#Twinkle crusaders

[manekinekocake]

[magical-characters-tourney]

Magical Boy Tournament: Round 1

[fuckthispost-andhappybirthday]

August 05: Happy Birthday Sacchiho Yakahashi (Twinkle Crusaders)!!!!

[ero-keixx]

I wish Twinkle Crusaders and Mary Skelter had more fans that weren't just degenerate men who played them for the you know what stuff

[lachatalovematcha]

🍰💐♥･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♥♥･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♥🍰💐

⭐️🍓🎀暖かい夜、星空の下でコオロギが鳴く。⭐️🍓🎀

🍰💐♥･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♥♥･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♡･*:.｡ ｡.:*･ﾟ♥🍰💐

[a-shitpost-and-a-half]

Extremely random, weird and specific question. To all those who are both Precure and JJBA fans (which I feel would be extremely rare), if Stardust Crusaders was a Precure season (which would be absolutely hilarious in my opinion), what would the general theme be?

Please put your thoughts in the tags!

[dejwrld]

⤷‧₊˚ nanami kento wants another bundle of joy.

┊ •° ੈ ⋆° ┊ warning readers discretion is advised — female reader, female anatomy described, reader is black coded (with descriptors), established relationship (married), oral (f.receiving), pet names (baby), cute couple banter, profanity, missionary position, breeding kink, reader and kento have a daughter named yu (yes she's named after yu haibara), this was a one shot for nanami bday btw, wc: 2.6k, mdni

a repost from my old account, that sadly was a victim of tumblr's label crusade. also can be read on ao3.

You should have known the talk about another kid was coming. The way he would talk about Yu’s old baby stuff and the importance of hand-me-downs just in case you two would have another bundle of joy. Or the fact that he and your five-year-old daughter Yu would get lost in the department store, just for you to find them in the baby section. Nanami also was becoming very handsy towards you. Outside looking in, anyone would assume that it just was a loving husband showing his wife love. But Nanami was like a hormonal teenager that had just hit puberty. His kisses were deeper, which leads to a makeout session (cue your daughter clearing her throat when she enters the room). Gosh, you couldn’t forget the twinkle in Nanami’s eye as he and you attended a friend’s baby shower as you two watched them open gifts for their child.

Here you were, stumbling and sharing an intense kiss as you entered the home you shared. Hands grasping for each other as you shared kisses that caused your lips to be swollen and for the once lip gloss you were wearing to now be smudged across your lips. You pulled away, breathless and shocked. “Another kid?” You questioned. You just wanted assurance that this is what the blonde-haired man wanted.

“Another kid.” He repeated to you as one of his hands cupped your face while the other was placed on your belly as if it already was a child growing inside of you.

Even if you two weren’t trying for a kid at the moment, you still knew that the pink sundress you wore to the baby shower—hugged your body perfectly was something to always gain your husband’s attention. During the time at the baby shower, Nanami always made it his goal to touch you. From his hand taking comfort on your thighs as you were sitting and socializing to grabbing your hand as you move around your friend’s backyard where the baby shower was set up at. You adored that Nanami couldn’t get enough of your body. He cherished every part of you from the imperfections that you felt insecure about to the striking beauty that had him staring at you with a goofy grin when you weren’t looking. 

You stared up at him searching for any problems in his eyes. Searching for anything that would cause you yourself to back out, but you didn’t find anything. He truly wanted another kid. He wanted your daughter to have a sibling.

His lips begin to kiss your jawline, the kisses went from soft to excited. “Please let me fuck a baby in you [Y/N],” Nanami mumbled against your golden skin. 

“Okay.” was the only thing that escaped your mouth before Nanami threw you over his shoulder to take you to your bedroom. A giggle bounced from the back of your throat at each step he took. You never saw the man so serious about something other than work, but here he was on the mission to make sure he get you pregnant.

When your back felt the fluffiness of your shared bed, it was a wonderful sight to see your husband standing above you. His fingers combed through his hair as he tugged off the pastel pink polo shirt he was wearing. Fingertips tracing down his toned chest as you watched intensely. His chest was toned as could be as if he was sculpted by a Greek god himself. His hands finally traveled down to the waistband of the pants he wore before he’s unbuttoning them. You could see the band to his grey Calvin Klein briefs and the tent in his crotch area. Your skin felt hot feeling Nanami grab a hold of your ankle to drag you closer to the edge of the bed. He brought your ankle up to his mouth, peppering the inside of it with soft kisses. The scent of you lingered up his nostrils and he could only bask in the familiar scent he has smelt for years now. 

