#I’m so happy Prowl is returning this energy

[keferon]

Did you think I was done? Ahahahaha no, I have more.

Because chapter 70 of MOMU gave me the very dynamic between them that I missed so much, I just blacked out and started drawing uncontrollably lmao

Also. ALSO. I noticed a while ago that Prowl has the habit of..like…constantly frowning. So. I did a bit of research and made this graph.

In 70 chapters, Prowl frowns rougly 104 times. And the intensity of this gesture is very clearly correlated with the development of his relationship with Jazz, as you can see ahahahahah It might be wrong tho don’t take me seriously I’m not good with graphs

[rendy-a]

For your househusband au, how would Leona and Floyd (separate) greet their SO after they come home from a long business trip? I'm sure they missed their SO very much~

Absolutely, please enjoy!

Leona has many behaviors that are reminiscent of a common housecat.  When you first arrive back home, he will eagerly come to greet you and welcome you home.   However, he soon seems to realize how visible his feelings are and pulls back behind his aloof act.  So, expect one grand sweep-you-off-your-feet kiss followed by some joke to deflect.  “Did I miss you?  Nah, it was so quiet that I got the best nap I’ve had in ages.  I hardly noticed you were gone.”

Actions speak louder than words.  Even though Leona may say things like he didn’t notice your absence, you can tell by his actions that he did.  For the next few days, he will find any excuse to pass by and touch you; a graze of a finger along your back, a pat on the head, a carcass along the cheek.  The tactile contact reminds him that you are present here with him now. If you lean into his touch, all the better.  He has pride in seeing how you’ve missed him too.

As recompense for your absence, he’ll demand you pamper him upon your return.  He knows his worth and this is the least you can do to show your appreciation.  Only, the restaurant he picks for you to take him…isn’t this actually your favorite restaurant?  He may be a bit tsundere, but he’ll make sure you know how happy he is that you are home.

Leona comes up behind you and helps you shrug off your bulky outer jacket, leaving you in the fancy semi-formal garments you’ve chosen for your reunion dinner.  You’ve made a statement with your outfit, one that says notice me.  You want to make sure you have all your handsome spouse’s attention tonight.  And you do.  He prowls around you, gliding a hand along your back as he sets your coat aside.  He puts a hand on your arm as he pulls out your chair for you.  He gently rubs your shoulder before walking over to his own seat.  Mission successful.

Maybe a little too successful.  When the waiter comes to take your order, his eyes linger a little too long on your form.  You can feel Leona fuming from across the table.  Before things get even more heated, you decide to let your over-reaching waiter know how things stand.  The next time he comes to the table, you reach over and give your spouse a caress on his wrist.  The arrogant smirk Leona shoots the deflated waiter almost has you chuckling.  You decide not to comment and let him bask in his victory.

After diner, you decided to walk through the town square, taking in the night ambiance before heading home.  If the weather was a touch chill, that is all the more reason to snuggle closer to your spouse.  Leona is more than welcoming of this, pulling you tight into his side.  As you walked, it starts to snow gently.  You let out a small shiver as the flakes coat your hair lightly.  Leona looks at you and indicates its time to go home.  “No!” you say, “I’m not ready for the night to end.”  You smile up at him entreatingly and he finally sighs, submitting to your pleading. 

“All right, fine.  We will walk around a little more, but I expect a treat for being such a fine escort.”  Leona tells you with a sharp smile.  “Oh,” you ask, “what did you have in mind?”  Leona swings you around to rest in his arms.  “After this, you are joining me for my favorite dessert.”  You give him a teasing look.  “I thought we just had your favorite foods at that restaurant earlier.”  Leona gives you a harrumph, not pleased at being called out on his restaurant choice.  “Well, this time I’m really getting what I want.  My favorite flavor and all.”  You look him in the eye and ask, “What flavor is that?”  He leans forward and whispers in your ear, “Herbivore.”  You shiver again, only this time it has nothing to do with the cold.

He gets so excited when you walk in the door.  So. Excited.  You’ve seen him full of energy before, but this is on another level.  He is on you in a moment, pulling you into a back-breaking hug that ends with swinging you around.  You smile as your feet touch the floor and you start to ask Floyd if he’d like to have the gift you brought him when…he picks you up for another swing.  This might be a while.

For your first day back, Floyd has made plans.  A lot of plans.  There is even a list he made of all the things he wants to do with you now that you are home.  You catch sight of the list and see he has titled it “best day ever.”  He spent a lot of time thinking about you while you were gone.  Every time he missed you, he thought of a new activity to do with you when you got back.  Since you were the cause of all this, you’ll have to take responsibility and join him on all his activities.

So many squeezes.  Floyd just can’t get enough of having his precious spouse back in his arms.  You can’t predict when a squeeze will happen; during any activity Floyd might suddenly walk to your side and give you a squeeze.  Sometimes they are quick and comforting; like saying, ‘yeah, my spouse is here with me.’  Other times they are long and intense, as though he wants to memorize the feel of your body next to his.   He knows you can’t stay nearby forever but, for now, he is going to keep you there with his own two arms.

You had thought that the day would never end.  Not that it wasn’t enjoyable, but after a full day of high energy and activity, you are worn down.  You were secretly relieved when, in the middle of a carnival style ring-toss game, Floyd suddenly set down his rings and declared he just wasn’t feeling it anymore.  Then he started casually walking toward the exit of the carnival and home.  You quickly throw the rest of the rings, collected your prize, and ran to catch up with your spouse. 

It’s a testament to how much you mean to him that Floyd still holds you close to him as you walk home.  Even in one of his moods, you’ll always have a place by his side.  You also think it’s a sign of your experience that you know to stay quiet, allowing your spouse his space to be in a mood.  When you get home, you gently rub his back and tell him “Go lay down, I’ll take care of cleaning up before bed.”  He looks at you softly from his deep-lidded eyes before humming in agreement and heading toward your room.

You clean up the things you’ve brought back from your time on the town.  Setting the various purchases in places around the house and hanging the photo strip you took on the fridge with an octopus magnet (Floyd likes to keep little mementos around that remind him of his friends and family).  Lastly, you pick up the plush you won from the fair and take it with you to bed.

When you open the door, you are surprised to see Floyd still awake.  “You waited for me?” you ask him.  “Hmm,” he hums gently at you, “I can’t go to sleep without my precious Shrimpy.  And speaking of shrimp, what’s that?”  You hold out the shrimp plush, showing it off to your spouse.  “I won it at the carnival.  What do you think?  Maybe lil’ shrimpy can keep you company next time I’m away?”  He reaches out and you hand him the shrimp plush.  He gives it a squeeze and tilts his head quizzically.  “I don’t know, its hard to tell without a comparison.”  Then he lifts his arm and motions for you to lie down by him. 

You caution him, “I’ve still got to brush my teeth, so only for a little,” before obliging him and laying down.  He pulls you tight and lets out a satisfied hum.  “Just as I thought, my Shrimpy is the best shrimpy.”  You laugh back at him, picking up the plush to squish its little cheeks.  “But look how cute.  Can’t lil’ Shrimpy stay?”  Floyd gives the plush a suspicious look.  “Ok, but they better not get any ideas.”  You laugh and toss the toy to land on the dresser against the wall.  You think to yourself, ‘Sorry lil’ Shrimpy.  Better luck next time.’ 

After a little while, you sigh and give Floyd’s arm a tap; it’s time to get up and finish your night routine while you still have the motivation to do it.  When he doesn’t respond, you twist around to look at him and see he has fallen asleep.  You give him a shake, “Floyd?”  He responds by making a small growling noise in his sleep.  Ok, I guess that is it for you tonight.  You curl deeper into his side and close your eyes.  It really was a long day.

The next thing you know, you are waking up alone in bed.  The dappled sunlight drifting through the curtain of the window lets you know its morning.  You let out a yawn and sit up.  Floyd slides into the room, bearing a tray with breakfast on it.  From the smile on his face, you can tell he has shaken his mood from last night and it back to his energetic self.  “Mmm, thanks for this.  It smells great.”  He smiles at you and lays back in bed, resting his head on your shoulder while you eat. 

As you lift a forkful of food to your lips, you notice the shrimp plush is no longer on the dresser.  “What happened to lil’ Shrimpy?” you ask.  Floyd very seriously responds, “We’ve had a talk and I’ve decided lil’ Shrimpy can stay and be my assistant.  They’re not as good as you but I guess they are ok sometimes.”  You smile indulgently at him.  “Well, I’m just glad you had someone to keep you company this morning.  I thought I was going to be trapped in bed being squeezed all day.”  Floyd takes your half-eaten plate and sets it on the nightstand beside the bed.  Then he leans over, pinning you beneath him.  “Ssshhh! Don’t ruin the surprise by guessing my plans, Shrimpy.”  It was going to be another long day, but you find you don’t mind much at all.

[happyk44]

No one asked and I dunno what’s going to come out of this but I’m going batshit so fucking have at thee.

Jason creates lightning storms. It crackles across his skin, glows inside his veins. Thunder cracks the sky when he screams. He howls and prowls the ground like a wolf, hunched over and licking his teeth. His eyes glow. He’s haunting. He speaks to birds, coaxes them in close before snapping at them whole, scarfing down blood and bones and meat. Doesn’t care the mess on his mouth. Doesn’t care the mess on his hands.

Tornados ripple when he’s mad, rolling up from every angered breath he exhales. Summons lightning bolts from the sky and wields them in calloused reddened hands like swords and spears and daggers and bows and shields. It rains when he cries. Pours down viciously the longer his sadness last. The louder he cries, the harder it hits the ground. Forming hail that breaks the earth.

Manipulates the wind around him to run fast. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone. He can pin you down with a look, steal the breath form your lungs and hold it vicious above your head as you wheeze and sob without sound and die.

His father is the god of justice and order and it’s like switch goes off in his mind. The Underworld conducts fairness on what it sees in your soul, the life you lived. He conducts justice on what he wants, what he thinks you deserve and Cupid screams as everything burns, his blood boiling under the heat of lightning wrapped around his body, as Jason floats above him, empty-eyed and rippling like a storm, until Nico screams at him to stop it. Pulls him down with shadowy tendrils, grabs the scepter, and drags Jason away into the shadows.

It’s only when Cupid no longer in his line of sight, his range of smell, his hearing perimeter, that he switches back on. Happy kind Jason who holds Nico’s hands and asks if he’s okay with gentle tones and assures him that no one will hate him if he chooses to come out with his feelings and Nico stares at bloodied teeth and glowing eyes and know it’s true because Jason wouldn’t let them.

When you ask him why he feels the need to bloody his hands and teeth and burn electricity along the skin of those who’ve done wrong, he will simply say, “They deserved it.” Camp quickly beats this out of him with demands of regality and logic and snappish tongues and people cowering away from him so harshly he gets upset but there are moments where his eyes glow a bit too much and they fear the return of a bloodied six year old sitting hunched over like a dog atop a pile of groaning, moaning, dying bodies because they dared to call his friend names.

He’ll torture you and see nothing wrong with it. Find the electricity inside your skin and electrocute you without touching. Ramp it up by ten, by a hundred and watch you cook from the inside out. Grappling him down does nothing. He shouts and you splatter.

He’s inhuman, a god among demigods, a wolf among sheep. A predator through and through. He smiles more than stares the older he gets but the campers know what he is and they watch him emerge from Mount Othrys thrumming with the same kind of energy he had when the wolves threw him to them. Blood smeared on his mouth and hands, golden as the weapons that they grip tighter in their hands with every pounding step he takes forward.

And he smiles and laughs and it’s manic and horrifying and with the thrill of defeating a Titan single-handed still rolling through him like a live wire, everyone else goes down. All enemies burned out and emptied. Gasping for breaths that never come. Struck down by lightning. Blown apart by determined bursts of air.

And Jason is standing there in the carnage, delighted. His laughter sounds like howls. The wind rockets against him, the air, the sky, the rain, the clouds - it all twists against his skin and heals his wounds, heals his bruises, invigorates him over and over again to burn, to break, to destroy, until all their enemies are justly defeated and he can confidently declare the war is won.

Order, they realize, comes in many forms.

This is Jason’s.

[narrators-journal]

The final step

This is it boys! The final part! After this, I have no other fic to post, so I’ll probably return to original work or silence lol. But! I’ll try to post what I can to feed ya’ll content!

cw: descriptions of murder, Hint o’ Hisoka, reader’s pregnant

Previous part: here

First part: here

Illumi spent a while helping you pack before the butlers he'd requested showed up, than he returned to his home across the street to pack up as well. After all, with you now on the track to marry him, he would no longer need the home. Though, maybe we could keep it, and use it as something of a vacation spot to escape mother's unrelenting nagging. He mused.

While he was shoving his clothes into his bag and mulling over that option, he spoke to said mother, or, more-so half listened to Kikyo squeal and giggle in pure delight at the news of your pregnancy.        "Mother, please refrain from shrieking in my ear," he said when his excitable mother had to stop for breath,         "I'm sorry dear, but this is such good news! Your father and I were hoping this woman would prove to be a good wife, and while I will say it's a little soon for a baby, this is good news nonetheless!" She squealed, making the assassin huff,        "I know, I should've waited until after I'd married her to consummate," Kikyo about blew a raspberry at his words, making him blink,        "Illumi, we don't care if you decide to have sex before you get married. My only concern is that this woman isn't the right one for you." she said, "Your father would prefer that you choose a woman a bit more suited for our line of work, but if she's really as submissive as you described, I'm sure she'll be a fine addition to the family. Oh! And I'm sure your child will be absolutely adorable! I can't wait to put little booties on them, and absolutely dote on them like you no longer let me do-"          "Mother," Illumi said, though his mother knew despite his monotone voice that he was annoyed.          "Well, you don't." she sniffed before changing the subject. "Anyway, when are you bringing her home? I want to meet her already!" she said, going into a bit of a rant over his failure to even show Kikyo a picture of you, but her son was no longer listening. Instead, Illumi's attention was turned to his surroundings, his senses on high alert from the waves of malicious intent he felt so suddenly from the direction of your home.         "Mother, was Hisoka released?" Illumi asked, his mother's voice dying at the palpable tension coming through the phone,         "I believe so? Your grandfather was apparently sick of the creep, so he had him thrown out." she offered a second before Illumi hung up. In a flash, the assassin was across the street at your home, his needles at the ready. As soon as he set foot in the house, the assassin was greeted with the familiar scent of blood hanging in the air like a heavy blanket and a silence that ate at his nerves. Your home was quiet. too quiet. It about drove the assassin insane with the possible reasons behind the lack of life. Of course, the butlers that were tasked with helping you pack your clothes were dead, so that helped to explain the stifling quiet, but the sight of the help mercilessly slaughtered didn't justify the way Illumi's heart raced and a strange feeling gripped at his throat until he felt he couldn't breathe. The only time that feeling seemed to finally leave, only to be replaced with wrath, was when the casually dressed assassin slipped into your bathroom, his needles poised to be thrown, and he was met with the one person he didn't want to see inside of your home.         "Hisoka." he hissed, his dark eyes narrowing and his aura reflecting the heated rage that boiled his blood at the sight of the brightly colored magician, who turned to look at him lazily, frowning as if the soulless man was as equally unwanted as the pink haired man was,         "Before you maul me and get no answers, I didn't hurt your precious (y/n)." He assured, plucking one of his signature playing cards and licking the blood of a butler from it before continuing "I believe she crawled out of the bathroom window. So, I suggest you go get her back before you focus on me. Don't want her to get too far away now, do we?" The magician pouted, knowing damned well Illumi wouldn't bother with him after that news, which meant Illumi wouldn't be fighting him, yet. The assassin did, in fact, leave the magician at your house, going out instead to find you. If the help wasn't so fucking incompetent this would be a lot easier. He thought as he forced his wrathful aura into zetsu while he coldly rushed by the corpses and returned outside to prowl down the chilly streets of town, turning that edgy, strangling, anxiety feeling in his throat into energy to fuel his possessive hunt for his wife, his property. On the bright side of the situation though, you were nothing compared to the dark-haired predator, so he had that to cool his unhinged emotions before running into you. You were a recluse, you likely didn't know your way around town that well, so your trail was pretty obvious. In times of life threatening danger, people, more-so women, usually went to crowded areas after all, and you didn't know of many places that would offer help, so you were likely going to head to your grocery store. Knowing that, Illumi was able to get ahead of you, scooping you up before you could slow from a mad dash fuelled by mortal terror to a speed at which you could avoid slamming into the hunter's chest.        "(y/n)," he growled, shaking you once, firmly, to put a stop to your flailing and squirming, "I am this close to jamming one of my needles into your brain. STOP IT." He ordered, the force of slightly panicked rage in his words making you freeze and stare up in terror at him with your wide (e/c) eyes. For a few seconds you stared at one another, your form squished to his in an inescapable grip while his soulless eyes glared down at you until you finally burst into tears.       "Please! Just let me go!" You plead, your voice quivering with barely restrained sobs, so he took a deep breath and ran his thumb down your already tear-stained cheek,       "Why would I do that? I'm only trying to keep you and our baby safe." he reminded you, but you shook your head vigorously, making bits of your (h/l), (h/c) hair stick to your face,        "You're scaring me! Please let me go, I'm begging you Illumi." you cried, trying to shake his comforting hug off,        "I thought you loved me," he said, not releasing you even when your upset tantrum stuttered to a stop. For a moment, you seemed conflicted, but than closed your eyes and tried to kick him to no avail,         "I...I don't know anymore. You've...become so scary recently, I have to p-put my own well being ahead of any shallow attraction." you sniffled, digging your nails into his t-shirt. He brushed a strand of hair from your (s/c) face as you shook against him          "(y/n), I would never do anything to harm you or our baby unless you force me to. Just behave and act like you did before figuring out you were pregnant, everything will be okay." he assured, making his voice as comforting, soft, and loving as he could manage to try and sooth you. Thankfully, he could see the fear and rebellion in your (e/c) eyes dim, returning to their usual, gorgeously submissive state. After that, you only gave one final attempt at escaping his arms before finally giving up. "Good girl, (y/n). Now, let's go home. My mother is about to implode in her excitement to meet you." After that, Illumi returned to the house he had bought for his bag of clothes, then made a beeline for the Zoldyck estate. On the trip there, the long haired assassin tried to make you happy, providing you food, comfortable places to sleep when need-be, and finding you little gifts related to your hobbies to try and entertain and make you smile. He could tell that you were still uncomfortable with him, but you slowly began to warm back up to him when your human need for companionship demanded it. However, the one thing he couldn't save you from or prepare you for, was Kikyo. The woman about tackled Illumi when he pushed open the testing gates, but as soon as you were through and safely on Zoldyck land with your husband protectively at your side, his mother began her fussing.       "She looks so ill! Illumi, did you make sure she's physically healthy?"       "She's not much to look at, maybe if she tried more make-up and clothes that fit her better?"       "Illumi, where are her things? Did you just snatch her up off of the street while she was pregnant?!" The only thing that saved you and Illumi from his mother's judgements and chiding was a firm look from his father, Silva, who was making a rare appearance to greet you in a much calmer manner.       "To answer your questions, I will get the family doctor to look her over, and her things had to be left. A threat came up and I needed to bring her here before harm befell her, so I will need to buy her new clothes." The dead eyed assassin assured his mother, who obviously had more hen pecking to do, but she refrained under the stern look of her husband. After that, Illumi got you nicely settled in to his bedroom, and while you did put up some more of a fight over staying there, you mostly accepted your role as his wife-to-be and mother of his child rather easily. He knew you were simply acting out from your hormones and the stress of your situation, so he did his best to keep his temper with you.         "It'll be okay (y/n), once you get comfortable here, we'll be happy." Illumi soothed one night after one of your bouts of sobbing and fighting to escape while he sat, cross-legged with you in his lap and his hands rubbing your belly. You weren't showing much yet, but it still pleased him greatly to now have his wife and child safely at home. That's right, he thought, letting a rare smile spread across his usually unreadable face, you're home now, (y/n)...

