby redblossoms hang like bells from a shaded canopy, casting coloured shadows overwindows with wooden shades. They’re a good ways away from the docks, now, sherealizes. Zevran had led her quickly enough, carrying two bags on his back andlooking so intent and so assured of where he was going that she, in herstill-nausea-addled state, hadn’t even thought to question it.

"A dwarf!" a man exclaims, before they’re even at thedoor. "We don't see many of your kind around here." He has the darkerskin tone that seems more common on this side of the sea, and he towers besidethe frame of his doorway, standing just beside it. His voice has the lilt of athick Antivan accent, but unlike most of the sailors they’d travelled with, hedoesn't try to speak to them in the smooth and fluid native language that shecan't really understand.

He hardly glances at Zevran. She’s not sure she likes that. Butmaybe it’s the novelty.

“I guess not. Where would we come from?" she replies, as Zevtakes a look around. He’s checking something, but she can’t really say what.

There aren't any dwarven cities in Antiva - none outside ofFerelden and Orlais, in fact - and having suffered the trials of traveling viaship, she can't imagine that many dwarves would subject themselves to itregularly enough to raise a good surface community here. Even if the sun iswarmer, and the air has turned from the drab grey of rainfall to a salty-brightscent that feels strangely refreshing, she doubts it would be worth the trauma.Particularly as she's not far enough from the docks to avoid the strong stinkof fish and... whatever else makes the sea smell so strongly. Salt, for onething.

The inn-keeper raises an eyebrow. "Well, they'd come fromwherever you came from, maybe," he replies, running his hands lightlyagainst one another. Finally, he glances at Zevran. His eyes linger on Zev’stattoos for a moment, and his back straightens a little when he does.

"No sane dwarf would subject themselves to that trip,"she replies

Zevran shifts, then, moving his cloak just enough to reveal thecoin purse at his hip. He glances at her.

“No cowardly one, I would say,” he counters.

But when he speaks next, he looks to the man by the door. And hiswords come out in an elegant rush of Antivan. Swift and sharp, and faster thanshe can keep up with. She watches his lips move for a moment. He’d taught her alittle of it, in between her rounds of vomiting. She’d already known some Antivan, of course, but most of itwas the sort of thing that had limited use. ‘Mi amor’ and the like. She catchesjust enough to know that Zevran’s asked about lodgings.

The man’s gaze lights up with professional interest, and he ushersthem inside. The inn is nice. Nicer than most of the places in Ferelden, infact, with thick off-white walls and bright, multi-colored curtains hangingover arched doorways. It's clean, too, as near as she can tell. No mold on thewalls or dirt on the floors, and the rug in the entryway looks only a littledusty.

Zevran talks very quickly in his native tongue, and while shedoesn’t make out a lot of the specifics, she can tell that he’s being firm about something. The innkeeper transitions,in short order, from all but ignoring him, to making appeasing gestures and addressinghim almost entirely. She catches a few stray words. Mostly the haggling; Zevhad been very intent on showing her how the currency worked and explaining whatthe general cost of things should be.

It takes a little longer than usual, but eventually, they get aroom, and a bath, and a platter of food. Crusty bread and soft-cookedvegetables and little round balls of cheese. Once they get inside, though, shetakes some time to just sit with her feet on the floor, and her back againstthe wall. There’s a chair, but it’s too tall for her comfort. The bedframe islow, though, and surprising enough in itself. Most inns this small don’tusually have such things. Zevran checks it, pressing down on the mattress andthen giving her a wink when it proves steady.

She chuckles at him. The ring she gave him gleams on his finger.

“Come,” he says, extending a hand towards her. “You will feelbetter with a change of clothes and the ship grime scrubbed off of your skin.Trust me.”

She doesn’t doubt him, really. She can feel the way her clothesare sticking to her, the way her sweat has permeated the fabric and the itchingof her scalp from it.

“I just need one more moment,” she requests, though. Antiva doesn’thave a lot of darkspawn, she thinks. Some, but not a lot. That might explainwhy it just feels… different, here.Muffled, almost, but not in a bad way. It’s like some tether or other that she’snever quite been wholly aware of has slackened. She might like it, she thinks,but right now, between the sea and the sky, it’s making her feel dizzy.

Zevran frowns a little, and moves towards her.