“You said you were going to fuck a baby in me, what are you waiting for? You asked with innocence dripping off your tongue. You glanced up at your lust-filled husband through your eyelash while letting your pearly whites graze at your plump lower lip. 

Nanami only let a hum pass by his lips before he’s stepping closer in between your legs after dropping the one he once was kissing upon. His hands danced up the sundress you wore. The heat of the moment only turned you on more causing dampness in the panties you were wearing. The silence from Nanami scared you. Not in a fearful type of way, but you knew that when he didn’t say many words during intercourse, he would be focused on one thing. That thing is to make sure you feel good from head to toe. 

His fingers grasped at the thin fabric of your panties before he’s slowly taking them down your thighs. He soon discarded you of the sundress you were wearing. The crisp air and Nanami’s touch caused goosebumps to adorn your skin quickly. The look he gave you caused your heart to quicken. When he saw your bare body, he always looked at you as if he was falling in love all over again. The gaze was a complete panty soaker for you, it caused you to want him, even more, when you guys made love. 

“It’s not fair that I’m the only one naked here.” You said as your hand reached out to grab a hold of your husband. You lightly brushed against his abs just so you could get a feel of him similar to what he was doing. But he soon pushes your hand away before kneeling in between your thighs. 

His firm grasp upon your thighs before tugging you closer to his face caused a soft gasp to come out of you. He tugged your dress up so that it was around your waist. Your lower half was completely exposed as your heart was thumping against your chest waiting for the next move Nanami was going to make. The growing anticipation caused you to shiver under Nanam’s touch before feeling his soft kitten licks upon your folds. 

You relaxed under his touch with each soaked lick upon your puffy lips. Your head fell back into the fluffiness of your bed as Nanami was in between your thighs. The pornographic sound of him in between your plush thighs. Each delicate suck on your clit and any rough moan Nanami let out while eating you out pushed you further on the edge. Your teeth nibbled at your lower lip holding back a moan before you once felt Nanami tug you closer to his handsome face. Your thighs vibrated when you felt the flat of his tongue traced along the entrance of your pussy. “Gosh, Nanami.” You sighed happily at the way he was in between your thighs. 

As if you cooing his name was the green light, you let out a sudden gasp when you felt his fingers push themselves inside you. The wet squelching noise of him gliding his fingers inward and outward at a beautiful pace instantly caused you to moan. Your back arched off the bed before you felt Nanami’s free hand push back down before he dove right back in between your thighs. As his slim digits curled inside you, his tongue brushes against your clit in a teasing manner. His brown eyes glanced at your fucked out expression while your fingers grasped at the sheets below your naked body. His nose rubs at your soft skin with each flick of his tongue. Your orgasm was nearing and the way his tongue was moving was only pushing you further from being a cumming mess.

With Nanami’s slender fingers inside you, while his tongue flickered at your tongue, you could feel the wetness below you that stained your sheets. Your orgasm was screaming to come out as you attempted to run away from Nanami’s explicit touch. He only pulled you back and pinned you down to continue what he was doing (uninterrupted this time).Your slick coating his middle and index finger with each curl inside of you. As soon as you met his brown eyes, the fierce feeling in the pit of your stomach burst. Your head fell back in complete bliss as you sob for Nanami. 

You were seeing stars with each delicate whimper that you let out. Your fingers intertwined in Nanami’s blonde hair while your hips bucked through the passionate orgasm you were experiencing. Nanami’s mouth still lapped up every droplet of your wetness as if he was a starving man. The pad of his thumb rubbed comforting circles on your thighs—it was a kind gesture to help soothe the electrifying feeling of your orgasm being pushed upon you so soon. He removed his mouth from your pussy with a pop. The addicting taste of you on his tongue while his lips dragged hunger-filled kisses on the inside your thighs before he’s standing up fully. 

If you looked closely you could point out that his bulge indicating how hard he was grew. You quickly gained your composure as you backed yourself further on the bed, your legs quivering with each movement. But you still ached for more. You could hear Nanami tugging off the remaining clothes that were blocking you from seeing his naked body that you’ve seen so many times. 