[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

What is Ro thinking right now? -𓆙

      Virgil had just gotten done brushing his hair when they heard the commotion outside the Manor.

      Ainsliee squeaks in surprise. She turns to Virgil, boiling over with excitement, gleefully translating the message he had already guessed;

      “Daddy’s back! He’s calling for us!!”

      She grins and rushes over to Virgil, pulling his wrist and dragging him up from his seat. Virgil huffs in annoyance — not at her, of course, but at the bear’s continued barking — and waves his hand,

      “Go on to him, then. But be careful, he’s still dangerous!”

      Without a word of response, Annie dashes away. He doesn’t even think she was listening.

      Virgil sighs, shaking his head. He trusts the Beast spirit not to hurt her, even with it’s unreasonable strength; After how careful the bear had been with him about an hour before, there’s no way he won’t show the same gentleness with his own cub…

      The more cautious parts of Virgil can still imagine her rushing him too quickly and getting crushed on accident, though, so he knows he can’t linger long.

      Virgil stands up to get dressed, still not excited to see his friends again. His stomach churns at the possibilities as he meanders towards a closet, silently hoping Lolth would just strike him down right now so he wouldn’t have to talk to them.

      He just knows they’ll be angry, he feels it in his bones — and even if they aren’t, it will certainly be awkward, and that’s just as bad! 

      (Better to be the first to anger, so you might lead the conversation, Virgil reminds himself as he wallows in dread. He won’t even have to fake his ire if any of them come back injured, which he already knows is unavoidable. Aside from his desire to keep them all unharmed, he really doesn’t want to be owing any more favors…)

      (And even more besides, if he could be petty, Virgil doesn’t want to go back outside. It’s cold and windy tonight, his hair is still damp, his limbs are still sore, his mom has his armor, and he doesn't want to put clothes back on, damnit.)

      Another resounding roar thunders through the night air, and then Virgil feels the entire tree-tower tremble with vibrations.

      Fully realizing that this dire bear is willing to climb the place and rip it open to find him, Virgil grabs the nearest warm-looking robe. He hastily slips it on over his bandages (and quiver belt, which he had already been wearing) as he makes his way out of the Manor.

      ~~~

      Logan watches Roman pace back and forth around the trees, in front of the spiraling stairway that leads up into the complex. He’s been incessantly huffing and stomping around like a petulant child, and Logan has no idea what to say to make him stop; He's been trying ever since the city was in sight.

      Janus and Remus are very pointedly not helping, with Janus giving Logan a meaner side-eye the longer the wailing continues, and Remus yelling back at Roman for no other reason than to join in being loud.

      Patton has less fear of the gigantic, angry animal, approaching the groaning beast and patting a hand on his paw,

      “Aww, c’mon now, Roman. We just got here! Give them a minute to come down,” Patton soothes in a soft voice, “Not everyone is as fast as a giant bear!”

      Roman looks down at him, acknowledging his presence, but he either didn’t understand Patton’s words or wholeheartedly doesn’t care. He softly shakes his paw to scoot Patton away, then rears up on his back legs, raises his arms, then lurches all of his body weight forward and slams into the trunk of the massive tree.

      It doesn’t visibly shudder at his attack — even at his size, these great home-trees of the Faewild are many times wider around than a direbear, and won’t be knocked down so easily — but the intent is clear, and Logan worries someone as sensitive to vibrations as Virgil would be quite frightened. So, Logan quickly steps in, using a more stern tone this time (and his Universal Speech,)

      “That’s enough! You are being impatient,” Logan scolds, “They will come down soon enough. One of them is injured. They can take their time if they wish to.”

      An angry whine interrupts his last few words, but still, Roman backs away from the complex. He keeps growling and barking, but at least he’s not trying to break the damn thing down.

      Right on queue, a little blue girl comes flying down the stairs like a missile, grinning wildly. 

      Logan sighs in relief, happy to see her in good spirits after how they had left off. Roman seems to feel the same, finally quieting down his complaints. He drops his head down to meet her when she approaches, sniffing her as she reaches up to hug his muzzle. She squeezes him as best she can from there, giggling when he pushes down a little to nuzzle her.

      Practically tripping over herself with energy, Annie quickly pops up to bowl Patton over in a hug as well, giving Logan a wide grin over his shoulder as Patton squishes her close to his chest. Logan couldn’t suppress a smile in return, even if he wanted to.

      Virgil appears at the staircase then, looking comically ethereal. His long, re-dyed hair and wide-sleeved elven robe blow in the wind, his expression soft and quietly observant; He looks much more like the picture of a dark-elven noble you would find in a storybook than the grizzled soldier they’ve been travelling with. Even his eyes have changed color, with his sclera turned black and his pupils reflecting pale moonlight. 

      Virgil spots Patton and Annie embracing, and relaxes at the sight of them. Then he turns his gaze on the rest of the team, and his usual scowl returns, eyes glowing red to match. Logan is almost comforted by the familiarity. 

      “Olath ilhar, You’re hurt!” Virgil growls, rushing down to meet them. 

      Logan grumbles to himself over the hypocrisy of that statement, looking over the bandages absolutely covering Virgil’s arms, legs and abdomen.

      Roman shuffles his weight on his paws when he sees Virgil approach, but Virgil holds a hand out to him, scolding,

      “Oh don’t you even start! You will sit and wait your turn!”

      To Logan’s amazement, Roman whines and sits down on the grass, looking thoroughly reprimanded. 

      (Well that is just not fair.)

      Virgil looks over each of them in turn, searching for wounds. He circles Patton first, alarmed by the bandages across his middle. The careful prodding of his hands remains in stark contrast to the snarl in his voice,

      “I wouldn’t have let you go if I knew you were going to be so reckless!”

      “You hardly let us go at all. And, only two of us are injured.” Logan corrects as if he can’t help it, not taking Virgil’s returning glare so seriously.

      “Three of you! Roman is barely standing. And that’s more than half of your party, yutrit'zarreth!” Virgil hisses back. He moves over to Logan and stalks around him, searching him as well.

      “I’m fine, Virgil, I didn’t even get near the battle.” Logan protests, shrugging off Virgil’s patchwork cloak in order to return it.

      Virgil bares his teeth, still unconvinced. Logan sighs and sits through his examination, though he can’t help but complain to himself about how unfair Virgil is being. 

      Reminding himself of Virgil’s wounds, Logan uses their proximity to examine his bandages. They seem fairly well-wrapped, but it’s clear he hasn’t had any magical healing since they saw him last, and the bags under his eyes are dark even for Virgil. Every day it seems Virgil is stretching the limits of what levels of pain a person can ignore — by all accounts, he shouldn’t be conscious right now, much less standing.

      The last few battles, Logan had tried not to think too much about why Virgil does this, and even less about how he became able to. But, at this point, it’s become obvious that he has a very serious problem. Logan’s going to have to do something if he doesn’t want Virgil to drive himself into the grave...

      While he lets himself worry, Logan also notices the belt of Virgil’s quiver is strapped right over his bandages. 

      “Are you wearing that against your bare skin?” Logan scolds before he can stop himself, “What about the wound on your back?”

      “Don’t worry about it.” Virgil grumbles, though bringing it up seems to have scared him off. He snatches his cloak from Logan’s hands, pulling it in under his robe and fastening it so it lies between the robe and his skin, then slinks away, glowering. Logan can’t help but think he’s misstepped, somehow.

      Virgil has already moved on to look over Janus, who also tries to shoos the archer away, insisting he’s unharmed. Virgil hisses at him, too, but quickly moves on to Remus anyway.

      “Get inside and rest, all of you!” Virgil orders as he prowls around him, examining the bruises on his sides and back with gentle touches, “We’ve already lost too much travel time as it is, at this rate we’ll never make it to the Capital.”

      “What about Roman? I doubt he can fit inside, are we just going to leave him out here??” Patton whines. Virgil snaps a short, sharp laugh and glares at the bear,

      “Yeah, for all I care.”

      Roman groans at him, and Virgil snaps something back in Drowic. Logan doesn’t know if he can actually understand Virgil’s words or just the tone in which he’s saying them, but Roman is certainly respecting his orders more than he did Logan’s.

      (Logan quickly reminds himself that Virgil had once claimed to be a Ranger, and answers his own questions on the matter.)

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Logan advises carefully, taking note of Virgil’s mood. He keeps his tone as soothing as possible as he explains,

      “This is his first time shifting, we should stay to make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless. Besides, specifically as a bear, he will grow distressed if we leave his sight.”

      “You’re just saying that because you want to study him.” Janus supplies unhelpfully, apparently living to annoy him. Virgil doesn’t respond, though, and Logan can tell that his reasoning got through to him.

      Remus rolls his eyes, quickly growing bored of their debate,

      “Well, I’m certainly staying with Brother Bear over here, and the three of us have a long overdue heart-to-heart scheduled for, ehhh, right about now~!”

      Virgil pretends not to hear him while he studies the bruise on Remus’s back. Remus frowns at being ignored, turning on his heel and grabbing Virgil’s shoulders to stop him in his tracks,

      “Let’s have a little chat~! You aren’t getting out of this, slick.”

      Virgil glares holes into Remus’s chest, then turns away from him, hissing his discomfort the entire way. Janus looks similarly displeased, leveling an unfriendly look at Remus before taking his hand and following along.

      Logan and Patton follow the three of them, Annie holding Patton’s hand and instructing Roman to follow behind.

      Virgil leads them to a vacated barn, instructing Roman to lie down and wait. Annie nestles in next to his side, and Logan and Patton join her, watching Virgil lead Remus and Janus back out. Virgil keeps himself several paces ahead of them, looking like he might lose his nerve and bolt at any minute.

      Logan and Patton share an uneasy look, only able to speculate about what happened between Virgil and the odd duo…

      Janus doesn’t say a word, worried about getting himself in trouble before they even start the conversation. Virgil already seems tense, and Janus doesn’t ignore the way he positions himself closer to the Manor complex than to the barn.

      Once he’s satisfied they’re far enough away that Logan can’t eavesdrop, he very rigidly turns to face his two old friends, waiting for someone else to start.

      Janus and Virgil just glare in each other’s directions, both refusing to be the first to get vulnerable. (At least Virgil’s eyes are glowing faintly red, so Janus knows where they’re pointed, and where the hell Virgil is.)

      Remus stands with his hands on his hips and glances between them impassively, knowing it’s only a matter of time until one of them cracks.

      Despising the awkward silence more than anything else, Janus finally smirks,

      “Well, you look terrible.”

      “What are you doing here?” Virgil growls, shifting his gaze between the two. He still hasn’t looked either of them in the eye, just glaring at the grass by their feet like it’s done something to offend him; something it took many years to get Virgil to stop doing.

      “Oh, you know I just love the Faewild,” Janus grumbles, folding his arms defensively, “But, this time, I must confess we were mainly looking for you.”

      “Why?” Virgil growls even lower, his eyes turning even brighter red. Janus rolls his eyes at the aggressive display, 80% certain Virgil is simulating it this time.

      “What do you mean ‘why?’” Janus scoffs, quickly growing annoyed, “It’s been so long, I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost!” 

      Janus expected the cold reception, of course, but he’s never exactly been lauded for his temper. Remus steps in, knowing a spat is imminent if he doesn’t. He chuckles,

      “You fucked off in quite a rush, but you did say you were coming home eventually.”

      Virgil’s jaw drops.

      He quickly shakes himself out of it and resumes his defensive posture, but the damage was done; The same shocked look spreads to the other two. The three just stare each other down, all of them growing more confused by the minute. 

      Virgil breaks first, looking away at a suddenly very interesting rock as he mumbles,

      “…You expected me to come back?”

      Janus can immediately read the implication under the words; the question Virgil is afraid to ask. He feels his chest constrict a little at the thought, too winded to keep up his usual snark. In all of the visions he had seen to prepare for this moment, Virgil had never reacted like this. Usually he ran, and often he was angry at them or scared of them, but never…dejected.

      “Darling, of course! How could you assume anything else?”

      “I don’t know,” Virgil huffs, shoulders raising up to his ears, “Maybe it was the huge fucking fight we had seconds before I ran off for two fucking years— Aren’t you mad?!”

      “No!” Janus and Remus shout at the same time, with varying levels of surprise and distress. Virgil’s still on the offensive, glaring at them.

      “Fuck off! I almost took your whole arm off, and then you leased that dweomer, and Remus lost it—”

      “That’s not the first time we each went a little crazy, Virgil.” Janus shakes his head, subtly motioning down to his ankle,

      “That’s part of the reason we’ve stuck together for so long, remember?” 

      Virgil smiles a little at the reference, an inside joke between the three of them he thankfully hasn’t forgotten. Still, he seems reluctant.

      He turns a bit towards them now, though he’s started picking at his nails, like he does when he’s really nervous. His eyes are wide and startled, but he still won’t look up,

      “That time was… different. Something happened. I think I…” He shakes his head, steadying his voice before he continues, 

      “No, I know it this time. I’m not going crazy, something cursed me in that cave! All I remember is us knocking over some altar with a crystal on it, and now I can do magic on the surface?! And I got all paranoid about every little move, and I tried to run off for good!”

      “It wasn’t a curse. At least, I don’t think so.” Janus sighs, looking down at his hand, which is now covered in dragon-like scales under his glove. “And it wasn’t just you, either.”

      Remus grins, focusing on drawing forward that strange energy he now houses. He holds out his hand, letting Virgil watch as he conjures the usual smoke effects he’s always been able to summon, now along with some unusual yellow lightning flashing within.

     “Me and Deedee also got some cool new powers~! And some other weird stuff, too!”

      Virgil slowly creeps forward to get a better look, still apparently deciding whether he should be afraid or angry. Very slowly, he reaches up and lays one of his hands on Remus’s, then raises the other. Janus and Remus watch as Virgil’s eyes glow blue, and a cluster of lightning grows out of his skin, dancing around his fingers. A moment later, both magic effects fizzle out with a sharp crackling sound.

      “Where did you learn that?” Janus hums, mildly impressed, though he already knows the answer. Virgil shrugs, looking back towards the barn,

      “Logan’s been teaching me how to control it. I’m still not great at it yet, but I haven’t accidentally killed anyone in several days.” Virgil sighs. He looks around at his friends, finally looking them in the eyes, though he still looks a bit like a frightened animal. Slowly, he adds,

      “I still don’t know how I feel about this,” He admits, then sends a short glance at Remus, “But, you and your brother have to do something together in town, right? So… We’re all going in the same direction, anyway.” 