“You are not feeling sick again, are you?” he checks.

“No,” she assures him. “Just… getting my balance back.”

He accepts that, with a nod, and after half a second, settles ontothe floor beside her.

“Perhaps the sea voyage was a poor idea,” he concedes.

“How else were we going to get here?” she counters. After a beat,she reaches out and takes his hand. Threading their fingers together. She runsher thumb over one of his callouses, and tips her head back against the wall.

Zevran lets out a tremendous sigh.

“Well, we are here now. No more ships for a while,” he reasons.They’ll have to go back at some point, of course, but she opts not to mentionthat. For the time being, Antiva will do, and she’s not in any hurry tocontemplate return voyages. That’s a problem for her future self to deal with. She’soff the boat, and on dry land, and there’s a bath waiting and Zevran besideher, and honestly that food platter is actually starting to seem a little bitappealing, too. The metal bath tub looks just the right size for a dwarvenwoman and a slightly-built elven man.

She can work with this. Happily, in fact. Sea air’s still betterthan dust.

Another minute more, and then she sits up.

“Alright,” she says, giving Zev’s hand a squeeze. “The sooner weget out of these clothes, the better.”

He chuckles.

“Always a woman after my own heart,” he agrees.

But even though their hands roam quite a bit, they don’t actuallydo anything much beyond helping one another undress and wash. The clothprovided is serviceable, and there are three bottles of… stuff, which shethinks seems like a bit much, but Zevran grins happily and then explains thatone is for the body and two are for hair. He shows her how they’re supposed tobe used. One of the bottles for hair smells like honey. She grins as she worksher fingers across his scalp, playing with it a little, and enjoying the way heleans back into her touch and relaxesin the water.

Water which has turned muddy and cold by the time they’refinished. Still, they’re both clearly feeling a lot better by the time they getout, and she finds she has enough energy to tuck into the food platter.

The little round cheeses are spongey and strange, but she likesthem best.

“We will have to find better clothing for you, now that we arehere,” Zevran muses, as he munches on some of the bread, and busies himselfwith taking stock of their travel bags.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” she wonders, honestly baffled. She’dbrought three sets, all good for travel, and even for the perils of weather. Zevran tsk’s, though, andshakes his head.

“For slogging through muddy Ferelden and fighting darkspawn?Nothing. But we are in Antiva, now, and there is the sun to contend with. Youcannot wear so much wool and leather, you will overheat.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Ferelden has the sun,” she feels compelled to point out. Sheknows, it was one of the most disconcerting moments in her life to look up andsee it. The first week she spent on the surface, she kept worrying that it wasgoing to fall down.

“Ah,” he says. “But it is not Antiva’ssun. Trust me, you will be thanking me for this.”

Well, he would know better than she would, she can concede. Thesun still looks like the same glowing orb of disconcerting fire to her, but then again, it’s impossible tolook directly at it. So maybe she wouldn’t even notice if it changed. It’salways going up and down, too. Maybe at some point over the sea, another suncame and swapped places. Maybe that’s why the light falling in through thewindows looks different, on top of everything else.

It’s a light that likes Zevran better than Ferelden’s grey skies,she thinks. He’s still naked as he goes through their bags, one hand holding athreadbare, off-white towel that he occasionally presses to his hair. He looksbright, too, here. Polished by this sunlight. Maybe it remembers him? Can thesun do that? She watches him for a long moment, as she picks up anotheroffering from the food tray.

If she was the Antivan sun, she thinks, she would have missed him.Would be happy to welcome him back, too.

Eventually, he catches her staring, and raises an eyebrow.

“See something you like?” he teases.

“Mmhmm,” she confirms. “The man I’m going to marry. I always likethe sight of him.”

Zevran grins, at that, in the pleased way he’s taken to gettingwhenever she mentions their plans. They’ll get married in Antiva. He knowssomeone, he’s said, but honestly, she doesn’t much care about the particulars.It’s being married to him that she’slooking forward to. A wedding was never one of her dreams – never even one ofRica’s dreams, truth be told. But if he wants some kind of party or aparticular place or people, she’s not going to object.

He puts down their bags and comes over and kisses her.

When he pulls back, she picks up one of the little cheeses, andpops it into his mouth, in turn. Playful and light, the sea voyage memoryfading to the background almost completely, now.