When the time came for you and Nanami to finally intertwine with each other, you felt so many emotions hit you at once. The feeling of love with the way he caressed your thighs with soothing circles as he lined himself up to your entrance. You felt hopeful that after this you would have the satisfaction to carry yet another bundle of joy that you were so proud of to be raised with such a wonderful man. Your nails dug into his forearm as your lips gasped apart with each shove of Nanam’s hips. The intense feeling of his cock stretching you out bit by bit only caused you to choke up a whimper. 

Nanami stared down at you with worry in his eyes. His brown-colored eyes look into yours before he’s crashing his lips upon your gasping ones, “I got you, baby, just relax.” He mumbles against your lips. “I always got you.” 

His easeful tone and even more comforting words caused your body to relax. Soon your body relaxed and felt like you were on cloud night. The astonishing feeling of Nanami’s hips bucking forward caused your eyes to lolly in the back of your head. Breaking apart from the kiss to moan out his name like a sweet tune playing on a Sunday morning. Once Nanami heard his name fall off your tongue, it was as if a light switch was turned on. His hips pushed forward quicker. His hands quickly spread your thighs apart even further just so the tip of his cock could hit that spot that caused your pedicured toes to curl. 

“Fuck—you feel so good,” Nanami uttered through breathy groans. Slow and sensual strokes were always the start of Nanami making you feel good before he turned into a madman that drove you insane. 

He took the enjoyment of having you whine out for more like a desperate cat in heat and soon giving you just that until you’re begging for him to let you cum under his strong body.  His lips dragged kisses upon your neck as you felt his thrusts become quicker. The sound of the bed's wooden headboard was attempting to overpower the pornographic sound of skin slapping against each other. Your eyes fluttered open to glance up to see Nanami hovering over you. The beautiful sight of seeing the way his teeth chafed upon his lower lip holding back a moan and his cheeks stained red due to the pleasurable sensation of the way your cunt wrapped around him. He was so handsome in a state like this. 

Nanami’s hand reached above to grasp at the headboard, not particularly stopping it from knocking against the wall—but to help himself move at a rhythmic pace. He felt your legs snake around his waist completely trapping in the trace of being balls deep inside of you. It was as if you sense that he was about to cum. His body felt hot instantly as beads of sweat decorated his forehead. The salty droplets caused some of his blond hair to stamp upon his forehead. His hand grasped the headboard as he only stuttered out sweet nothings and praise about you. 

Something along the lines of, you look so beautiful y/n or you’ll look so gorgeous pregnant with his child. You couldn’t tell due to your constant moaning. The sensational feeling of your orgasm slowly tugging you further and further towards the light. Your legs locked around Nanami’s waist so tightly that you were sure he could feel the heel of your foot tap at his bottom with each thrust. As your orgasm came upon you, the one hand that was holding upon the headboard intertwined with yours completely entrapping you upon his thrusts through your orgasm. 

“Kento!” You snarled out his name. Fingernails digging into his skin wanting to feel his body some more even though you two were around practically insufferable with each other.

“Shit—I’m so close sweetheart. Just hold on a lil longer.” Nanami breathed out as he was nearly going insane with the way your pussy quivered around him. 

It didn’t long before Nanami was releasing himself with a quickness. Whiny moans and stuttered words were the only things you could hear from your husband. Your fingers intertwined with each other’s as you could feel Nanami’s cum inside you, a feeling you’ve felt many times before even when you weren’t trying for a baby. Your mouth gaped open before Nanami enclosed the breathy moans that you let out with a passionate kiss. The taste of him imprinted your tongue as you brought him closer basking in the moment of feeling him inside of you. The warm feeling of his cum being inside you caused you to moan in the kiss as you felt yourself flutter around his cock. Both of you cumming at the same time, making it a perfect opportunity to relish the perfect moment you two shared. 

When the both of you were tugging out the temporary feeling of your sweet ecstasy, Nanami plopped down next to you. Your legs felt numb, you felt stuffed and you could feel the love bites Nanami placed upon your shoulder. Your eyes barely were open as you lay on your back. Completely dazed and possibly still dickmatized from the feeling of Nanami being inside of you. Nanami’s cum inside of you as you hoped you two did got the job done to give Yu another sibling. You could feel Nanami's head in the crook of your neck, his lips kissing at the small trail of bite marks he left on your body which caused you to close your eyes in complete bliss.

“Hopefully, the first time was it.” You would mumble and could hear Nanami chuckle. 