      “And you’re set on these new guys?” Janus sighs, trying not to sound disappointed. Virgil shrugs.

      “I don’t think I can leave them yet. I’m making progress, but I still need Logan’s help…” Virgil looks back at the barn, an annoyed grumble returning to his tone, 

      “And, these three are kind of pathetic. I really don’t think they’ll make it in one piece without us, anyway.”

      Janus chuckles in agreement, not at all surprised. Remus flips his hair with a smile,

      “Oh, so there’s an ‘us’ now~?”

      Before Virgil can even blush at the slip, Remus is laughing again,

      “Well then, it can’t be helped~ Looks like the three of us are coming with them!”

      “Of course.” Janus nods, “As much as it pains me to waste my time with such irksome people, it would be convenient for us to travel together. And, according to Logan, you need a sorcerer’s help with the whole ‘training’ thing.”

     (Janus avoids adding a snarky remark about how “that also proves that you never should have left to begin with,” though it is difficult.)

      “I’d rather it be you then some other high class know-it-all I haven’t met. One is enough.” Virgil admits, though he can’t resist rolling his eyes at Janus’s snark.

      Now, a bit of a smirk has returned to Virgil’s face. He looks between the two again, blushing slightly and fiddling with his hands again to distract from his brain. Virgil himself is unsure whether he’s more afraid or hopeful. Not that he would ever admit to the latter.

      “So… you really aren’t mad?”

      “No, dear. If any of us have a right to be, it’s you.” Janus sighs. Virgil whines in complaint,

      “But— Two years is a long time for you, you can’t just let me get away with that!”

      “I was busy with something, anyway, so it’s no big deal~” Janus sighs, not quite willing to admit to himself whether or not it’s a lie. To silence Virgil’s arguing he holds one hand out to Virgil, and focuses on melting away just that little section of his glamour.

      Green and yellow scales are revealed all along his hand and wrist, and Virgil gasps for a moment, reaching over to touch them. The look he gives Janus then is devastating, the last of the fear easing out of his shoulders as the memory of that night washes over him.

      “This is what I was scared of?” Virgil frowns, sounding more than a little disappointed in himself, “Your scales are spreading?”

      “There’s much more to it than that,” Janus quickly corrects him, letting the phrase carry a lot of weight for him, “But we can get into that when you’re awake enough to process a more detailed conversation.”

      “I thought you were just born with them. Are you supposed to grow more?”

      “No, I’m not. Like Remus said, you aren’t the only one who was affected.” Janus shrugs, “We both have physical mutations, though not quite like your scars. Remus already mentioned what happened to his wings, didn’t he?”

      Virgil turns to him expectantly. Remus holds his hands behind his back and grins,

      “Ooooh no, I’m saving that surprise for something special. After all, now Roman’s here to see ‘em too, and you know I can’t resist dramatic timing~”

      “Before you keep insisting you’re too dangerous to congregate around,” Janus muses lightly before Virgil can say another word, “You’re not the only one with new temporal magic.”

      Janus takes a tiny amount of pleasure in the momentary horror on Virgil’s face. As a treat.

      “Oh, don’t get all worked up, my love~” Janus teases, patting Virgil’s arm, “I’m not able to affect time in any real sense, I can only predict the future. That’s how we were able to track you somewhat reliably.”

      “That’s terrifying.” Virgil grumbles, “Are you guys having bursts like mine??”

      “Nope. Aside from the visions, which can sneak up on me at times, I’m perfectly in control of my magic.” Janus smirks, “Remus has been having a similar problem to yours, when he gets excited. Not nearly as large-scale, though it can occasionally be dangerous.”

      “And I revel in the chaos of it, so no skin off my back~!” Remus grins. 

      They fall into silence again, though it’s a bit more comfortable now. Virgil shuffles from foot to foot, not quite sure how to end the conversation, or disperse the lingering doubts and awkwardness hanging between them.

      (As much as Virgil can try and dismiss his old feelings as “part of the Madness Roman cured,” there’s still a lot about that night that still doesn’t feel right in Virgil’s gut, and he doesn’t know how long he wants to wait for a longer explanation.)

      (And, though their parting altercation has been mostly dismissed, it’s still been two years since he saw them last. Virgil knows how much non-elves can change in that time. What if even now, with everything said and done, they still can’t go back to the way they were before? What if they’re different now, and they don’t get along as well as they used to? Should he really want to, anyway??)

      Sensing his worries and eager to put them to rest, Janus peels his other glove off as well and steps forward, very gently taking Virgil’s hands.

      “Are you angry?” He asks, softly and genuinely. 

      “You can be upset, Virgil. A lot has happened, it’s okay if you need time.” Janus sends a glance in Remus’s direction, prodding him to help. Remus gives Virgil one of his ‘dazzling’ grins, trying to reassure him that they don’t hold any grudges.

      Virgil relishes the familiar feeling of Janus’s hand, shoving aside his remaining worries. He’ll deal with his lingering doubts later.

      (Their arrival has added an incredible number of new problems to his plate, but he’s frazzled and exhausted. His best friends are back, and they don’t hate him. At least for tonight, that will be enough; God knows he has enough to worry about right now, anyway.)

      Virgil shakes his head, voice still sore from earlier that day, and nearly boneless with exhaustion. Janus and Remus share a knowing look, well aware Virgil is hiding something but too overwhelmed to get into it now. 

      “Let’s just head back in and rest for tonight.” Virgil sighs, brushing his hair behind his ear. He turns to Janus, frowning,

      “In the morning, you’re going to have to tell them about the sorcery thing. And, probably also about being a snake. Logan never leaves it be at one question.”

      “Ugh! You people won’t let me keep any of my secrets!” Janus complains, folding his arms. He already knew he would need to come clean, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. He tilts his chin up in an expression of faux-contempt, tone mocking,

      “Fine, but only if you promise to actually sleep tonight. I wasn’t kidding earlier, you look like shit.”

      “That’s not fair, someone has to keep watch!”

      “We have a twenty-foot bear in there, who is going to sneak up on that? You’re being ridiculous.”

      “But what about when Roman changes back in the morning? Someone has to be awake to help him!”

      “I will, then!” Remus scoffs, “I’m his brother, he’s not gonna want anyone else to see him naked. Besides, we all know damn well you’re going to wake up the second anyone moves, hypersensitive ass.” 

      “Oh, shit.” Virgil hums, “We should pick him up some clothes before we head back in…”

      “Ooooh, can I pick them out~?” Remus grins evilly. Virgil slaps his arm, trying not to laugh,

      “No, leave him alone! He’s probably gonna be scared at first. You can bully him later.”

      “You’re such a buzzkill! I don’t remember you being this lame.”

      “Say that again when I have the energy to kick your ass.”

      They playfully shove and bat at each other the whole way up the stairs, being careful of each other’s wounds while threatening to throw the other off the balcony. At the same time, they move slowly, considerate of Janus’s leg and eyesight. 

      Janus watches them and suppresses a fond smile, his cold heart warming at how quickly they’ve started to ease back into their usual dynamic...

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Ask 119     (( @zozomind​​ , @renee-niles​​ ))

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Game Start

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Rules

Most Recent Recap, in case you feel like you missed something!

Available for questions: Logan, Patton, Remus, Janus, Annie, Virgil, and…Roman?

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You have reached the end of Level 2!

Begin Level 3: The Past is Never Dead 

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You can now save your first File in Level 3 with the Game Menu!

Save Files:

File A.1: Communication      ?

File B.2: The Heart of the Matter      ?

File B.3: Angel’s Epithet      ?

File B.4: Pack Tactics      ?

File B.5: Lay Bear the Breast      ?

File B.6: Lay Bare the Beast      ?  

File B.7: Moonlight Dancers      ?

[ !!! WARNING: Save File Limit Breached! ]

[ Which file will you DELETE? ]

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…What a curious title. I wonder what it could mean…

...And it looks like you’ve unlocked something new in the Game Menu!

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(( UPDATED: If you missed the Patreon/Kofi announcement! ))

[floral-and-fine]

Linger Part 2

Beorn x female reader

Part 1

Summary: Beorn worries about the reader’s safety shortly after meeting her and the company.

A/n: Thinking about writing a third part. Sorry, this took so long. Thank you @luna-xial​ for helping me stay motivated!

The woods had been abnormally quiet lately, the air was still and all the woodland creatures appeared to be in hiding, there was no rustling in the trees and all the birds had stopped singing. 

Beorn hadn’t encountered any orcs either nor seen any sign of them for the last several nights now. However, he continued his patrols, making his rounds, keeping an eye out for any clue that would hint at what the orcs were planning. Their absence was an eerie one, a sign that something terrible was going to happen. 

Beorn wasn’t a fool, he knew their disappearance coinciding with the dwarves retaking their home was anything but a coincidence. 

He knew their little venture was a risky one, especially with Azog's interest in Thorin. No telling how far the orc would go to end the Durin line. 

He growled, wrinkling his snout as he prowled through the forest on all fours, the idea of you getting caught in the crossfire between Azog and the dwarves, angered him. He feared the worst would happen to you as a result of it. 

Beorn had, on occasion since your departure, imagined what it would’ve been like if you had stayed. What it would be like to have your company in the evening, your presence nearby as he worked, to be able to listen to you talk and laugh. 

He had been without companionship for so long, after the pain of losing his people, he avoided anyone other than his animals. Who would've guessed had become so lonely? That deep down he longed to be close to someone again?

As Beorn traveled to higher ground, he froze when he realized that in the distance a massive army of Orcs was marching towards the lonely mountain. With an army of that size, there would surely be a massacre. 

His choice seemed clear at this point, he would need to travel quickly to the Lonely Mountain if he was going to be of any help. 

…

Beorn staggered forward, his body shifting from bear to man. He fell to the ground, barely able to hold himself upon his hands, groaning as every bone in his body changed shape and readjusted position. 

The battle had been chaos, Beorn and the eagles arrived just moments after the orcs struck. Without hesitation he had joined the fight, biting and clawing his way through, while keeping a hopeful eye out for you. However, there had been no sign of you with the dwarves. 

Once the fighting had finally ended, and the remaining orcs had fled, Beorn resumed his search, even fiercer than before. 

Getting back on his feet, he grabbed a discarded banner and wrapped it around his hips, and held it up with his left hand.  Men and elves gawked over his size, watching as he stumbled towards the camps. 

His bones and muscles ached from transforming in such quick succession, his energy drained from fighting, but he was desperate to find you. 

Beorn pressed on, limping forward, passing by nameless faces belonging to men, elves, and dwarves. His eyes searching for any sign of you. Many thoughts crossed his mind, should he remain hopeful that he’d find you alive and well or brace himself for the worst should he find you dead or not at all?

“Y/n,” he called from the center of the camp, his eyes darting back and forth. 

Tilda, Bard’s youngest, spotted the giant man calling for you. Too intimidated to approach him herself, she decided to find you for him instead.

She quickly made her way around the tents and rumble of the old city, finally finding you speaking with her father. 

“Y/n,” she said, tugging on your sleeve drawing your attention away from Bard. 

“Yes?” You chirped. 

“Someone’s looking for you.”

You furrowed your brow, “Who is?”

She shrugged, “no idea, never seen anyone like him.”

Filled with curiosity, you followed Tilda. You had no clue as to who would come looking for you, you had already seen the company. 

You stopped dead in your tracks upon seeing a very bewildered and naked Beorn calling out for you. 

Beorn?” You shouted, still utterly surprised to see the skin-changer here of all places.

He spun around and the moment he saw you alive and well, he collapsed to his knees. Without thinking, you rushed to his side and knelt down beside him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked immediately, his large hand cupping your cheek.

“I’m fine,” you shook your head with a small smile. “it’s you who needs tending to.” You looked behind you towards your tent, then back to Beorn, “Are you able to walk?”

He nodded, wincing as he rose to his feet. You guided him forward towards your tent and helped him settle down on the blankets. 

“You weren’t you with the dwarves...” he started, groaning as he laid down. 

“It’s a long story,” you sighed, preparing to tend to Beorn’s various cuts and bruises.

“I’ve got time,” he encouraged. 

You laughed. “I suppose you're right… well, after our encounter with the elves, we met Bard, who was kind enough to smuggle us into Lake-Town,” you began, wrapping his hand with a bandage. 

“Thorin offered the townsfolk a share of the mountain's riches for their help. I stayed behind when they departed... Kili had fallen ill, I offered to stay and help care for him.”

Beorn listened intently to your story. His eyes observing you carefully as you effortlessly talked and worked at the same time. 

You explained how Bard and his son slayed Smaug, and how you rejoined the rest of the dwarves, but by then Thorin had succumbed to the Dragon Sickness.

“He had become so cruel,” you continued, cleaning a long scratch on Beorn’s forearm. “the rest of the company was concerned for him as well.”

You sighed, setting the rag down and retrieving a salve.  “I believe what Bilbo did was justified, so when Thorin called Bilbo a traitor, I left too and joined the others,” you shrugged. 

During most of the battle, you were with Bard’s children, trying your best to protect them, despite not being much of a fighter. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Beorn said softly, looking up at you. 

“What about you?” You asked, lifting your brow. “I can't imagine that you were anxious to help the dwarves out again.”

He looked away for a moment, before quietly answering. “I’m here for you,” he said with a serious look. 

“For me?” You stuttered, wide-eyed.

He nodded, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. 

“I’m happy you’re here,” You smiled, lightly pushing back his hair from his face and stroking his cheek tenderly, as you admired the rather gentle skin-changer.

 “Now, sweet man, get some rest,” you urged, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

Beorn fell asleep easily enough, in fact, the sound of his snoring could be heard from all corners of the camp. 

He had traveled quite a distance in such a short amount of time, then immediately fought his way through an army of orcs just for you. The thought alone made you feel as though you were floating. 

Quietly, you tiptoed out of the tent in search of fabric. You doubted any of the spare clothing here would fit him, he was far taller and larger than most of the men at the camp. 

It was dark out when you returned, Beorn was still sleeping soundly in your tent. You found the sound of his snores oddly comforting. The nights here and on your travels had been far too quiet for your liking, making you feel rather lonely at night. 

Sitting in the corner by a lit candle,  you worked on using spare fabric to make Beorn some pants. You couldn’t imagine what people had thought seeing him wandering around practically naked. 

Your face heated up as you pictured him standing there with nothing but a raggedy scrap of cloth to cover himself with. He was an attractive man in a wild sort of way, muscular with untamed hair. 

Lost in your thoughts, you accidentally stabbed your finger with the needle, hissing you sucked on your fingertip to help with the pain. 

Beorn stirred at the sound, “are you alright?”

“You heard that?” You perked up. 

“Mmhmm,” he answered, still partially asleep. “I can hear the mice outside the tent scurrying about, and even the horses braying in the distance.”

“That’s quite amazing,” you noted. 

He laughed lowly, “I suppose it is… what are you doing up so late Busy Bee?” 

“Just need to finish something first.”

He closed his eyes again, “you should be sleeping.”

“I will shortly,” you smiled, running the needle through the fabric again as you worked on finishing the seam. 

…

Beorn stared at you with an unreadable expression, his eyes focused on the pants you were currently holding out towards him. 

“It’s not my best work,” you started, fidgeting slightly. “But I figured it had to be better than nothing. I guessed your measurements, and I think they’ll fit at least well enough for you to walk around the camp, and if they’re too loose, I can take them in a bit. That wouldn’t take too long, I suppose.”

You continued to ramble as Beorn sat there somehow quieter than usual. This gift presented an odd dilemma with it. 

You made something for him, you had considered his needs and worked almost all night on it. According to skin-changer traditions, this could be considered a marriage proposal, a symbol of you willing to provide for him. 

Of course, he was aware that you were unfamiliar with skin-changer practices, but that still didn’t make this any easier on him. As the last of his kind, he was the last to maintain their customs and traditions.

“I’m afraid I cannot accept,” Beorn finally admitted.

Your shoulders slumped, your hands lowering, “why? I made them for you.”

Beorn sighed, “For skin-changers giving gifts is a romantic gesture to put it lightly.”

“Oh, I see,” you nodded, feeling rather embarrassed. 

The truth was you wouldn’t mind becoming romantically involved with Beorn, it wasn’t something you had given much thought to. But you couldn’t deny the attraction that was there. 

Not sure what else to do, you went about your day as he continued to rest. 

It didn’t take long for Beorn to heal, by the second day he looked as good as new. 

He sighed, sitting in your tent alone with his thoughts. He had no excuse to stay any longer, the animals at home needed him to return. He accomplished what he had set out to do, he fought orcs, found you safe and sound. It was time for him to leave. 

But that didn’t mean he wanted to leave, and he was completely aware of why he didn’t want to leave you. 

"Beorn?" You said lightly shuffling inside the tent, and successfully drawing him from his thoughts.

His intense gaze falling upon you. “Yes, little bee?”

You inhaled deeply and held out the pants to him again.