“I almost cannot believe we are in Antiva,” he admits. “But thefood actually tastes good, so we must be.”

She kisses him again. Just on the surface of his lips, while hechews.

“Are we going to have to go smell boiled leather, too?” sheteases.

Zevran hums.

“We may,” he decides. She doesn’t think he’s actually joking, atthat. But that’s fine enough. Some part of her is curious, too, to see more ofthis place that made Zevran. She feels an odd sort of resentment for it, and anodd sort of gratitude, too. It made him the same way Dust Town made her, butwhile she’d be fair enough with never setting foot in Orzammar again, Zev’salways missed this place.

They pass some more time with kisses and quips, then, until Zevranfinally deems some of the clothing she brought sufficient ‘for now’, and thetray of food has been emptied. Once they’ve redressed, they wander back outinto the inn proper.

By then it's almost evening, and a few other patrons have trickledin - most of them coming just for drinks and meals, it seems. They look likedock workers, and talk in loud tones that remind her of inns and taverns theworld over, despite the fact that they’re all speaking Antivan. There’s a goodmix of humans and elves among them, and while she merits a few curious glances,no one calls out to ask if she’s a warden.

They don’t linger for very long, anyway. Zevran’s of a mind to getto the market, and seems convinced that the encroaching night won’t be an issue.The innkeeper stops them just briefly to ask something about ‘morning’, shecatches, but Zev waves him off and just says a polite ‘no’ in return. They slipback out through the door they came in by. Their bags are left behind, butreally, there’s nothing particularly of value in them. Just clothes and some travelgear, and a writing kit for all those letters which Grey Wardens are apparentlyobliged to send.

She still hasn’t really told anyone where she’s gone off to. Shefigured it would be better to actually bein Antiva before she did, lest some crisis emerge and stop her.

At this point, she feels only a little guilty about it. But Zevran’sarm is around her and the streets look orange in the evening light, and shefinally has enough of her own back to really look around and appreciate it.

Antiva is big. Big, bright, and well-populated, with wealthydistricts and tall buildings piled atop the poorer communities and slums, notterribly unlike Orzammar in that sense. The colours here are vibrant. There arefew of the subdued greys and browns which hold prominence in Denerim andAmaranthine. Instead, everywhere she looks, there are flowery yellows and richgreens and light, eggshell blues, broken up by the occasional deep red, burntorange, rosy gold or vivid purple. Most of the buildings are pale, and inplaces the light strikes them with a brightness that makes them shine, and doesa serviceable job of disguising the shadows and the wear-and-tear on some ofthe older structures. She can still see places where plaster has peeled orpaint has come off, and the sea air has worn some of the places closer to thedocks down in strips of flaked paint and faded awnings. But it looks warm andsort of peacefully ill-repaired. Down the main road and opposite the sea, shecan make out a great green hill, dotted with what looks to be manor buildingsand estates.

It's remarkably beautiful, she thinks – but there are still longshadows in the alleyways.

The streets are filled with all sorts of folk as people make theirway home from work, or out to late jobs. The movement of bodies reminds hermore of Orzammar than a human city or the Dalish camps. Up on the surface, sheknows, activity slows down once the sun starts to set. Humans and elves and dwarvesalike, and even qunari, probably, retreat to their homes or taverns, abandoningtheir work until the light comes back. Elves a little less swiftly than humans,having fewer luxuries of free time and better eyesight to make the early nightappealing to them. Zevran had explained it to her once, though she can’trecollect how it came up.

Underground, of course, it's different. The fountains of magmalight the streets constantly, and always at the same brightness, so there is no'day' and no 'night'. There are hours where more people sleep than others, wheremore shops are open, or where this tavern or that bar is closed so as not tocompete with the other. It doesn’t have the same sort of overwhelmingconsistency, but, she’s gotten used to the surface ‘shutting down’ at night.

And yet, as she wanders through Antiva she sees people - mostlysmall, skinny elves - lighting torches here and there along the wider roads,trying to fend off the darkness for those who seem set to work another shift.People still move like they’ve got business to see to.