“If you remember, with Yu it took the fourth time and it was at my job Christmas party,” Nanami answered, gaining a groan from you.

“Seriously?” You questioned. 

“Seriously. I remember because I had to cover your mouth with my hand to muffle your moans.” Nanami pointed out as his fingers were tracing little shapes on your naked skin. 

You didn’t recall Nanami fucking you four times to conceive Yu. Perhaps it was due to him fucking you senseless a few minutes ago that caused your brain to go fuzzy.

“Three more times to go,” Nanami smirked as he once again kissed your skin.

[colormepurplex2]

Beneath The Boughs | Dare To Dream

↳ Namjoon x f.Reader ⤜ Robinhood Retelling, Strangers to Lovers/Soulmates, Ruined Arranged Marriage AU ⤜ Rating: MA🔞 ⤜ WC: 6,740 ⚠️violence, crass language, mentions of parental illness, melancholy feelings

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to story masterlist

“My Lady,” Ms. Duckett calls from beyond the doors of the balcony terrace. “My Lady, it is time. If we do not leave now, we will not make it through this side of Sherwood before nightfall.”

You sigh with one last look out over the rolling expanse of bleak countryside. You push to your feet and smooth your gloved hands over the back of your gown, brushing away any detritus that might have attached to the fabric from the bench you were seated on. The heavy silk skirts swish over the layers of your thick wool petticoats as you turn to make your way back inside.

The first flurries of winter have begun, and unless you wish to spend the season shivering in the northern reaches of Yorkshire, you best get on with it. The window to return to the city of Nottingham is closing swiftly. It was a fool's move to leave it until the last moment anyway. But you couldn’t bring yourself to rejoin society sooner than absolutely necessary.

“Apologies, Duckie,” you offer her, the childhood nickname you gave her rolling off your tongue with affection despite your surly mood.

Verna Duckett has been your attending maid ever since your mother fell ill some twenty years prior and found herself with more need for a nursemaid than a lady’s maid. Duckie’s age is a mystery to you, but considering the silver knot tucked under her bonnet, you’d guess she was far older than her spry body and fiery attitude suggest.

Thinking of your mother’s continued ailing constitution only sours your demeanor further. After all, it is why you’ve found yourself in the predicament you are currently trying to avoid. So, to keep from dawdling further with those dark thoughts, you focus on gathering the fox-fur-lined cloak you left draped over the end of your bed and securing its thick golden clasp at your throat.

Duckie titters under her breath, reminding you of a flittering songbird as she encourages you from the room. “The sheriff is waiting with the carriages.”

That news pulls you up short at the top of the grand staircase. “The sheriff?”

“Indeed so, My Lady. He has come up from Nottingham to be your escort at the request of Prince Seokjin.”

Bile threatens to rise from the churning pit of your stomach. The Prince. “Must it be so?” you mutter to yourself. “Right,” you try to clear the disappointment from your voice as you begin the descent down the stairs. “Let us not keep him waiting long, then.”

The bite from the snowy northern winds does little to soothe the blazing tempest in your chest as you breeze through the open doors of the home you’ve kept for the summer in Yorkshire. It was once your father’s estate, passed down to you when you came of age. You prefer it to the oppressive halls of the inner city home you keep in Nottingham—the one your parents choose to reside in year-round.

“My Lady.” The sheriff greets you by way of an oily smile and a tip of his chin. “Trying to catch a cold before your big day?”

A snide remark forms on the tip of your tongue but you bite the offending appendage before it can garner you trouble over the next two days of travel. The absolute last thing you wish for right now is to land on Yoongi’s—the sheriff’s—bad side.

It’s possible you might have once considered him a friend. He has all the charm and grace of a pleasant gentleman. But, when he started to bow and scrape, doing the Prince’s bidding in forcing your hand, you lost all respect and good will towards him.

You’re aware that’s not exactly fair, considering Yoongi is merely a sheriff, and the prince is, well, a prince. But it simply is not fair, and you are more than aware of the other dealings the prince and Yoongi have gotten up to in the recent years since King Seokjoong went on his crusades.

Mirth twinkles in Yoongi’s eyes; clearly, he can see the restraint painted all over your face. “Of course not, My Lord—I mean, Sheriff,” you reply, your words dripping with saccharinity. His lips flatten at your intentional misuse of the title.