His brow furrowed, “y/n-“

“I know,” you interrupted him. “But please hear me out, my feelings for you are rather new, but I’ve traveled a long way to get here, and of all the amazing and terrifying places I had seen, the only one I wanted to return to was your home.” 

Your heart was racing, your face was flush, and you didn’t dare meet his gaze, instead, you stared at the ground praying he’d say something.

Suddenly you felt his fingers lightly brush against yours as he accepted your gift. 

Your head snapped up, as you looked at him with big eyes. A content smile formed on his lips as he leaned down and his forehead touched yours gently nuzzling against it while his large hands softly caressed your arms. 

“We’ll depart in the morning,” he whispered. 

[soundwavereporting]

a coswave first date fic ft. miscommunication and cultural differences

“Hello Cosmos.”

“Uh, hi.” Cosmos looked down at his maybe-friend-slash-definitely-landlord, who was staring back at him, unreadable as always.

They lingered in silence for a moment.

“You called?” Cosmos managed, finally. While Soundwave’s hospitality certainly didn’t feel like a farce, this was the third time he had asked Cosmos to help him during his off-shift.

First, it had been installing an energon dispenser in one of the habsuite blocks. The next time, he and Soundwave had spent half the night planning the station’s duty roster for the next month.

“It is good to see you.”

“You too.” Already feeling uncomfortable, Cosmos shifted in place, feeling the sting of the finally-healed welds on his armor.  

“So…” Cosmos said, after another moment of awkward silence. “You needed help with something.”

Soundwave nodded. “Your assistance: greatly appreciated.”

“Sure.” Cosmos wasn’t entirely certain how much he believed Soundwave. He was happy enough to help out, but there was just something so strange in the way Soundwave looked at him, as though he expected him to do something other than pull up a seat next to Soundwave and pick up a datapad.

Soundwave pushed an energon cube over to Cosmos, who cracked the seal and gave it an experimental sniff.

“You got the refinery fixed?”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave seemed to sit up a little straighter. “However, there is now a shortage of spare parts.”

“I can make a trip to Cybertron,” Cosmos said, without thinking. It wasn’t like there was anyone left on Cybertron who would care one way or another if he showed up, but it also meant Cosmos wouldn’t be pressured to return to active duty with the Autobots—or worse, stay on Cybertron with King Starscream or whatever he was calling himself lording over everyone.

Besides, it would be good to get off the station. Even after the few short weeks he had spent recuperating from Galvatron’s attack, Cosmos had already begun to feel like the station’s walls were closing in on him. He didn’t think he would need to leave so soon, but…

“I haven’t been cleared for active duty yet,” Cosmos said, almost apologetically, but there wasn’t a reason for him to feel bad. Was there? Soundwave had told him he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted. Cosmos, riding on the heady combination of pain suppressors and adrenaline, had just nodded. He was very sure that once Optimus called him back to the Ark, the invitation would be rescinded.

But Optimus hadn’t called him back. Personally, Cosmos thought he had been doing a good job of ignoring that fact, and was immediately irritated with himself for thinking of it. He had hoped the relative quiet and tentative peace between the Autobots and the humans and the Decepticons would have

Or maybe he wanted Cosmos to reach out first. Which would be weird. He probably had other things to worry about. That was it. Cosmos archived the thought.

“You should not push yourself,” Soundwave said, as though he hadn’t asked Cosmos to help him install an energon dispenser in a habsuite just last week.

“Yeah,” Cosmos said. “About that.”

There was a quick beat of silence before Cosmos realized Soundwave wasn’t going to interrupt. He still hadn’t gotten used to the mech’s apparent willingness to listen to him. If he was being entirely honest, most of the Decepticons on the station were generally willing to listen to him—bad jokes from the birds aside.

“I’m a little confused about…this.” Cosmos gestured lamely to the datapads on Soundwave’s desk. “It’s not that I don’t mind helping you out—I really don’t. But, uh, why me? If I’m not doing enough around the station, I can pick up another shift, but I feel like you have better things to do with your time than spending your evening with me going through paperwork—not that I mind spending time with you. I just…don’t see the point?”

Soundwave stared at him.  

 Cosmos felt his spark sink, and he wasn’t sure why.

“Clearly, there was a misunderstanding.”

“Clearly.” Cosmos wished the itching on his welds would stop. “About what, though?”

“Soundwave thought…” Soundwave trailed off, gripping one datapad so tightly Cosmos feared the screen might crack. “Soundwave: believed these meetings were the start of courtship.”

It was Cosmos’ turn to stare.

His systems stalled as his processor struggled to make sense of what his audio receptors had clearly heard.

“Misunderstanding,” Soundwave repeated, clearly desperate for Cosmos to say something. “Clearly. Soundwave: apologizes.”

Cosmos hadn’t failed to notice the flood of unease that teeked Soundwave’s field—and he had no doubt that Soundwave could feel his shock.

“Autobots do not date?” Soundwave sounded genuinely surprised.

“Not like this.” Cosmos tried to think back to the few dates he had been on over the course of the war. There had been stops at the dispensary, a kiss in a hallway that had been ruined because someone had noticed them, awkward flirtations between him and his on-ship contact that ran their course a year before he ever returned to base. “You thought we were dating?”

Soundwave nodded glumly. “My assumption was clearly incorrect.”

Cosmos laughed. He forced himself to set down the cube.

“Dating?” He said. “Me?”

“Affirmative.”

“Is this a Decepticon thing?” Cosmos asked. “Like how every Decepticon is required to memorize Megatron’s poetry before they receive their badge? We sit down and do paperwork together?”

“Laserbeak, Buzzsaw: lying.” Soundwave said, but continued before Cosmos could feel properly irritated at the birds. “Soundwave: made incorrect assumption that Cosmos was familiar with c—” Soundwave stopped, and didn’t seem to be able to say the word a second time. “Precursors to romantic relationships.”

“Excuse me for not thinking organizing a schedule was very romantic,” Cosmos said, then immediately regretted it when Soundwave winced.

“Apologies.” Soundwave looked like he was one wrong word away from running out of his own office.

“No—wait.” Before he could move, Cosmos reached out and grabbed Soundwave’s arm. He felt Soundwave stiffen under his touch. “Crap. I’m sorry for saying that. I was just, uh, surprised. It was rude. But you were asking me out on a date? Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay. Look, I’m not—I’m not upset?” Cosmos didn’t think he was upset. Irritated, yes, at not noticing it earlier, irritated that Soundwave hadn’t brought it up until now, but not…upset. Probably. “It’s a little flattering, I guess.”

Was it? Entirely aware that Soundwave was pointedly staring anywhere but him, Cosmos studied Soundwave. The mech wasn’t bad looking, and if he was being honest, it wasn’t as though Cosmos hadn’t thought about it. It was just very, very far down on the list of possibilities.

And he liked spending time with Soundwave—not just because Soundwave apparently liked listening to him talk. He had seen hints of a quiet, earnest energy hidden beneath Soundwave’s normally stoic nature that surfaced on the rare occasions he strung more than two sentences together.

“Why don’t we go out for drinks?” The words were out before Cosmos could think about them properly. “You know. To get to know each other better.”

“Romantic…drinks?” Soundwave spoke as though the idea was entirely foreign to him.

“Yeah.”

Wordlessly, Soundwave gestured to the cube resting in front of Cosmos.

“Oh. Oh.” He hadn’t thought himself prone to nervous laughter, but for the second time that day, Cosmos laughed. “Yeah, I guess that counts.”

Before he could second guess himself, Cosmos removed his battlemask and downed the cube in one go, desperate to buy a minute to think. He set down the empty cube.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Soundwave…is Soundwave.”

Cosmos waited.

“Third in command of the Deceptico—” He imagined Soundwave frowning before correcting himself. “Former third in command of the Decepticons. Founder of Sanctuary Station.”

Cosmos supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“Request: Cosmos shares information.”

“Right. Uh, I’m…Cosmos, obviously. Currently serving directly under…Arcee, I guess, since Prowl’s gone. No one ever really cleared that up. Um. That’s…about it.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Hah. Yeah. I bet you guys didn’t have people up and leaving your side unexpectedly.”

“You would be surprised.” Soundwave indicated his head at the datapads. He seemed to relax incrementally, and Cosmos found himself doing the same.

“So.” Cosmos said a moment later. “When we first met…you said you had good hearing.”

“You remembered that.”

“It wasn’t exactly forgettable,” Cosmos admitted. “What did you mean by that?”

 The ensuing moment of silence was awkward but…not as awkward as it had been earlier. Cosmos decided to count that as a win.

“Soundwave requests…” Soundwave trailed off. “Explanation be rescheduled to the second date.”

“Second date, huh.” Despite himself, Cosmos felt the hint of a smile beneath his faceplate. “Since the first one went so well?”

“If Cosmos is willing.”

 “I think I am. Maybe after I get back from Cybertron?”

“Soundwave: would like that.”

Besides, Cosmos thought with a small amount of relief, there was something comforting about dating someone who also had a battlemask.

[primergon]

Hello! I’m Vic and I was wondering about a possible matchup!

I’m 24, afab non-binary, ENFP, 5’11, and straight (I think lmao)

Personality wise, I’d definitely describe myself as very chaotic and all over the place-don’t give me any logistic-heavy jobs, or we’ll both have a bad time. I’m an artist and I take great pleasure in telling stories and creating, especially if what I make can brighten someone’s day.

I value kindness very highly and I’m fiercely protective of the people I love, sometimes at the cost of my well being (but I’m working on that) I’ve been told that I have a very strong moral compass, but that can turn into black and white thinking at times. I’m definitely a work in progress as a person, but that’s okay! I’m definitely a very emotional person, and sometimes my feelings control me more than I control them.

Other than art, I love many topics, such as zoology, natural history, science communication, and translation with a dash of linguistics sprinkled in. I love spending time with both animals and the humans I love, but I’m not opposed to a quiet evening in. I’d generally describe myself as an ambivert. I really value active listeners and people who return the energy I give to them. I love when the person I’m talking to and I can bounce ideas off of each other. Also, I’m very physically affectionate, give me a chance and I WILL smother you with hugs. I hope this is enough to go off of!! Thank you!

Hello Vic! I hope you're well :) Thanks for asking and sorry for the wait ! Sadly I didn't finish cyberverse and so I'm not well acquainted with their characters. So I hope you don't mind if I give you two IDW matchups to make up for it <3 I think I'll match you up with Prowl and Rung from IDW / MTMTE!

PROWL IDW

01| Opposites attract is a questionable phrase. That was until Prowl met you. There was this natural curiosity that drew him to you, no matter how much he tries to deny it. Finally, Prowl gave in and realised that you both complete one another. All this time Prowl's been looking for a sense of balance, and he found it in the way you smiled at him.

02| Prowl is rational to the point of what most would call cruel. He's overly critical of everything and this thinking pattern can sometimes frustrate him. You were like a way out of a very dark room, and even if he doesn't say it often, he appreciates your creative and empathic way of thinking. While his focus is singular: intense and deep, yours is broad: extending to numerous possibilities that allow him to better achieve his goals. He thinks highly of you, knowing that even if he won't say it out loud, he has a lot to learn from you.

03| One of the things that he loves about you is your kindness. The idea that your generosity extends to someone like him, warms his spark. He knows he's difficult. In the early stages of your relationship, Prowl struggled to understand what’s going on and how to behave. Yet you made him want to try, and Primus knows he did. Prowl may be subtle about his affections, but you know he cares. From the way, you'd always wake up from your accidental nap by your desk with a blanket around you to the way Prowl always insists on taking you everywhere in his cab.

04| While you help Prowl be kinder to those around him, he helps you learn how to be kinder to yourself. He knows your generosity can sometimes drain you, especially when you're still learning how to put yourself first. If you don't have the strength to say no, Prowl is always more than happy and ready to say it for you. One time you were overwhelmed by the crowd trying to talk with you at Maccadams. It's late and your social battery was running low. You desperately needed a way out of Blurr's ecstatic chatter. Prowl had immediately whisked you away and drove you home, not before scolding the others for bothering his partner. It was endearing, even if everyone showed up at your bar the next day to apologize.

05| Arguments would sometimes arise between you and Prowl and whenever it does, it's usually because you don't agree to his methods. Your heart knows it's not right, yet nearly everything Prowl does is morally questionable. It takes time to find a common ground, especially between two people who are respectively sentimental and detached. Yet you always do. Always. It's because as arrogant and hard-headed Prowl is, he's also versatile and persevering. He doesn't care if it'll take you days or even weeks to find a win-win solution. For the first time in a long time, Prowl is making room for another person in his life. These days it's never about what he wants, it's rather about what you both want. As difficult as it can get, he has never felt happier.

06| Prowl is very dense when it comes to physical affection. One time you hold your hand out to him and he placed a data pad on top of it. He's not big on public displays of affection, Primus knows the moment Prowl hugs you at work is the day Unicron decides to wake up from his millennia-old nap. Yet in private, your affection is infectious enough to make him almost clingy. He would spoon you while you sleep or even hold your hand when he's having his morning Energon. You never question him about it knowing he'll deny even liking it, but it's nice to see someone who flips tables for a living be this gentle with you.

IDW RUNG

01| The first person to truly welcome you aboard the Lost Light was Rung. In the beginning, he was hesitant to let your relationship blossom into anything other than professional. Yet he can't deny his attraction. Lately, he loves watching you throw your head back to laugh at one of Swerve's jokes, and he finds himself wondering how your hands would feel against his. For the first time in a while, Rung wants to be a little selfish. Surely, it won't hurt to ask you out for dinner in his quarters. Looking back, he thinks it's one of the best decisions he's ever made.

02| He was moved by the fierce love you had for your friends. Rung fell in love with your courage in defending those you care about( you were ready to fight Sunder head-on for him.) While your kindness was admirable, he reminds you to take care of yourself better. He helps you put yourself first. " You won't be any good to anyone hurt my dear."

03| Rung is sensitive, thoughtful, and idealistic, and prefers relationships that help him grow and develop. He seeks deep and meaningful connections and strives to understand what drives the people he cares about and help them be their best selves. Even if it takes a little longer for Rung to warm up and let someone in, he is very focused on building that emotional connection with you. While he helps you keep your emotions in check you gave him an outlet to express his.

04| Your relationship has great potential for a close and caring connection. You and Rung share many commonalities in how you think and approach life. You both have a compassionate and idealistic nature, and even if you disagree on some things, you'll likely feel that when it comes to the important stuff, you're on the same page. It makes conversations interesting and never boring, and it keeps arguments to a minimum. When it comes to Rung as a partner, there's always a solution to everything.

05 | Rung respects your personal space and understands that you need time for yourself. Often he'll let you into his office so you can lounge on his couch while he assembles his latest model of ships, the silence was more than comforting for the two of you. He'd listen fondly to your work and engage in conversations, taking genuine in your story. Rung finds it endearing when you ramble on about science and communication, jumping from one topic to one another, your excitement is enough to make him fall for you all over again.

06 | Affection is something Rung desperately needs. Often people only come to him because they need something. He was a giver who never asks for anything in return, and sometimes, it gets lonely. Therefore he appreciates how expressive you are with your love. He gets flustered from all the kisses and hugs you give him, and he feels giddy like a young mech whenever you go to hold his hand in public. ( Whirl would always joke about " no pre-marital hand-holding " which would fluster him even more. ) Rung's faceplates would always heat up, his bashful expression enough to make you want to smother him even more. He retaliates by opening his glasses to reveal his optics, it's safe to say that you were always stunned silent at their beauty.

I hope you enjoyed this Vic ! xx

[silkling]

((Here’s a short Drabble I wrote based off @technovalkyrie’s art of Prowl surviving the war and returning to the Dojo. It’s a simple piece, but I hope y’all like it.)) yes I’m aware I posted this yesterday in the form of a repost but that wasn’t how I intended for it to show up on this site. Forgive the mix-up, I’m rather new to Tumblr and still learning how it all works.

Prowl had been surprised to wake up. He’d come to in what he recognized as a Cybertronian medical bay, thoroughly confused as he stared at the worried faces of his team above him. Upon noticing his awakening, they’d swarmed him. He hadn’t understood a word of the tearful nonsense they’d spoken at him, as they’d all spoken over each other (or rather, Bumblebee had spoken over everyone else and his volume had made it impossible to hear the others). In the end, it had been Jazz who’d shooed the others out, then explain in hushed tones what had happened.

Apparently, after Prowl had given his spark to reform the All Spark, his team had managed to successfully defeat the Decepticons. When Jazz had carried his grayed frame back, Sari had refused to accept it. They’d brought the All Spark to him, and somehow she had managed to manipulate its energy to bring him back. It was all very confusing, but the best anyone could figure was that, since she had been the guardian if the Key, which the All Spark had gifted her in the first place, she had somehow become the guardian of the All Spark itself upon the loss of the Key. It was all apparently still very confusing and there were lots of unknowns about the situation, but it was generally accepted that Sari was somehow connected to the All Spark and able to sync with and use its energy in times of need.