The torches smell strangely familiar, and when she remarks on it,Zevran casually pulls one down to show her. She finds that it's filled with athick, bronze oil that burns very, very slowly. All at once she recognizes thescent - it's milder, but rather like the vile, black sludge that some of theminers in Orzammar bring up from the working tunnels around the Deep Roads. Thesame substance that is used to light some of the fancier fountains in thepalace and market districts. Stealing a pot or two of it could fetch a goodprice for a nimble-fingered youth who knew a good fence, way back when. Itprobably still does.

She wonders if this stuff has come as far as she has, or if thelocal Antivans dig their own tunnels in the absence of dwarves, and mine itthemselves.

“I cannot say,” Zevran admits. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” she concedes. “Just curious. I wonder if I everunwittingly sold stolen oil that made it all the way to Antiva.”

He gives the torches a considering look, at that.

“I wonder if I ever used your oil to light an evening,” hecounters, and seems taken by the whimsy of the unlikely idea.

One of the children barks a complaint at them, though, and Zevranwaves back and throws a coin at the skinny girl, before putting the torch backin its proper place.

“They get in trouble if they run short of oil, or break any of thelights,” he explains.

She looks towards the little figures.

“Are they orphans?” she wonders.

“Some, maybe,” he says, with a shrug. “So far as jobs for childrengo, it is one of the better ones, so a lot of them will have families, too.”

That’s familiar enough, she supposes. Lighting torches had neverbeen fit work for Casteless in Orzammar, but there had been jobs that werebetter than others. Anything away from the middens was usually worth fighting overthe privilege of doing. It takes her back in unexpected ways, watching thechildren dart through the passersby; overlooked, almost invisible, but thelight follows them wherever they go.

As night settles in, Antiva City’s greens begin to fade, and theyellows, reds, and golds all gleam, and firelight spreads like the jewels on anoblewoman’s necklace. Dotting its way along the rich-looking hills. The seaseems terrible in the dark, though. Black and fathomless, as the waves lapagainst the docks. The dark of the ocean reminds her of the dark of the depths.

She wonders if that’s why they light up the night, when othersurface folk seem content not to.

The market they get to is certainly bright enough. There are morestreet lights, but also some which look to be done by magic. She thinks shesees some mages, and some Tranquil with sunburst markings on their skin, sellingwares that look different from the enchanted goods for sale in Ferelden. Butthe mages aren’t the only ones hocking their goods, and there are enough peopleand traders about that the crowd soon moves them in another direction.

Zevran seems content to flow with it. She follows his lead, andkeeps an eye out for pickpockets, or other trouble. Some part of her – some partthat she’ll probably never be entirely rid of – half expects to hear someoneshout at her. Casteless in the market. That part is always braced for guards tocome and chase her out, for someone to throw something. A shoe or a brokenbottle or a curse. The lights in the market blot out the stars well enough thateven looking up can’t quite remind her that she’s topside. The sky just seemsblack as any deep cavern wall, now. But the abundance of tall folk help, andthe eyes that linger on her seem to do so more from curiosity than distaste.And on some other level it’s steadying, too. From the marketplace, they can nolonger hear the eerie sounds of the sea.

Zevran keeps an arm around her shoulders.

They pass vendors selling cloth and charms and sweet-smellingperfumes. Fresh produce does not seem to be a good nighttime business, atleast, but there are a few stalls selling roasted nuts and dried preserves, andthings that would be too heavy for sticky fingers to covertly nick from thedisplays. They pass jewellers and carvers and blacksmiths, and stop at onepoint to admire a boxed knife set at a general goods dealer. The seller is busywith other customers, though, and the blades would need a lot of restoring tobe good enough by their standards.

Eventually, their leisurely tour sees them to a stall sellingclothing. Clothing in light fabrics, and bright colours of a match for thesorts of vivid dyes she’s already seen around the city. Part of her thinks it’sfancy, noble sort of stuff. Frippery. The kind of clothes you wear when you don’thave to get your hands dirty or your ankles wet, and you want to show off aboutit. But then she looks closer, as Zevran chats with the seller, and finds thather gauges are all off. The dyes might be bright and the fabrics might belight, but there’s none of the fancy needlework or decorations that come withnoble finery. Some of the fabrics are rougher than they’d seemed. And the cutslook like working clothes, as near as her eye can tell.

It’s just more of Antiva’s brightness, then. Sinking into theclothes as well as the buildings.