After that had been explained to him, Jazz shared another bombshell. One of Master Yoketron’s cohorts, a mech named Dai Atlas, had seen to the repair of the old Dojo. More than that, in the wreckage, they’d found documentation from Yoketron stating that Prowl was the inheritor, and thus the next Master, of the Dojo, and by extension the next Master of the cyber-ninja corpse. It was...a lot. He’d known that his Master intended for him to become the next Dojo Master, of course. Yoketron himself had told him as much. But he hadn’t ever realized just what becoming the next Dojo Master actually entailed. Still, as overwhelming as it was, he wasn’t opposed. If anything, he was even more honored and humbled by his late mentor’s faith in him.

As soon as he had been released, Prowl had returned to the Dojo. It had indeed been repaired, though it obviously hadn’t been used. So, he had spent several days, with Jazz’s help, cleaning the place up and adding his own personal touch. That included organic plants traded from other plants, of course, because Prowl refused to live in a place with no organic life. After that, he’d taken to the streets, mind turning over the course his life had taken. There would be a celebration that night, to honor the team that had defeated the Decepticons and brought the war to and end. It had included him, and he had gone along with it for the sake of his small make-shift family. But then it was over, and the next day he was back to the streets. Specifically, he found himself wandering the same streets he had used to call home before he’d been caught and delivered to Master Yoketron.

And that was where he met Bluestreak. The little bitlet was barely more than a youngling, and for a second when Prowl laid his eyes on the smaller Praxian he’d had a vivid flashback to when he’d been younger and in the same position. The cyber-ninja had found himself crouched, an energon cube in hand held out the the frightened child. It had taken some coaxing, but then the youngling had snatched the cube, and apparently deciding that Prowl was a “good adult” and darted in the press close. He’d gulped down the energon desperately, introducing himself around a mumbled mouthful, and that was when Prowl made his decision.

He’d offered Bluestreak a chance to become his student at the Dojo. After he’d explained what that meant and all it entailed, the youngling had flung his arms around Prowl and agreed with tearful eagerness. Prowl pretended not to notice the way he was practically shaking with relief. It was on the way back to the Dojo that Prowl had learned Blustreak’s story. He’d been orphaned in an attack on one of the colonies, shortly after Decepticon activity had picked up after Megatron’s revival. He’d snuck on a transport to Cybertron, hoping to find help, but had been turned away at every corner. At the Dojo, Prowl had sent him off to the wash racks to clean, then sat him down to eat dinner with him, before showing him to his berthroom. The youngling had given him one last hug before retiring to recharge.

Now, it was a few months later. Prowl found himself wandering through the main hall of the Dojo, remembering the many, many days and nights he’d spent here as a younger bot. His expression was soft and fond, but also twisted ever so slightly in pain. He had good memories here, beloved memories, but the loss of his Master had always tainted then with a faint aura of pain. Now, he supposed he had the chance to make new memories. This time though, he would be the one helping the lost youngling find his way. It was..a good thought. Bluestreak was far more tactile and personable than Prowl ever was, and likely ever would be, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He had already found himself adjusting to his student’s need for physical touch, and the Praxian’s sometimes endless chatter never failed to remind Prowl (fondly) of Bumblebee. It was good. Life was good, now. For once, he was at peace, and truly happy.

He heard movement outside the main room, just before a small helm poked inside. “Master Prowl? Isn’t it time for breakfast? Unless you have something new to show me first, which I wouldn’t mind! Everything you teach me is so cool, and I learn a lot, and it’s great here! Though, didn’t you say it’s not a good idea to do anything more intense than stretches before fueling in the morning? Is that what we’re doing? I really am hungry, and I wouldn’t mind-”

Prowl let the youngling’s chatter wash over him, walking over and gesturing his student to follow him as he led the way to the kitchen. “Why don’t you help me prepare our morning fuel?” Was all he said in response, and instantly an eager youngling was at his side to soak in what he was doing.

Yes, Prowl thought. This is good. This is where I’m meant to be.

[notveryglittery]

birthday prince (4)

summary: patton knows that roman is the bravest, strongest hero of them all.  words: 1,500 / ship: royality (patton/roman) author’s note: this is part four of my Giving The Gay Anything He Wants series for roman’s birthday (june 4)! all ships are written implied romantic but i’m not stopping you from interpreting it otherwise. check the end notes on ao3 for credit on these gifts (bc i don’t know where to put them in this post)! i hope you enjoy!!

part 1 (roceit) | part 2 (logince) | part 3 (prinxiety) part 4 (royality) | part 5 (dlampts) read on ao3

— — —

The sun was relentless in its heat, beating down on Roman without remorse. It felt like he was baking inside of his armor. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he couldn’t help but squirm uncomfortably at the sensation. He held a hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes and squinted at the imposing mountain towering above him. He was mere hours from his destination and the prospect of being so close to completing his quest filled him with energy and determination. With renewed vigor, he began his ascent.

Time was lost to him as he progressed. He steadfastly ignored his aching limbs and focused instead on keeping his breathing measured. Each step was careful but sure, so as not to lose his footing or make a wrong move. Every so often, a cloud drifted across the sky, blocking out the sun, and providing him momentary relief. He passed by a number of trees, tempting him with shade and rest, but still, he pressed on. The higher he climbed, the more frequently the wind blew; this, too, helped keep his resolve up, encouraged by the breeze pushing at his back.

And finally, he found himself at the mouth of a cave. The sunshine only went so far before darkness engulfed the tunnel. He took a deep breath and marched forward. He drew his sword from its sheath and whispered “iluminar;” the blade lit up with a radiant glow, providing him a consistent source of light. While some rational part of him knew that he ought to move slowly and check for traps, the eager realization that he had reached the home stretch egged him on. Without really noticing, he’d quickly gone from a steady pace to a power walk to a dead sprint.

When he came skidding to a stop at the entrance of an open chamber, it was as if his heart was trying to jump up and out of his throat, and his breathing was strained. There, though, at the far end of the room and just barely discernible in the low light, was his love. A resounding thud interrupted him the moment he began to call out.

“Well well well,” purred his greatest enemy, “it certainly took you long enough.”

The Dragon Witch prowled back and forth, blocking Roman’s view of his dearest companion.

“Release him!” Roman shouted, darting along the walls of the cavern, and learning better the lay of the land as light fell upon the space. “And I might spare you!”

Her laughter was a rumbling echo, shaking bits of rock and dust from the ceiling. “You are funny, little prince. I’ve so missed your ridiculous demands.”

Roman stumbled, backed up, and leapt just in time to avoid the Dragon Witch’s tail sweeping his feet out from under him. From his side, he pulled a dagger. Without much aim, he threw it in her general direction, knowing at least that with a target as big as she, it would be hard to miss.

“Roman!”

Every thought rushed from his head at the sound of Patton’s cry. At the reminder of what was really at stake here, Roman came to a halt, and faced his foe. There was no saving Patton and leaving the Dragon Witch be. He had to defeat her in order to get Patton out. It was easier said than done, apparently. One beat of her wings had him knocked back and onto the ground. He slammed hard into metal bars and grunted in pain, blinking the stars from his vision.

“Oh, honey,” cooed a voice from above him.

An arm reached through its prison, one hand reaching forward to cradle his cheek. Lips pressed against his forehead, a kiss so gentle he wasn’t sure it was real.

“Show her who’s boss, sweetie,” Patton murmured.

As if by magic, all of Roman’s sore muscles and minor wounds were wiped away. He was emboldened by Patton’s gift, his strength invigorated, and he was certain now that nothing would stand in his way. He left a lingering kiss on Patton’s knuckles and retrieved his sword before standing. The Dragon Witch looked infuriatingly smug to have taken him down so easily and that, Roman decided, would simply not do.

As we expect most stories to go, our brave hero came out victorious. There were close calls — a claw too close here, teeth too sharp there — just as there were defining strikes — the final plunge of his sword into the Dragon Witch’s heart. She disappeared, scattered into ashes, and silence fell over the chamber.

“Woohoo! That’s my knight in shining armor!”

Roman startled, dropping his weapon, and darting for Patton’s prison. Without her presence to keep it locked, freeing him was no issue. Roman ignored that he hurt all over and instead, held onto Patton as if letting him go meant he’d lose him forever.

“I’m okay,” Patton reassured, taking Roman’s helmet off, and carding his fingers through his hair. “You did it! You’re amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

“Please,” Roman laughed breathlessly, clinging to Patton all the more, “it was nothing.”

Patton leaned back, taking Roman’s face in his hands. His expression was stern. “It was spectacular. I love you so much. You’re incredible.”

“Patton,” Roman whined, hoping he could blame his redness on exertion instead of blushing.

“Let’s see what treasure awaits you!” He exclaimed, allowing Roman some shred of mercy, at least.

He took Roman’s hand and pulled him along, further back into the cave. The hoard was piled all the way to the ceiling, a good 20ft of gold, jewels, and trinkets. Roman shed his heavy breastplate before they knelt down, groaning in relief at being able to move freely and stretch properly. This also meant taking Patton into his arms once more, hugging him to his chest.

“This is my favorite prize of them all,” he muttered, pressing his cheek to the top of Patton’s head.

Patton giggled. “You haven’t even seen all of your options.”

“Hmm, none could compare to you, my heart.”

“Oh, hush!”

Eventually, Patton did manage to convince Roman to at least look at what all was laid out before them. The first thing to catch his eye was a crown, embedded with gems of every color of the rainbow. It was bright and it fit him perfectly and he never wanted to take it off.

“I’m going to make special bobby pins for that one,” Patton said offhandedly. When Roman gave him a curious look, Patton returned it with a knowing expression of his own. “You wiggle, dear.”

If Roman wasn’t sure what Patton could possibly mean, it was proven hardly five minutes later. They found plenty more jewelry: bracelets with charms that all must have been picked just for him, silly bandz that looked like they might glow in the dark, and colorful hair clips in all sorts of shapes. His joy at so many accessories led to plenty of head shaking and hand fluttering; the crown only just barely stayed on and that might have had something to do with Patton keeping a careful eye on it.

“You were my hero today, Roman,” Patton told him on their way back out. “You are every day, you know?”

Roman shrugged in a noncommittal sort of way, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to say thank you or disagree completely. His hand squeezed tight around Patton’s, though, trying to convey his gratitude. The sun was setting by the time they made it outside. It was chillier this high up on the mountain now and Roman no longer had his adrenaline to keep him warm. Not that he didn’t have something even better at his side to help with that…

“Wanna take the easy way home? I could go for some hot cocoa.”

“I like the sound of that very much,” Patton agreed.

It was only a blink and they were no longer buffeted by sharp winds but on safe stable ground instead. Whatever ailments Roman had suffered in the Fantasy Realm were left behind; now he only felt comfort, inspiration, and fondness. … Okay, maybe hunger, too.

Patton surprised him with another kiss on the cheek and then another to his lips. Roman didn’t let that one go, savoring the sweet taste of his one true love. While neither would have minded this lasting quite some time, their stomachs had other ideas in mind. They parted, giggling as their bellies growled noisily.

“Okay, okay,” Patton relented. “Dinner time.”

“Can we have pasta?”

“Sweetpea, you know we’re making all your favorites.”

“... Peach cobbler, too?”

“Duh!”

“I love you,” Roman said, as if Patton had just promised him the world.

“I know. Happy birthday, my knight.”

Going to bed that night with Patton curled up beside him, full on delicious food and drink, on love and precious reminders of everything he had, Roman couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

[wykart]

Oneshot fic where I try to piece together Thirteen’s character post spyfall part 2, and extend the episode’s final scene. (read on ao3)

The Promise

She stands, bathed in blue, with three pairs of eyes boring holes into her back. Inquisitive eyes, reproachful, skeptical. Dissatisfied. She thinks that’s probably fair enough. 

Behind her, the ship puts on a pale imitation of its usual golden hue – which is partly her fault, because the strength of her anguish resonates within the temporal engines. The ship mourns with her. It had been her home too. 

She’s taken on more than she can handle; three humans – she hasn’t had to deal with that many at once in a long while. It’s exhausting, because behind her back, they talk. They conspire. They formulate attacks in the form of questions and furrowed brows. It’s her against them, and it has been for a while now. Her against them; how had it ever come to this? Friends or enemies? She’s always found it difficult to tell the difference. 

It would be easy, perhaps, to drop them back on Earth, waltz off with a grin and a lie through bared teeth, and never return. She’s done it before. 

But the promise she made claws at her, raging at her behind pale eyes. Eyebrows; with his lined face and harsh expression – easy to intimidate, with a face like that. Easy to lie.  She craves that mask of lines, that icy stare. Maybe if she still wore that face, they wouldn’t ask so many questions.

He wanted to die, old Eyebrows had, and she’s starting to think that maybe he had the right idea. “Be a Doctor,” She had promised, but she doesn’t feel like the Doctor anymore. It all just feels like a game. 

And what was the rest of the promise? Never be cruel, never be cowardly... oh, but she is a coward – she’s been afraid of the dark since she was a boy, and she’s been running for – how long? About three thousand years, half of her assures (more like four and a half billion, the other half answers). And – though this is harder to admit – she is cruel. She’s crueller, colder, older. Be a Doctor, but the Doctor is a lie. Now more than ever, she’s hiding behind a title. For the first time, stranded without her friends, marooned in history, the cruelty had boiled over, and she’d found that she was full of so much of it that it scared her, but she couldn’t stop it from spilling out. At least the Master knows he’s cruel, he revels in the fact. She is something worse, because she’s convinced herself that her cruelty is some sort of justice. Some sort of twisted kindness, because the rules of time are not hers, and she is just a traveller. Walking away, in Montgomery and the Punjab, leaving a young boy to burn and a horde of innocent creatures to starve, that was cruel, but it was necessary, because sometimes she loses. Because the rules of time were never hers. 

Wiping Ada’s mind should have shaken her, it should have reminded her of  pleading eyes and words of power; Donna, Clara, Bill. But it didn’t. (If you ever stop, I think the universe might just go cold). And what if I go cold, she asks no one, what happens to the universe then? 

Always try to be nice. This one, she has down to an art. She can’t remember ever being nicer. She’s bubbly and hopeful and sweet - at least, when her friends are around. When she’s putting on a show, because the Doctor is a lie. Even when she’s cruel, she’s sweet. She’s nice. All wicked smile and steely eyes, teasing. A trickster’s stare. It was fun, at first, the youth, the constant movement and chatter and quirky quips. It was fun, because they didn’t question her. She revelled in their awe and their reverence in a way that filled her with sour guilt. She kept herself mysterious, confident, infallible. Vague. She stuck to the rules, when her friends were around. No weapons, no interference. Hasn’t she already seen where breaking the rules can get her? She is just a traveler; not a god or a monster or an impossible hero. Not anymore. She’s holding herself in, but the shell is too small. Jagged edges of her past jut through the edges of her silhouette, so she keeps her friends distracted. She keeps them moving and she never stays for tea, because the quiet is when questions are asked, and linear time makes her head ache and her fingers twitch. She’s hooked on the adventure. The lie. (It is Clara, she answers an old question, weary, it is like an addiction). 

Never fail to be kind. But she was always failing. She’s told her friends who she is, using empty words robbed of their usual pride and significance. Her voice and her manner had been waspish, impatient. Cruel. (There, happy?). Their unending curiosity, their kindness, it grated against her in a way that told her she was becoming something awful. She holds them, her new best friends, at arm's reach, and never closer, because she knows what happens when she lets herself get too invested. 

Oh, and never tell anyone your name. Well, that’s one promise she can keep - because everyone who can understand the cadence of her true name is dead. Killed by the only other person who still knows it. She will never be able to tell anyone her name again. 

Laugh hard. She’s done all sorts of laughing.  Triumphant exclamations of wonder, because she’s just a traveller, and everything is new to these dark eyes, everything inspires hope. Belly-clutching, strained reels of laughter when her friends are cracking jokes. When they’re travelling, never stopping, never still. The real sort of laughter comes when she’s alone. Low, cruel chuckles to the enemy that roil in her gut, that make her feel alive. Wind whistling through newly spun blonde hair, cold air against new bared teeth, old tattered clothes hanging loose as she shed the one she was before. It was a good feeling, intimidating. Darkness biting through the nice. 

Run fast. She’s faster than ever. She’s running so fast that she can barely keep up with herself. Hands always moving, fixing, tweaking, tinkering. Mouth running off at a hundred miles an hour spouting tidbits and anecdotes that even she isn’t sure are truth or lie. That night on the train, she had hit the ground running, and hasn’t stopped since. Not until she’d taken a trip home, and she’s stopped dead in her tracks. All the adrenaline she’s been running off it gone, now. All she has is anger. 

Be kind. And that’s the most difficult part of all. Nice is just a show you put on to the people around you, and pretending is easy. Kindness is deeper, and difficult to fake. Difficult, especially, because she can feel him – the Master – in the back of her mind like an itch, gloating. The ghost of a laugh, bright and spitting and maniacal, because this is exactly what he wanted. Where he is, that dark, dead dimension, the walls are thin. He can see her. Exiled to an unknown dimension, foiled and hopeless and alone, he’s still won. Laughing. Gloating. (Why would it stop). He tore apart the life she’d been building, ripped away the veil to show a glimpse of her true face; to her friends, and to herself. And she hates him. She hates him so much she wants to scream. Who is he but a reminder that it can never, ever stop. The grief and the running, and her, growing colder by the moment. A snarl twists at her face. She’s all anger, prowling, body wracked with energy that makes her want to break something, break him. The thought only makes him laugh harder. 