There’s not much made in dwarven sizes, but after some chattingthe woman minding the stall takes some measurements, and they go over a fewitems. She speaks some common, and makes a point of saying a few things in it,asking about pants and skirts and even directing them to a cobbler further downthe square. Zevran tips her, and they make arrangements to come back tomorrow,when some of the articles they’ve managed to pick out can be modified to fit adwarven frame much better. And he also selects a couple of tunics and a set oflight trousers for himself.

Even in the flickering light, the shade of blue he picks looks sobeautiful against his skin that she can’t help but tell him so.

“I missed colours,” he admits, a little ruefully. “Ferelden dyesare… not good. Except for the green. There is some nice green over there.”

“Do all these dyes come from Antiva?” she wonders, as they headfor the cobbler.

“No,” he admits. “Some do, but I know some come from Rivain andNevarra, too. And Orlais. Though Orlais buys much more than they sell. It’s easierto get in Antiva, though. Something about how trade works. I actually have noidea of the particulars there, to be honest.”

She laughs.

“You can’t regale me on the nitty gritty of Antivan trade?” shejokes.

Zevran sighs in mock despair.

“Sadly, no. Not in this field. I could tell you more about thefish trade, or the leather trade, but even there, I fear some of my knowledgeis outdated, at least.”

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” she promises.

The cobbler is interesting, though ultimately their boots areserviceable enough, and he lacks anything that is of the particular leather andstyle that Zevran seems most taken with. His stall is close enough to the roadthat it’s easy to circle back to where they started from, even moving with theother foot-traffic, and not long after that, they begin to make their way backtowards the inn. By then she’s shifted into holding Zevran’s arm, and hasrelaxed enough that she’s no longer watching anyone unless they drift too closeby.

They pass a tavern along the way. A particularly talented bardsings out into the night. Voice echoed by the lyrical strumming of some stringinstrument or another.

“So,” Zevran asks, once they’ve gotten past the tavern. “Firstimpressions! What do you… what do you think of Antiva?”

He looks just a little bit nervous.

Well.

This is the place he’s been telling her about for years, now,after all. His home. The one he’s been sick for; the one with a sun that loveshim, and streets full of colour, and nights full of light.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him.

He beams at her.

“The most beautiful place in the world, I told you so,” heasserts, with more confidence now. She can’t help but smile back, as they carryon towards their inn again.

“The most beautiful place in the world,” she confirms. Much to hisdelight.

But really, if it makes him so happy… she’s willing to concedethat it might well be.

Even if just for that.

[solosorca]

Ryoma has the idea of Ice play after he sees Tezuka eating a popsickle

Also for @ayameandfriends who also requested ice play

Send me a pillar NSFW headcanon/prompt and I shall write fic

It was another blisteringly hot day. The air shimmered, thick and heavy.

Ryoma leant back against one of the poles holding up the veranda roof, a leg danging off, hanging in the heat. He fanned himself vaguely as he flicked through a magazine, his brain too mussed to take more than half the words in.

Abive him, a bell pinged, a sharp sound cutting through the constant hum of cicadas. His eyes flicked up to it before returning to the magazine via Tezuka.

Tezuka was sat opposite him, looking particularly un-Tezuka like. His hair was stuck in odd directions where he’d brushed it out of his face and his yukata was falling off his shoulders, offering a truly delectable sight. A book was in one hand and a popsicle in the other, which was melting all over his hand.

Ryoma watched with interest as Tezuka pushed the popsicle past his lips, taking most of it in, sucking and then sliding it out again. Ryoma shifted, now uncomfortably hot, he could imagine Tezuka doing that with something else, something infinitely more enjoyable for Ryoma.

Tezuka noticed him staring and his eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Ryoma muttered, turning back to his magazine, his face burning. There was no way he could concentrate on reading now! 

Carefully, so as not to be caught, Ryoma glanced up through his damp fringe. Tezuka was still struggling with his popsicle, trying to keep the sticky blue liquid off his book.

It stirred up all kinds of thoughts in Ryoma’s head, all the things he wanted to do to Tezuka right now. Touch him, kiss him, take him up to bed or do him right here on the veranda, straddling Ryoma’s legs, fucking himself, his yukata barely staying on or strip him and lay him bare on the floorboards and drive all thought from his head.

A bit of the popsicle broke off, falling onto Tezuka’ bare chest. Tezuka twitched and gasped -a gasp that almost sounded like a moan. Ryoma bit his lips, trying to think about anything but tracing the lines of Tezuka’s body with ice, relishing every shudder and moan.

Fuck. That was hot.

Before he could stop himself, he was scuttling off to the kitchen, emptying the ice cube tray into a glass.

It wasn’t fair! Tezuka was far too attractive for his own good and always found a way to show it off at the wrong times. At least they were alone today, not like that time at a stupid party Tezuka had kept fiddling with his tie, drawing attention to his neck, which was Tezuka’s Most Attractive Spot -or, at least, the part of Tezuka that Ryoma likes kissing and sucking at because Tezuka made The Best Noises when he did that and .... he was getting off track.

Anyway, the worst thing was Tezuka had no idea what he was doing to Ryoma! He’d had to run away to the bathroom during that stupid party to try and calm down.

Tezuka was still reading when Ryoma returned, but had managed to eat the last of his popsicle, Ryoma was sort of disappointed.

“You hot?” Ryoma asked, kneeling in front of his boyfriend.

Tezuka looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow that said ‘what are you planning, Echizen Ryoma?’. Ryoma grinned in reply.

“I’m here to cool you down,” Ryoma said, motioning to the ice cube filled glass.

Tezuka raised his eyebrow further as he worked out what Ryoma meant. Then, he nodded, a silent motion of consent.

Ryoma was so damn lucky.

He plucked a cube of ice from the glass and pressed it to Tezuka’s lips. They parted slightly and his tongue licked carefully at the ice, the melt water dribbling down his chin. Ryoma slid the ice off Tezuka’s bottom lip and bopped him on the nose with it.

He leant in and kissed him, Tezuka’s lips cold and wet against his own. Tezuka titled his head to allow their lips to fit together better, Ryoma’s nose hitting his glasses.

Ryoma swallowed the moan as he pushed the ice against Tezuka’s neck.

“Why?” Tezuka gasped against Ryoma’s lips.

“’cause you’re hot,” Ryoma replied, dragging the ice down, leaving a trail of cold water on Tezuka’s clammy skin. “Just relax, Buchou. You know I’ll stop if you tell me.”

“I know,” Tezuka said as the ice cube, now a tiny sliver of ice reached his collar bone.

“Good,” Ryoma breathed, catching Tezuka’s lower lip between his teeth.

Tezuka moaned, his hands grabbing onto Ryoma’s hips and trying to pull him close. But it he was close, he couldn’t watch Tezuka properly and how was he meant to enjoy turning Tezuka into a moaning, shuddering mess if he couldn’t see?

“I want to watch you,” he whispered into Tezuka’s ear before nibbling on the lobe.

“Shouldn’t we go to bed?”

“Nah, it’s more fun out here, where anyone could hear us,” Ryoma replied smirking as Tezuka shifted uncomfortably under him. But not the ‘we should go inside’ uncomfortable, but the ‘finding the idea so hot he was getting very hard very quickly’ kind.

Fuck. Ryoma was lucky.

He fought away the temptaton to call Tezuka a pervert, just in case it scared him into saying no. Tezuka’s inner pervert was an elusive and beautiful creature, one that could easily be scared away.

“I love you,” Ryoma said instead. It wasn’t necessary they both knew it, but he couldn’t stand not saying it.

Any resistance to the idea died away in Tezuka and he sighed, pressing a kiss to Ryoma’s cheek.

“You need more ice.”

Ryoma pulled another ice cube out the glass, sitting back slightly to get a better view of his wonderful Tezuka. More of his chest was exposed now, including the hint of a nipple. The half gasp half moan that escaped from Tezuka’s mouth as the ice was applied to his collar bone and dragged along the ridge to his shoulder made Ryoma’s cock twitch. He’d been hard for so long now he could hardly bare it.

Tezuka’s head fell back against the post, his neck becoming even more exposed and begging for Ryoma’s mouth.

It was so tempting, to lean in and suck small marks along the smooth column of Tezuka’s neck, marking him as his. 

Tezuka’s eyes fluttered shut as Ryoma slid the ice back and forth, pushing the yukata further off his shoulder to expose more of his nipple.