“Doctor?” A voice that doesn’t come from inside her head. A voice without the bite of the telepathic. Simple, human. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s Yaz. The Doctor turns, blinking against the golden light of the console and its amber pillars. Graham and Ryan stand under its canopy, concern knotted through their features. Yaz is closer, because she’s the only one who’s brave enough. Her eyes are wide and dark and kind. The sort of kind she hasn’t been in a long while. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just tired, it’s been a long few days.” Five days, five planets. No trouble, just relaxing. She did it for them rather than herself, because her ideal vacation involved a lot more running and danger and mystery. Instead of sickly sweet ice cream and soft golden sands, she craved blood and ash, the slick oil and grease of weathered machines, the smell of fear and panic. The calm and emboldening feeling of being in charge, weaving together a solution, saving the day and bounding off on the next adventure. The past five days have been hell, because hell is quiet. Hell is being left to your own devices and thoughts and left to stew out in the sun like the the rocks baking on the shoreline by her faded luxury deck chair. Decaying. And all the while, his laughter, echoing inside her skull. 

“Doctor?” The voice tries again, impatient. 

“Hmm?” She murmurs, absently meandering back towards the console, looking for something to tinker with. Something to do with their hands to make herself look busy. Behind her back, she feels them shifting, casting glances at each other that speak a thousand words. Inwardly, she sighs. Friends or enemies? 

Graham is the first to venture forth. “Look, I, err, we” – he amends, and nods pass between her friends, still behind her back – “we’ve been meanin’ to ask you something.” Of course it’s him, the most skeptical. She sees the way he looks at her, the way he worries. It’s true that she prefers the company of the young, because the young haven’t yet had the chance to learn what old eyes look like. They don’t recognise those eyes in her. “Why are you travelling with us, I mean really…” Because you were there. You were human and you were there and I was lonely, she doesn’t say, because that would be cruel.

“Yeah, and who are you? We’ve tried asking’ so many times but you always dodge the question.” Ryan cuts across, emboldened. She turns around, away from the nothing she was doing with her hands. She stares at them and tries to look nice, but fails to look kind. 

“‘Cause we’re putting’ our metaphorical foot down, Doc,” Graham says, with a hint of a smile. Keeping it light. “We’ve been talkin’, and we think, if we’re gonna keep on travellin’ together, we should get to know who we’re travellin’ with.” There was a time when they wouldn’t have dared. They were so caught up in the adventure and so scared that it was going to end that they would never have asked her that question, not when she’d been so adamantly obvious about dodging it. They were afraid to lose her, but now, they know just how much power they hold. Her against them. They know she’s lonely, that she needs them just as much – maybe more – than they need her. Running from grief, from abandonment, from boredom. Human problems. Simple reasons. The other reason they are asking now is, she knows, because they’re afraid. She slipped up. All that time carefully calibrating the ultimate TARDIS experience; controlled, self-contained adventures, and never to those voluminous corners of the galaxy where the people knew her name; in reverence or in fear, because she’s just a traveller. Now they know that she can make mistakes, that she has a history, old enemies. It scares them, because they wanted, needed to believe that she was infallible. It made following her seemingly arbitrary and ever-shifting rules all too easy. Now, suddenly, travelling is difficult. Scary. Real.

“Not that we don’t want to keep on travellin’ with you,” Yaz assures her with that officer calm. “We just think we’re entitled to know a bit more, seein’ as you know us so well.”

“And I don’t mean some made up words that don’t mean anythin’ to us” Ryan says. Gallifrey, Kasterberous, Time Lord – what did any of that mean to them? Nothing, especially when her voice had been so cold, deflated, deflective. Trying to make them feel guilty for daring to ask. “I mean, why are you runnin’?” What a question... Of course, he doesn’t realise what he’s asking, the gravity of it. Boredom or exile or fear – or a mixture of all three. (And why, he asks, with his eyes, not his mouth, because he can’t quite articulate the feeling, why do we trust you?) It had been going so well. In her head, the Master laughs some more, and she doesn’t know whether he’s really there or if she’s imagining it. 

“And who were you before we met you?” Yaz asks, eyes softening, begging her. “Who were you before that night on the train?” It’s the final question that makes her muscles seize up and her eyes go cold. It’s what makes the anger bubble to the surface and the laugher break from background noise to a shrill cackling inside her head. She had been a white-haired scottsman, and she made a promise. A contract, and she’d broken every clause. 

“Why should I have to tell you?” She snaps. Maybe the ferocity should surprise her, but it doesn’t. Cruelty is becoming normal, for her, something that’s always lurking there, just below the surface. Yaz steps back from her stare, shocked. “I’m just a traveller, didn’t I already say, I’m nobody. Isn’t this enough for you?” she pleads, and he laughs. “Aren’t you having fun?” a different angle, because they can’t deny that. It’s been fun, it’s been lighthearted. It’s been good.  “Why can’t you just let me be this?” her voice comes in strangled, breaking gasps, because there isn’t just cruelty under the surface, there’s grief as well. “Why can’t you just let me leave it all behind?” The ship rages beneath her; lights flashing, sparks spitting, crystalline pillars spiralling with blue and harsh red. It casts them all in shadow. The remnants of her voice rings out in the hollow space, the ship whirring back into silence, echoing her, understanding her like none of her new friends ever will. 

In the silence, Graham hums, his mouth folded into a line. Ryan is staring at the ground, chest rising and falling with subsiding panic. Worse, though, is Yaz, because she’s staring right at her. There’s no fear in her eyes, just kindness and a twisted sort of satisfaction. Her face says ‘I was right,’ and in her cruellest moment yet, the Doctor hates her for it. 

“I’m sorry – I…” she knows what she has to do, and all her previous faces are looking at her in disdain. In disgust. Shut up, she swats their images away. They aren’t her, not anymore. The Doctor is a lie, and she is just a traveller. “Yaz, I’m really, really sorry,” she whispers, voice like silk. Beckoning. The girl can’t resist. 

“I know, it’s okay,” Yaz smiles, walking forwards. But the Doctor isn’t apologising for what she said, instead, she’s apologising for what she’s about to do, because she won’t get the chance after it’s done. More faces; Donna, Clara, Bill. Ada. She ignores them, and takes comfort in the cruelty of the act. 

The Doctor reaches out, and Yaz leans in to her touch, thinking that she’s offering comfort. The Doctor places outstretched fingers against her temple and searches her mind. As she sifts through her timeline, the act pressed into the space of a moment, it occurs to her that she could pick apart the strands of her memories and pluck out the parts that don’t fit. The doubts, the fear. The time she spent in that horrible dimension; lost and alone in the endless forest. She could make her better. The ship hums a dissonant note; a warning, and she realises that she isn’t quite that cruel. Not yet, anyway. She only takes the past minute. It’s barely a touch upon her mind, barely a dent, so she stays conscious. Yaz sways for a moment, dizzy, while the Doctor strides over to the two boys. They aren’t paying attention. They’re talking amongst themselves in low, harsh whispers. Behind her back. Her against them. 

There’s a moment when they notice her purposeful steps clanging against the metal floor, and they look up. They see her expression; flat and cold. Unyielding; and their eyes flash with fear. Graham opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, she raises both hands towards their heads. She takes Ryan in one hand and Graham in the other; outstretched arms reaching, the pads of her fingers running over the surface of their thoughts as their eyes brush closed. She could take back the memory of the Master, the panic on the plane, the bone-burrowing fear of being on the run - but she doesn’t. She thinks she will regret it later, when she’s grown a little colder still. 

In their moment of confusion, time rewinding, she takes her position at the top of the stairs. The blue light on her face feels right, it feels honest. She waits for their eyes to open and adjust, once again trained on her back, and she walks away before they can pose their carefully constructed questions. She leaves them standing under the fading gold of the console, sharing those transparent, conspiratorial glances, forming a new plan to get her cornered. Her against them. She makes a new promise, and the promise is this; they can never know. You are nobody. You are just a traveller. 

The Doctor is a lie, and they can never know. 

[goodomensblog]

Afterward - Part 10

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

(#1 won this round! It’s heist timeeee)

Afterward - - Part 10

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

“...so, in summation, we, well - slightly bent the rules and kept the jar of Hellfire.”

“How?”

“Swapped out the real jar with a fake and,” Gabriel shrugs, “the demon didn’t notice when he brought it back. Truthfully, the poor guy seemed a little-,” he stops, awkwardly grimacing as he taps a finger against his head.

“Idiot,” Beelzebub hisses, fingers curling, piercing the couch with jagged holes.

Gabriel waves a hand, and the shredded couch knits together.

“Works out for us though,” Crowley says.

Beelzebub, slumping in exhaustion, manages a nod. Extending a sharp nail, they reach out, poking a fresh hole in the newly repaired couch.

Aziraphale, glancing down, presses a staying hand on Beelzebub’s wrist. 

“Rest,” he counsels. “Save your energy. We don’t know how long it will take Gabriel to return with the Hellfire.”

‘Me?” 

Three sets of eyes are, at once, glaring at the Archangel.

“Obviously,” Crowley says, breaking the silence.

“Hey - I already told you it was here. I could have easily kept that to myself.”

“You are literally the only one here who can get it,” Crowley replies, incredulous.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms. “You all don’t even know what’s been going on in Heaven today. Frankly, it’s a mess. In fact, I should be out there right now, you know, doing my job. People are on high alert. It’s a whole thing. Even I couldn’t just walk on in and take the Hellfire.”

“Gabriel,” Beelzebub says, forcing their weak voice loud. “I’m not - I’m not asking you for a favor. I know - I know you wouldn’t - If you do this, I’ll pay up - I’ll pay up later. You know I’m good for it,” Beelzebub hisses, forehead creasing in pain. “Anything. Just - ugh,” shivering, the demon heaves a wheezing breath and goes quiet. 

Their dark gaze turns up, dull and half-lidded, as if they already know what the Archangel’s answer will be.

Gabriel had listened, holding himself rigid, posture perfectly straight. And now that Beelzebub has silenced, Gabriel turns his head down, nostrils flaring. He shakes his head.

“I cannot-”

“You can. And you will,” Aziraphale interrupts.

Gabriel turns at the interruption, lips curling into a sneer.

Aziraphale, bracing his hands on the couch, presses up. Beelzebub watches him rise, dark eyes unreadable.

Hands fisted at his sides, Aziraphale turns. Standing straight, he looks at Gabriel, head tilted to meet his eyes. 

“You’ll retrieve the Hellfire. Because Beelzebub is dying. And it is within your power to save them. And because,” and when Aziraphale pauses, drawing a breath, his wings flicker in and out of existence on this plane - and they don’t look quite right - but they’re gone before Crowley can see more than a glance.

“It is the right thing to do,” Aziraphale finishes, head held high.

“You don’t get to decide what is right-”

“I just did,” Aziraphale snaps. His fists are trembling.

Crowley, circling around Gabriel, curls his fingers, knuckles cracking as nails shift to claws. “I’d listen to the angel, Archangel.”

“Fighting will draw attention. Thought you wanted to avoid that, seeing as you are a traitor,” Gabriel says, shifting to keep both angel and demon within sight.

“Oh, I would prefer it, yes. However, I’m starting to think Heaven might be otherwise occupied today. What did you call it? A mess?” Aziraphale asks, stepping into a stance Crowley recognizes. Last time he’d stood like this, he was holding a flaming sword. “So I’m wondering if they’d notice a power surge at all. Especially from the residence of an Archangel.”

Shivers climb Crowley’s spine, because this is a side of Aziraphale he doesn’t get to see very often. Smiling, sharp as a knife, Crowley prowls, matching Aziraphale’s stance.

“Just say the word, Aziraphale,” Crowley calls, gleeful. 

He does usually prefer more creative methods to outright violence. But for Gabriel, who sent Aziraphale to burn with a cold, guiltless smile, Crowley is happy to make an exception. 

“I don’t want to drag you into this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, eyes on Gabriel as he circumvents the coffee table.

“Please angel, you’d have to drag me out of it.” 

Crowley is moving opposite Aziraphale, keeping the Archangel perfectly between them. 

Gabriel spins, trying to face both of them at once.

“You have a choice to make, Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls.

“I can take you. Both of you,” Gabriel replies, the nervous edge in his voice undercutting his bold words.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale says - as Crowley calls out:

“Can you though?”

Violet eyes flick back and forth between them - and then to Beelzebub, pale and sunken on the couch.

Crowley is almost disappointed to see the fight go out of him. 

Tension bleeding from his rigid spine, Gabriel shrinks back. Letting out a string of sharp, ancient curses, Gabriel drags a hand down his face.

“Fine,” he says, vitriolic. “But I am not touching that damned jar. Someone will have to risk coming with me.” 

Cold eyes look to Crowley.

“Fine by me.”

Aziraphale, gaping, scurries between them. “No - no. Not fine.” Eyes wide, Aziraphale turns on Crowley. “You are not going out there. Not with him.”

“I can probably disguise myself well enough for a quick trip to the - er, wherever. Like Lil’ Gabbie said-”

“That is not my name.”

“Like Gabbers said, Heaven’s preoccupied today,” Crowley shrugs - and it has not escaped his notice that Gabriel has yet to reveal what precisely has Heaven so worked up. 

“They won’t notice me if I take steps to conceal myself. Besides,” and here Crowley pauses, lowering his voice. “Best someone keeps an eye on our favorite Archangel anyway. Ensure he doesn’t make any extra stops along the way.”

“I’m right here. I can hear literally everything you’re saying.”

Crowley, casually flicking his middle finger over Aziraphale’s shoulder, continues.

“Really angel. I’ll be fine. More than fine once I get my hands on the Hellfire.”

Behind Aziraphale, Gabriel shifts, his already rigid posture stiffening.

“Yeah, stop that. I’m not going to waste it on your sorry ass, Archangel.”

“Try it and I’d smite you where you stood.”

And then Aziraphale is turning, and the air is vibrating around them. 

“Touch him and I swear to God that I will end you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, the terrible timbre of truth resounding with a buzzing pressure, laying weight to his every word.

Crowley’s skin is prickling - in reaction to both the gathering power and Aziraphale’s words; heart in his throat, he reaches out, placing a staying hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Electricity sparks between them. It is red - no blue, no, it’s black and white and silver and gold and -

Angel and demon start, pulling apart. 

The electricity fizzles out, curling and twisting into nothing, like smoke from a doused flame.

Crowley glances up, meeting Aziraphale’s startled gaze.

“What…?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answers, pale and hushed.

Behind them, Gabriel heaves a deep, exhausted sigh. 

“You two had to go fuck up something else, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t-” Aziraphale starts, bristling - then halts, glancing down at his wrist.

Crowley turns his own wrist over, inspecting the cut that is, by now, nearly healed.

“Huh.”

“Yeah huh. Look, I’ll deal with whatever fuckery you two managed to create later. You want the Hellfire or not?” Gabriel glances, as if on impulse, back at the couch. 

Beelzebub’s eyes have drifted closed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, turning.

“I’ll be back before you know it, angel. Promise,” Crowley says, and believes it - because lying to his angel about something like this would be unforgivable. 

As if he can feel the truth, resonant, in Crowley’s words, Aziraphale stops. Lips pressing together, he looks Crowley up and down. Brows curving, concerned skin wrinkling between them, he says, chin quivering, “Crowley, I-”

“Are we going or not? Come on.”

Crowley reaches out, brushing his knuckles over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. There are no sparks, but Aziraphale, nonetheless, shivers beneath the touch.

“Don’t open the door for anyone, angel,” Crowley says, and with a snap, shifts his body. 

The Archangel Michael stands, slouching, in the center of the room. Pursing golden lips, Crowley removes his dark glasses.

“Seriously,” Gabriel says, flat and exhausted, “What happens if we run into the real one?”

Hands on his hips, Crowley shrugs, arching one of Michael’s manicured brows. 

“I am the real one. I’m walking around with the Archangel fucking Gabriel. The other one’s clearly the impostor.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, Gabriel heaves a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s just -”

Beelzebub, reaching out, grabs hold of Gabriel’s pants.

“Ten minutes,” Beelzebub says, voice quieter than a whisper. “Think I can last...ten more minutes. Understand....asshole?”

Gabriel’s expression is impossible to read. Lips pressing together in a hard, flat line, he drags his leg loose of Beelzebub’s grasp.

“Hey,” Gabriel calls with a sharp look toward Crowley and Aziraphale. “Is this happening, or not?”

Crowley, flicking his fingers in a mocking salute, gives Aziraphale one last lingering look. 

“Be back soon, angel.”

“I believe you,” Aziraphale says. Eyes wide, and hands wringing in front of him, he watches as Crowley step up to the door. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls as the door swings open. “What I said earlier - I meant it. Don’t lay a hand on him.”

Gabriel, casting a withering glance back into the apartment, slams the door.

Tapping a heel against gleaming marble floor, Crowley turns a long look at the arching halls.

Heaven.

“Try not to sully it with your sin,” Gabriel says, and sets off at a brisk pace down the hall.

Crowley, sneering at the back of his head, flips him off with Michael’s manicured hand, and strides purposefully after.

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

After six thousand years, Crowley again walks Heaven’s halls….

A fun one this time! Choose how much energy Crowley will devote to “getting along” with Gabriel on their Hellfire acquisition mission:

0% energy - Crowley will be 100% bastard. Because Gabriel is the actual worst and he deserves it.

50% energy - Crowley will be reasonably civil - unless Gabriel is really asking for it. They do have limited time, but Crowley isn’t about to let Gabriel walk all over him.

100% energy - Crowley promised Aziraphale that he would return unscathed. If he has to play nice with Gabriel to ensure his safe return, he will.

Comment or reblog to vote :) (ALSO thank you all so much for voting and participating in this! I just absolutely love reading your thoughts behind why you are voting for any given option.)

Read Part 11 Here

[wookieewrites]

Lootkeeper

The adventurers were bloodied and beaten when they staggered into my chambers. They generally were, the ones who made it this far. I could never help myself wondering which of them would make it, who was going to go down hard, who would end up sacrificing themselves for the others.

You do this long enough, and the wondering just creeps in.

The very tone of the broken fortress changes when adventurers enter. Nightmares stir from their sleep, traps stretch their necks and the watchers peer out into the gloom. There are things out there with eyes that see clearly through the rain – and there’s always rain.

So I take my traditional place, don the armour I wore on my own journey through these ruins, and wait for them. I rest my hands on the pommel of my sword, embedded in the cracked flagstones where I buried it long ago.

The five of them wearily ready their weapons, stringing themselves into a loose formation. There’s a pair of magic wielders, of wildly different disciplines to judge my their clothing. They hover towards the middle, their fingers aglow with untold powers waiting to come at their beckon. Their rearguard hefts a hammer at me, and I strongly suspect that she’s going to hurl it at the slightest provocation.

The three frontliners bear the brunt of the damage this crew has sustained so far, as per usual. My eyes flick from the tip of a halberd to a gash on the man’s face, watching as it slowly knits itself together.

On the right, a lightly armoured woman with a determined set to her shoulders gives me a more appraising look than most. She’s probably not the planner of the group, but at a guess she might be the face. The bruises suggest that talking hasn’t done her all that much good in here, which I could have told her much earlier.

“If you just let us pass, we don’t have to fight,” she says, barely trying to disguise the bone weariness that suffuses her voice.

“Why do you insist on trying that every time Mariella?” her partner groans, hefting his scimitar.

“Let you pass? That would kind of defeat the point of me, don’t you think?” I ask. You might think they were too exhausted to appreciate my humour, and you would be right. But I get bored sometimes. Everyone does.

“You talk?” one of the magic wielders asks. I pin her as a necromancer. Oh, probably masquerading as a cleric of some nature or life god, but a necromancer nevertheless. The illusions are gone by this point.

“Last I checked. Though chances are I’m not the first being that can talk you’ve encountered on your way here. Not everything that can speak is friendly – or intelligent.”

“It has a point,” the other magic wielder says. “Remember that tree thing?”

“The treeyaeya is not particularly companionable,” I agree.

“You can say that again-“ he cuts off as Mariella smacks the flat of her rapier against his arm.

“Why would it tell us that?” she challenges.

“They, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh,” the hammer-thrower says, lowering her hammer. “I’ve never met something that cared about pronouns that wouldn’t monologue before attacking me.”

“I’ve never felt more insulted and more seen at the same time,” I reply.

“Are you going to attack us,” Mariella asks, looking more curious than weary.

“That really depends on if you’re going to attack me. But I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

The magic fades from the mages’ fingertips, and all but one of them sheath their weapons.

“Come on, Vanagan. If they were going to start a fight, they’d have done it by now. I mean, look at the size of that sword.”

“Much too big to be practical,” I agree, taking my hands from the pommel and resting them by my sides. “Totally stuck in the flagstones, too. It’s mostly just for show.”

Vanagan, the halberdier, finally relaxes. He pulls his dented helm from his head and rests it on a hidden hook on his shoulder. I guess his hair is usually coiffed, but right now it looks as dishevelled as the rest of him. Not bad looking, all things considered.

“What are you doing here, then, if you’re not going to fight us?” the necromancer asks.

“You’re almost at the top now,” I explain, “and quite frankly you’ve been through a lot to get this far. I’m here to give you a little rest and some kind words of encouragement.”

Most of them seem happy with that, and a couple sit down on the flagstones. They look about ready to sleep. A frown creases Mariella’s face, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. I shed my helmet, crusty old thing that it is, and reveal my lined face to them all. I grin.

“Oh, and to arm you all for the fight ahead, that is.”

They leave their exhaustion in my antechamber, as I lead them into the armoury. The forge and the workshop are tertiary to their concerns, and there are secrets in there that aren’t mine to share. Not that they have much time to use them at the moment.

The second greatest joy that I have these days, after messing with adventurers who come to face me, is the looks on their faces as they spin on their heels, staring up at the towering racks of tools, weapons, armour and trinkets that fill my armoury.

“What’s the catch?” the hammer thrower, Hylie, asks. I already like her to-the-point attitude.

“Take a piece, leave a piece,” I say.

“Equal value?” Mariella’s partner, Bykar, interjects. “Alright, I might be able to swap everything I have for this gold spoon then.”

“That spoon can turn any liquid into pure magical energy. Charges mages up like a lightning strike.”

Bykar puts the spoon back hurriedly, as if he worried it would break on him.

“No, not equal value. For any piece of gear you leave behind, you can take a piece of gear from here. A whole suit of armour for a single knife, if you wish. But you must leave behind one more item than you take.”

“Are they all enchanted? Any why one more?” Trudy the necromancer asks, looking more excited by the minute.

“Every one. And you have to leave more than you take, so the armoury can grow.”

“I could have told you that,” Vanagan scoffs, “it’s a typical deal with these kinds of types. Let me guess – you somehow use our attachment to the items to fuel the magic that makes them worth so much more in the end?”

His companions stare at Vanagan in unconcealed disbelief.

“He’s quite right. Though, it’s less about fuel and more that the technique involves evoking an enchantment from the item’s history. Chances are you’re the most significant part of that history though, given that you brought them here. There’s a lot of nuance to this kind of enchantment, but I doubt you have much time to discuss it. Your Quest and all.”

Vanagan looks smug at being right, and the rest of the group seem keen to move on from anything that might cause their friend to start crowing about his intelligence.

“Where do you want the things we’re trading?” Hylie asks. I motion towards a series of broad, flat silver trays.

The group splits up to hunt through the vast stock of treasures available to them.

This part of the process is another one that fascinates me – the way that different people choose to approach it. I watch as Byker slowly strips himself of every piece of equipment that he has with him. The battered armour, his sword, shield and a handful of minor magical trinkets that he’d clearly accumulated of the course of their venture into the fortress. He lays each out, and counts them, trying to make sure that he has a fair number. When he seems satisfied with the count, he looks up at me and I nod, accepting the total that he has calculated.

Then he disappears into the stacks, combing through as much of the armoury as he can make it through. I spot him pick out a glittering suit of armour that can blind his enemies in a fight and a solid wooden round shield whose crest is almost imperceptible beneath the blood that has stained it. The latter is infused with the fury of a dragon, and I’m not even sure what the full effects of the shield would be when bonded.

On the other hand, Mariella doesn’t leave a single thing on the trays. Instead, she prowls the pathways between the stacks, her eyes running over every item she sees but not staying for longer than a moment on any until she spies a rapier, much like her own, with a dark emerald embedded in its pommel. She draws the weapon, and feels some part of its power brush up against her mind, whispering of the things that she could do with it if she leaves here with it.

Mariella walks back over to me, takes off her necklace and unsheathes her well-worn rapier, placing them on the tray in front of her. Without looking at me, she buckles the enchanted sword to her side, and returns to scanning the stacks. Each time she returns, she has another item in hand, and leaves something of hers in exchange.

The lot of them waste little time in assessing the tastiest morsels of the armoury, and in almost no time at all I can tell that they’re mentally preparing themselves for the slog ahead. It’s usually not far, from my chamber to the throne room, but those last few encounters can really test a party’s mettle.

I won’t be bored, when they’re gone. They’ve left the better part of the loot that they entered with, so I have a few solid days of enchanting work ahead of me, as well as some extra, lengthier steps with some of the gnarlier enchantments.

It will be quieter, though.

“Is that everything?” I ask.

“Not quite,” Mariella replies. “Do you have any tips? For what lies ahead?”

This is a smart question, and one that far too many groups don’t think to ask.

“You’ve a big group. I can tell you learned the painful way not to keep too close together, to avoid blasts or anything that might chain. The throne room will force you to unlearn that lesson, if it doesn’t take you out first. Make two self-sufficient subgroups, and be ready to split apart and regroup at a moment’s notice. Dividing attention between the two groups will keep both alive. When your foe starts to gloat, throw your opening volley and hit hard – but make sure you keep a solid reserve. You’ll want to be able to match your opener with another coordinated volley about halfway through. The tricks that will be pitted against you differ each time, but you’ll be able to tell when they’ve all been burned through because the gloating will turn to desperate, brutal fighting. That’s when you throw everything you have out, and whittle whatever’s left away.

If you win, and I hope you do – don’t rest. Other things will come crawling out to try and take your prize from you. They’re not much of a threat, but if you’ve let your guard down they could overwhelm you.

That’s all I remember. Best of luck.”

They absorbed my advice solemnly, and I hoped that enough of it would help them in the long run. I tried never to speak to anything I could not know, and the exact nature of the challenges ahead were unreliable at best. Besides, very little made its way back down the fortress this way, so I rarely learned anything more.

“When we win, we’ll come back through here. Free you from this.”

I shook my head.

“No. I chose to stay here, to work in these chambers for the empowerment of folks like yourself. It will be a difficult enough fight for you, even with the tools I have provided. Without me, it might be years before the fortress is bested.

It is a lonely lot, here, but I could not ask for more fulfilling work.”

At that, they left, bravely facing the chambers ahead. Their spirits had been close to breaking, but now they were renewed.

A figure stirred in the shadows.

IT IS DONE THEN?

“They will fight you at the peak of their strength, lord of this tower. If you best them-“

WHEN

“When you best them, they will nourish your broken soul, and feed the very roots of your power. The fortress may stand for many years on their strength alone.”

GOOD. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG SINCE I HAD A TRUE CHALLENGE. IT IS A SHAME THAT MORE OF THEM DO NOT OFFER THEIR SOULS TO SAVE THEIR COMPATRIOTS, AS YOU ONCE DID.

I grind my teeth, but say nothing.

WORK WELL, ETERNAL ARMOURER. YOU MAY YET EARN YOUR FREEDOM.

“You may yet a match for your wretched power.”

It fades from my awareness, returning to its physical form to prepare for the challenge. And I am left to wonder, again, whether I am a thorn in that monster’s side, or a chef preparing its every meal to perfection.

[soundwavereporting]

fic for @doorwingdings for the @transform-or-treat Halloween fic exchange! She requested Jazz/Prowl ala Pet Semetary. Hope I did the concept justice. This is vaguely IDW-flavored. cw for grief/mourning, alongside vague references to pretty much anything you’d expect from Pet Semetary.

“Y’know, I’d always thought of myself as level headed. Reasonable. Willin’ to do what needed to be done, say the right words to the right people, set your processor to it, and it’ll get done. I swore I’d never be one of those mechs who loses it after their sparkmate passes. That wasn’t me.

Taking him to the Acid Wastes was a mistake.”

It was not a legend, or even a myth. Jazz would have had to struggle to call it a rumor outside of the place it originated: a small town on the outskirts of Carpressa, straddling the border between a true city and the desolation of the Acid Wastes. The way the story went, the smelting pit was a relic from the Golden Age, built over a tunnel leading to the Afterspark itself. This tunnel, lined with veins of Primus’s own innermost energon, was the conduit to guide a mech to his final resting place.

Or to bring him back to the living world.

Its original name had been lost to time: there was no way the Primes and Senators would ever have deigned to have their bodies lain to rest in a ‘smelting pit’. But it was a smelting pit, cold and lifeless as the gunmetal gray forms that had been buried there.

Through the haze of rage and grief, Jazz had reasoned that even if this didn’t work, if the smelting pit was just a figment of a mech’s overactive imagination, it wouldn’t do any harm. Prowl had held little sentiment or attachment to his frame: he, Jazz thought, would have done the same thing were he in Jazz’s place.

If there was a chance: even the slightest chance, that leaving a mech’s dead frame in the cold smelting pit would bring him back? Would bring Prowl back?

Jazz would take it.

“Here’s the secret: this whole thing, start to finish? A mistake. We never shoulda pressed our luck.

“I think Sentinel knows. He signed off on ‘Prowl’s’ request for an extended leave of absence way too fast.”

Jazz had also reasoned that if it didn’t work (which it would, it had to), this would simply be an unspoken incident he would shove into long-term storage immediately. He would take Prowl’s frame back to Iacon, let Sentinel or the stylus-pushers handle the details of the funeral. Jazz would fight for Prowl to be smelted in Iacon, not Petrex. And that would be that. He would wallow in his grief for a half-million years and come out of it smiling. And if the smile was a little tinged with insincerity, or his gaze seemed distant, well.

The last thing Jazz had reasoned was that it just wasn’t fair. If Prowl had to go out before his time, it should have been helping someone. The mech had a habit of sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong, and Jazz loved him for it. He had been investigating a mech named Render for selling contaminated energon cubes. If Render or one of his mechs had shot Prowl? Jazz would’ve been competing with Sentinel and a good chunk of his Security Services to get first shot at the mech’s spark chamber.

But an accident left no one to blame.

Not entirely true: Jazz could blame the mech operating the transport. He was a minibot named Greenspark, overworked and undertrained, barely tall enough to see the controls on the vehicle he was required to operate, nonstop, five cycles at a time. He could blame the company that had ‘employed’ Greenspark, who had recruited him from an employment agency that was shadier than a clearance sale in Kaon.

Shaking his fist at the world wouldn’t do anything.

So Jazz took Prowl’s lifeless frame to the cold smelter.

He bribed a mech with six hundred shanix to take him—them—there.

In hindsight, Jazz was certain he could have found it himself: it looked nothing like the nondescript smelters scattered around Kaon or Iacon. This place was massive, a testament to the opulence of the Primes and the mecha they favored. More crypt than smelter, Jazz privately thought, and had things been different, he and Prowl would have enjoyed spending a few days exploring the place.

It was a shared hobby of theirs, one they never had as much time to indulge in as either would have liked. Both enjoyed architecture and history, things that Cybertron had in excess. It was not an unpopular pastime among Cybertronians but prior to his grief-fueled research, Jazz had never even heard a whisper of this place.

As he lay Prowl’s cold, gray form on the ornately engraved platform, he wondered if Prowl had known. Had Prowl known, and kept it a secret? Had Prowl known what Jazz might do of the situation came to it?

No. Prowl wouldn’t do anything like that. Prowl—his Prowl, vibrant and alive, with shining blue optics that caught Jazz’s attention the minute he walked in the door of Kaon Security Services—would trust Jazz’s intuition. Because that had always been them, hadn’t it? Prowl’s logic, Jazz’s intuition. Two sides of a chic-chip, blurring into sameness when Prowl’s leaps of logic came out looking like a hunch or Jazz’s explanations same out looking like a intellectual-class mech’s thesis on statistics and probabilities.

Before meeting Prowl, Jazz had been certain he was complete. He still was his own mech—Prowl hadn’t changed that. But Prowl had come into his life and added something to it: a dash of comforting stability amidst the chaos of a mech trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy in post-Functionist Cybertron.

Now, Jazz was adrift, unmoored. Anchored only by the thin ray of hope that this cold smelter in the Acid Wastes might bring Prowl back.

His quick examination of the place had revealed no trace of corpses, which left two options: mechs came and took the gray frames away after it didn’t work. Or…

Jazz couldn’t bring himself to remain inside. He camped outside the cold smelting pit, optical visor trained on the entrance as he scanned for life signs.

As these things happened, he slipped into recharge.

Jazz awoke to see a mech standing in the grand entrance to the cold smelting pit. His optics registered it as Prowl: his Prowl, standing tall and proud. His frame still bore the damage of the injury; the plating on his torso was warped and dented, but he could see the hint of a spark shining in the early morning light.

“Jazz.”

Prowl’s voice was as flat as ever. Upon closer examination, Prowl’s armor was still desaturated; the brilliant red of his chevron was a muddy shade of rust.

He hadn’t realized he had leapt to his feet, closing the distance between them.

Prowl’s frame was cold to the touch.

Jazz didn’t care.

On the sixth cycle, he commed Sky-Byte.

They met in a Stanzian café. It wasn’t often Jazz visited; he preferred the real thing on his rare trips back to his home city, but today he needed a taste of normalcy.

He tried not to think of the way Render’s innermost energon had tasted on his lips.

“It’s about Prowl,” Sky-Byte said, without preamble.

Before Jazz could reply, Sky-Byte spoke:

“Grief-stricken ending before lonely spark flies beyond the carbon”

“Hell’s that supposed to mean?” Jazz asked, immediately grateful for the distraction.