Once the ice had melted, Ryoma grabbed another piece. The ice in the glass was melting quickly so Ryoma was running out of time to tease.

Tezuka only just managed to bite back the scream as Ryoma pressed the ice hard against Tezuka’s nipple. His head snapped up and he glared at Ryoma as he completely failed to hold back a moan.

Ryoma just smirked and circled the ice around the nipple, relishing Tezuka’s shiver and groan.

“You’re gorgeous,” Ryoma whispered, his eyes falling on Tezuka’s other nipple, alone and abandoned. He took it in his mouth, gratified when Tezuka’s hand flew to his hair to keep him there.

he licked and sucked at the small nub, pressing the ice against the top of the other. Above him, Tezuka whimpered and cried out a Ryoma nipped the nipple between his teeth and tugged. In his other hand, the ice had completely melted so he used his fingers to massage and pull at the nipple, thoroughly abusing both of them.

When he pulled back, Tezuka’s face was a picture of debauchery. It was glorious.

“Was that good?” Ryoma asked, trailing his fingers down Tezuka’s chest. “You were nice and noisy, I like it when you’re like this.” He kissed Tezuka, Tezuka opening up to him completely. 

It made him slightly guilty about what he was about to do. 

He swallowed Tezuka’s cry as he presses the next cube against the tip of his cock. Tezuka tried to squirm away, but Ryoma kept in in place.

“I can stop,” Ryoma offered, taking the ice away, but not far, hovering next to Tezuka’s twitching cock.

Tezuka bit his lip and shook his head infinitesimally.

Ryoma was far too lucky.

He pressed the ice against Tezuka’s cock again and Tezuka stifled as Ryoma slid the ice down the underside.

“How does it feel?” Ryoma asked, twitching the yukata aside so he could see his work.

“C-Cold,” Tezuka sobbed.

“But you like it,” Ryoma purred, moving the ice back up the topside and to the head. Tezuka panted and gasped as Ryoma pressed the ice into the slit, a hand flying to his mouth to stifle the shout of pain and pleasure.   

His body was trying to simultaneously escape and press into the ice. It was so good to watch.

Ryoma quickly opened his jeans to relieve the pressure on his own cock.

 The ice had almost gone again, the water trickling down Tezuka’s cock.

“Have you cooled down yet?” Ryoma asked, grabbing another ice cube out of the glass. It had all almost gone, he’d have to hurry.

Tezuka shook his head. “It’s both,” he managed.

“It’s both what?” Ryoma asked, smirking.

“Hot and cold,” Tezuka gasped as the ice slid back down his cock and onto his balls.

“You’re beautiful,” Ryoma breathed, taking Tezuka’s cock in his hand and pumping it as he pushed the ice further and further down.

“R-Ryoma,” Tezuka moaned.

“You’ll like this bit,” Ryoma said. “But cover your mouth, people might hear you.”

Tezuka whimpered and did as he was told as Ryoma picked up another ice cube -the last one.

“Good boy,” Ryoma praised and Tezuka glared at him.

Ryoma reaffirmed his grip on Tezuka’s cock, pumping just enough and the pressed the ice to Tezuka’s entrance. Tezuka made a noise that sounded distinctively like a squeak a Ryoma started to push the ice inside him, his hips jerking helplessly. 

“You like it, don’t you?” Ryoma asked once the ice was fully inside Tezuka.

Tezuka pulled his hand away from his mouth only to draw in a shuddering breath, Ryoma decided it was best not to tease him anymore. He squeezed Tezuka’s cock harder, wishing he’d brought some lubricant out with him and jerked his wrist faster, a finger inside Tezuka, keeping the quickly melting ice inside him, the cold water pooling up around it.

Tezuka pressed his head to Ryoma’s shoulder, his free hand grabbing and clinging to his back. It didn’t take long for him to come, Ryoma could tell he’d been holding back as long as possible. Ryoma held him tight through the orgasm, Tezuka shuddering and gasping in his arms.

“What about you?” Tezuka asked once he’d recovered, sitting up and pushing his hair off his face so that it stuck up at weird angles again.

Ryoma grinned, “you got any good ideas?”

Minutes later, it was Ryoma’s turn to be leaning against the pole, Tezuka in his lap, grinding against him like no tomorrow and making him feel like the luckiest man alive.