Sky-Byte’s optics narrowed.

“It means you are in mourning.”

An hour later, Jazz returned home from the café with more questions than answers, accompanied by a slowly-growing sense of dread he couldn’t put a finger on. Prowl was still in the habsuite, secured behind the best locks shanix could buy. Jazz couldn’t find it in himself to muster up the energy to even pretend to be happy to see the thing that was inhabiting his conjunx’s frame.

Jazz headed into the spare room that had quickly been converted into a second bedroom. After a moment’s consideration, he locked the door behind him. He had spent half a day attempting to soundproof the rest of the habsuite to muffle the sound of the shuffling footsteps as he incessantly paced the rooms, before realizing the absence of sound was worse than the sound itself.

“I don’t need to go over all of it again. You know what happened. How I fed him.

“They were—are—bad mechs. Ones who others whisper about when they think no one’s listening. This latest one, Render? Made his fortune selling empty cubes wholesale to th’ Dead End’s energon distribution center, a hundred cubes a shanix. No need to waste money on mechs who can’t be bothered to take care of themselves. What he didn’t tell the center is the cube quality isn’t fit for a turbolouse, much less a mech.

“Or maybe he did, and they didn’t care.

“The number of bad mechs on this planet ain’t infinite.

“If you’re seeing this, ‘Byte—one of two things happened. No matter what, I need you to call Sentinel and get a security team up to my habsuite. The number and my auth codes are at the end of this message.

“I’m not tryin’ to get myself killed. I’ll take him down and be out of the habsuite before security shows up, or I won’t.

“Either way, I won’t be around. I’ll head to Staniz. Maybe Kalis. Anywhere but here.

“Take care, Sky-Byte.”

[sethrine-writes]

Devil-sitter May Cry, Ch. 4

Pairing: Dante x F!Reader, Vergil x F!Reader (Undecided)

Words:  1844

Warning:  Cuteness, Defensive/protective Nero, Demon attack

Story Summary: Low on cash and desperate for a job, you reply to a flyer for a babysitting position. Little did you know that the opportunity to watch over two special boys would bring your life so much mayhem and adventure…and, perhaps, a chance at a family of your own.

A/N: First day continues, and with some unexpected excitement at the end!

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Chapter 4 - First Day Surprises

The rest of the morning went by rather smoothly.

After cleaning up breakfast, you made your way upstairs and found the boys' shared bedroom where a fully dressed V was helping a flailing Nero fix his inside-out shirt. V was laughing the whole time and telling his cousin to be still as he attempted to pull the shirt over his head, of which somehow had gotten stuck in a way only an unsupervised child could manage.

As soon as Nero's head breached the opening, he sucked in an exaggerated breath as if he had been suffocating the whole time and fell over dramatically, forcing V into another fit of giggles that also had him on the floor.

The following games the boys played using their imaginations had very similar effects, with Nero playing eager dramatics that would lead V into either laughter or equally as dramatic monologues. There were pirates and space stations, a dragon on the moon, six-eyed skeletons belonging to a race of demons who went extinct "a bajillion years ago" trying to become cowboy outlaws, and so on.

The imagination of a child was endless, it seemed, and their playing made for quite the entertaining morning.

Lunch was an easy fix of pb&j sandwiches and a side of grapes. Much to your relief, V ate rather well, nearly finishing his half-sandwich and all but three grapes, of which Nero was happy to finish off for him.

When asked, yet again, if you were going to eat, too, you had to assure a very concerned looking V that you had something in your bag that you would eat later. Granted, it was just a protein bar, and after your quick and meager breakfast that morning, it definitely wouldn't be enough to fully curb your hunger. It felt impolite to partake in whatever they had in the fridge, however, so it would have to do.

Playtime resumed outside with chalk drawings for all of an hour before you began to notice V's sluggishness, despite his best efforts to keep up with Nero's near ceaseless energy. You suggested some quiet time in the main room -living room, or maybe it was considered an office?- and had no trouble getting V to climb up next to you on the worn leather sofa with a pillow.

Two minutes of stillness, and V was out like a light.

Keeping Nero entertained while his cousin napped was surprisingly easy, though you had a feeling this was a normal enough routine that he knew how to play quietly on his own so as not to disturb his cousin. Giving him a snack and asking him all sorts of imaginative questions while he nibbled on more grapes and cheese crackers occupied the next half hour.

When V joined you both in the kitchen with bleary eyes and the cutest little pout, you offered him a snack, as well, though all he was interested in was a small cup of juice.

Nero was more than eager to get back to their play, though with a little prompting from you, he was a bit more patient and waited for V to wake up fully. It didn't take too long for him to perk back up and ease into their make-believe world yet again, and you were subjected once more to their antics for a while longer.

At one point, the phone on the desk began to ring. You shushed the boys down just a bit as you answered with the business' name, just as Dante had instructed you to, and jotted down some details that seemed important from the possible client on the other end. When you finished, you turned back around to find a peculiar sight.

"A cat?"

The boys were both cooing at and petting a sleek black cat that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its tail swaying in an inviting way as it sashayed back and forth between them. There had been no mention of a pet, no signs of treats or toys or a litter box of any sort - no signs of a cat in the shop at all, and yet, there it was.

Your mind immediately wandered to V and his allergies, suddenly concerned that he would have a flair-up. Vergil hadn't mentioned any allergies to animals, but it was still something you were wary of.

"Where did this little guy come from?" you questioned lightly as you came closer, though mindful in not scaring off the feline, lest it was hard to catch.

"She's a girl," Nero corrected quickly with a little glare and a miffed tone.

"Be nice, she didn't know," V scolded with a gentle tone, earning a puffy-cheeked pout from his cousin.

"Thank you for telling me," you told Nero, anyway, before turning your attention back to V as you crouched down. "I didn't know you guys had a cat. I haven't seen her around all day, and your dads didn't mention her at all."

"Shadow's special," V semi-whispered behind his cupped hand as if guarding his words like a secret.

"She likes to go off and play other places," Nero supplied, reaching for the cat's tail and giving a gentle tug that had Shadow swishing the sleek appendage about just a tad faster, not aggravated, just acknowledging.

"But she always comes back to us," V affirmed, immediately cooing at Shadow as she rubbed her head against his arm. "Papa says he found her one day on a mission, and they have a bond, now."

"Oh, that's very sweet," you crooned, smiling as you continued to watch the boys pet over the cat.

You paid especially close attention to V and his breathing, though even after a solid five minutes within constant contact of the feline, he seemed to be doing just fine. It gave you some relief, especially knowing that even Nero would have said something if V were to have had some sort of ill reaction. If you had learned one thing already, it was that Nero was highly protective of V in any and all aspects.

"Miss, I'm thirsty," V spoke up suddenly, those vibrant green eyes of his looking to you imploringly. "Can I have some water, please?"

You smiled and asked if Nero wanted something, too, before standing and making your way into the kitchen. The fridge didn't have one of those ice makers in it, though you remembered there being a filtered pitcher of water on the top shelf beside the milk, of which you made full use of.

Returning from the kitchen, your smile fell instantly as a look of absolute horror settled across your features and seeped into your very being. The cup of water slipped right through your fingers, clattering to the floor and garnering the attention of the creature that was hovering over Nero's prone form, its teeth bared.

"D-Don't move," you spoke out firmly to the boys, trying to will your voice from shaking as your mind caught up to the unexpected turn of events.

Were the boys hurt? How did that thing get in?

The large creature, almost resembling that of a black panther, must have taken your talking as invitation to continue whatever it was doing beforehand, a low rumble of a growl coming from its throat as it turned back to a struggling Nero.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, no!” you shouted, taking a few hurried steps closer in panic.

A hefty growl left the creature as it finally turned its full attention to you, the noise vibrating the air and causing your stomach to drop. It stepped away from Nero as it began to prowl its way toward you with purpose, fur shifting and lighting up with flashes of red runes within the pitch blackness as it advanced.

A demon, then? 

Your instincts were telling you to get out of there, that you were in immediate, and rather obvious, danger. You were also highly aware of the two little boys whose lives were infinitely more important, and despite the fear that had your knees damn near collapsing in on themselves as you slowly backed up, you had to at least try and lead the creature away with the hope that the boys’ fathers would be home soon to save them, should you perish.

"That's it, come pick on me, you big, sharp furball," you muttered beneath your breath, eyes darting to the boys for a quick second.

Nero was sitting up, thankfully, looking rather confused but otherwise unmarred, and V was-

"V, no, stay back!" you shouted while throwing your hand up, stopping the boy from advancing any closer, those bright green eyes of his big and concerned.

Everything happened so fast, after that.

There was growling, a short, clipped roar, a scream leaving your lips as the creature leapt towards you. You met the floor rather hard, though it was to be expected when a demonic feline was two seconds away from tearing out your jugular.

Your eyes closed tightly, hands and fingers tangled in impossibly dark fur out of instinct to protect yourself. The creature loomed closer, a large paw pressing into your shoulder, hot breaths washing over your cheek as it leaned in-

And gave a warm, rough pass of its tongue over your cheek.

The sound that left your lips was most decidedly a whimper, though your body was still in the fight-or-flight mode when another lick was given to your face, the pass much longer and even going into your hair.

The panic slowly ebbed into confused wonder as a low rumbling sound started up from the creature, not a growl, but more akin to a purr that was so deep it nearly vibrated your bones.

And then the demon made itself comfortable and laid upon you, forcing a rush of air from your lungs you hadn't realized you were holding. You struggled to gasp a breath in at the sheer heft of the creature doing its very best at crushing your lungs as well as all your other body parts, absentmindedly letting out a very confused, very distressed noise at yet another turn of events you hadn’t seen coming.

What in the actual hell was going on?

"-dow! Shadow, that was very rude!"

At the sound of V’s angry little voice, you opened your eyes, blinking several times as you hesitantly looked up.

Several pairs of eyes were looking down at you, and it took a moment for you to register that Nero and V both were being held by their respective fathers. They must have just gotten home, perhaps right as the creature attacked you.

"Looks like you met the cat," Dante spoke suddenly, grin wide on his face.

Vergil's eyes cut to his brother with a glare, much more heated than the one V was giving to the demon feline that had made you its bed. Nero was pouting again, looking more put-upon than he had earlier, and Dante was every bit amused at your predicament.

You met the cat...

Wait.

Wait!

The cat was the demon the whole time?!

------

Tag List:  @v-vic, @astridstark13

[kaleidoscopicdoma]

A repost since the “read more” wasn’t working properly. A drabble done for @/cottoncandycottontail.

Your Genya ask was amazingly written and left me craving for more Genya can you give me a fluff scenario with him please ? Thank you in advance !!! 

I’d love to stick Genya in my back pocket— I’m happy to deliver on any fluff!!

Summary: A mission sent from the highest in the hierarchy of demon slayers has you on a path to meet someone new. Shinazugawa Genya is quite the lone wolf, it seems. What harm would it do to keep him some company? [ 1352 words. ]

- - - - - - - - - - ❀

It wasn’t all that often that you were assigned to tasks alongside another slayer. Mind you, it had happened once or twice before, but it was often with those of the Mizunoto rank: to be fair, you were more of a guiding presence than anything. However, as a fairly experienced Hinoe, you believed that you were more than capable of handling small hordes of demons on your own. Briefly your mind drifted to the notches on the hilt of your katana: thirty-one notches for thirty-one felled demons.

In this particular case, your own beliefs in your demon-slaying capabilities were overruled. After another quick glance at the paper curled in your grip, the writing was unmistakably that of the Ubuyashiki family. A mission sent from the very top of the hierarchy, then. And there, at the very end of the scroll, was a time, a day, and a place of meeting.

Yet, looking up and towards the horizon, the only unusual thing was your crow, a bobbing black dot against the hazy sunset. Where was your soon-to-be teammate?

Something was wrong.

Haphazardly stuffing the message into the inside of your haori, you pursed your lips, a sharp whistle piercing the air. Your crow, alight high above, let out a faint caw. Their words were lost to the wind, but by the sharp turn of their wings, they’d gotten the message and were off to scout the path ahead. To your understanding, at least what the Intel had provided, whoever you were supposed to meet was coming from the opposite direction. Quietly you murmured a prayer that they were indeed up the path, and not somewhere where you’d be unable to find them.

Your gait wasn’t so much an all-out run as it was an urgent jog. In the case that your fellow demon slayer had run into trouble, it wouldn’t do well to waste all of your energy sprinting needlessly. The sun wasn’t even set, yet, and the village you were heading towards was where the demonic activity had been reported. Perhaps the slayer had decided to stay in the area and handle it themselves, all without your help. You certainly wouldn’t put it past some of the slayers that had recently come into the ranks. Either they were a pompous asshole or a lone wolf. Seeing as you had yet to meet them, you weren’t going to make random assumptions.

Regardless, making the trek to the village – with your legs aching from the journey during the day – was not something that you were going to thank this slayer for. Out of habit you clutched at the hilt of your katana, which was safely sheathed and tucked close to your side. Although the sun had yet to dip completely from the sky, some demons were awfully bold. Better safe than sorry, you supposed.

By the time the town was in your line of sight, two feathered shapes came swooping from the sky, wings flapping in a frenzy. With the last rays of the sun dissipating in the distance, and the worried words that the crows croaked, your suspicions were confirmed. That slayer had decided to take on the nest all on their own.

Shrugging so that the kasugaigarasu would lift themselves from your shoulders and you could move freely, a sharp sound cut the air, your katana sliding out from its covering. Moving with careful steps you crossed the threshold of the village, a stone wall marking the entrance. As you had many times before, you schooled your emotions, pushing them down deep, deep into your core. The faintest hint of a smile curled at your lips, if only to quell the fears of any villagers who may set their eyes upon your prowling form and not see the demon slayer insignia brandished on the back of your coat.

Mind you, with the sky darkening and the knowledge that a demon nest lie directly in the centre of their town, not a single soul was outside. Everything was shuttered shut: windows, doors. Yet still the demons wreaked their havoc.

Ah, there they are.

Straightening your back so that you were not so much of a prowling creature of the night, and more a presentable demon slayer, you approached your fellow from behind.

“Thinking of tackling the nest alone, I take it? You could’ve at least sent your crow with a message.” Your voice rang out clear and sonorous, devoid of any abrasiveness that may rub the stranger the wrong way. However, the implications still lay buried in your words.

Although not outright startled, they – he – turned towards your approach, mouth agape ever so slightly. Quietly you drank in his features. The sides of his head were shaved, and yet a mane of hair tumbled down the middle of his scalp. A jagged scar sliced its way along his cheek and the bridge of his nose, accenting the already intimidating aura he gave off.

Nonetheless, you were unperturbed by his furrowed scowl and narrowed eyes. A slayer was a slayer, and you were supposed to be working together, anyways. The closer you got, the redder his face seemed to grow, and the less enthusiastic he seemed to be in meeting your gaze.

“I, uh,” his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and though it was deep and rumbled, you wouldn’t have pinned him as being the quiet type. And shy, too. It was oddly endearing.

Before he could speak any further, you offered a quick bow of greeting, easy smile always present on your visage. “You’re Genya Shinazugawa, I take it? Wonderful to meet you, I’m [name].” It took a few moments, but he offered you a bow in return, eyes constantly flickering to the very empty looking house that you two now stood in front of.

Coughing into a fist, Genya made a sound lingering between some unintelligible murmur and a strangle gargle. After retaining some of his former composure, the words slipped from his mouth, evoking a slight noise of surprise from yourself.

“I’ve handled the mission already.”

“Already?” You were clearly in disbelief. “The sun wasn’t set until I arrived.”

He seemed quite hesitant to explain himself, and though he didn’t quite splutter again, it was clear that Genya was unused to having company. “I rooted ‘em out during the day. There wasn’t anywhere for them to run.”

“Huh.” Hands on your hips, an awkward silence descended. The revelation took your breath away that was for sure. “Well. That’s certainly something. Nice work, Shinazugawa. I suppose we should find somewhere to stay for this rather uneventful night, then?”

Genya was off like a shot as soon as the words left your lips. Blinking, you hurried to check up, and were relieved to find that he was making a b-line towards the nearest inn. Silently you noted that Genya was an absolute giant, and it took some effort to keep up with him. A ryokan soon came into view, and as the shadow to Genya’s towering form, you and your fellow slipped through the front entrance, which was – mercifully – not barricaded, unlike many places within the village. Once morning came, you were sure that business would return to normal.

An employee of the inn startled at the two slayers who had come in noiselessly, and you muttered a quick apology for seemingly appearing out of thin air. They asked if you’d like a room, and when you confirmed that both you and Genya were in need of accommodations, a grimace crossed the worker’s face.

“We–” the employee was hesitant to speak, especially with Genya staring him down. “We, I’m afraid that we only have one room available. Is, uh, is that okay, revered slayers?”

As you opened your mouth to respond, you risked a glance at Genya and were unsurprised to find him ready to keel over and faint. Before he could deny the offer and disappear out the door, you let the largest smile split your face, and turned back towards the worker.

“Sure, that sounds fine. Would you mind showing us to our room?”

Genya’s soul just about left his body.