Yoongi is as much a Lord as you are a pigeon. And you know that rankles him far more than any snide remark you might have bestowed upon him. Being the Sheriff of Nottingham brings Yoongi power, but not nearly enough to satiate his growing greed. That much is evident in how he swindles and ousts any and all meager bits of coinage from the pockets of those he is sworn to protect. No, Yoongi protects only himself…and occasionally you, per the prince’s request.

The ride to Nottingham starts slow and ponderous, the snow turning to sleet with each creeping mile south, causing the dirt under hoof and wheel to quickly form ruts and mud pits that suck and pull, sapping any haste from the procession.

Duckie was being generous in her assessment of time, as by the time the sun drops below the horizon, your caravan escort has barely hit the outskirts of Sherwood. You know it was unwise to have spent so long avoiding the ride; this is your own doing.

It’s not that you mind the forest at night; it’s just that the swaying oil lamps and guttering torches do little to diminish the darkness. Every creak of the carriage and distant animal chitter have you quite literally on the edge of your seat, the velvet cushion firmly crushed under your hands where they fist the lip of the bench.

The sudden, jarring stop of the carriage nearly unseats you. Muffled shouts sound from beyond the drawn curtains. Duckie frowns, absently pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket and fanning her ample bosom with it.

“Dreadful luck stopping in these cursed woods,” she mutters nervously before flicking back the edge of one of the curtains and peeking out the window. “What in heavens is going on out there?”

She jumps back, her alarmed yelp echoing through the carriage as Yoongi jerks open the door. “My Lady, I apologize for the delay. There is some debris across the roadway. It should only take a moment for it to be moved, and then we shall be on our way once more. I think it best we continue through the night,” he says with a grimace as his focus is pulled somewhere back beyond the carriage.

Without another word, he disappears, shutting you and Duckie in the carriage once more. The silence is only broken by the soft swishing of Duckie’s handkerchief as she goes back to fanning herself.

“Not to worry, dearie. I’m sure the Sheriff will have us back on the move in no time.”

Adrenaline courses through your veins when muffled shouts and screams rend through the air, breaking the tense silence. You catch the faintest bellow from the head of the caravan.

“Brigands! Brigands in the trees! To arms!”

Duckie shrieks, her handkerchief fluttering in the air as she lurches toward you. The air wooshes from your lungs as she drags you bodily into the bottom of the carriage and throws herself on top of you. 

One of her elbows catches you in the chin as you try to turn over, your skirts tangling around your ankles with each struggling movement.

“Duckie!” you croak, sucking in pitiful gasps of air. The corset stays pinching at your ribs, combined with the full weight of your maid laid across your back, are making it hard to gain the breath that was shoved from your lungs when you hit the carriage floor. “I cannot breathe!”

She wails something unintelligible and pushes up onto her knees. You flop over onto your back and suck in a sweet lungful of air. Your exhale is an aching sputter that turns into a fit of coughing. Suddenly, the air inside the carriage is too hot and thick.

“My Lady!” Duckie’s bark of protest follows you out of the carriage. You couldn’t reach your feet fast enough, scrambling up from your knees and shoving open the carriage door, stumbling out several steps. You stand there, plunged into the cacophony around you, trying valiantly to suck in fresh air.

The night is alive with pain and shrieks of madness. Chaos engulfs your small caravan, and there are scattered pockets of struggle everywhere you look. Figures dressed in various shades of dark green and brown are engaged with the bright reds and golds of the Prince’s colors.

As if wanting to bear witness to the violence, the moon has worked its way through the gloomy cloud cover overhead and lends its light to the smoking oil lanterns and torches to illuminate the mud-churned—now striped with blood—road.

A sneering face comes into focus, startling you back a step. “Are you mad, woman!? Get back in the carriage!” Yoongi roars before taking off back into the fray.

He meets the swing of a brigand's sword with his own; the clash of steel against steel rings through the air, further jolting you from your frozen state. Panic harries you as you retreat further, your eyes on a constant swivel for danger.

A gout of flame flares to life near the head of the line of carriages, and the screams of horses pierce the din. “Fire! The horses!” thunders a voice that is soon swallowed by the frenzy of other sounds.

You watch in horror as a carriage engulfed in flame careens off the road, being dragged through the sticky muck by out-of-control horses. Their fear is palpable, the flames devouring the front coach seat and licking so close to their tails.

The painful whickering of the beautiful draft horses draws you like a moth being led directly to the inferno. You’re heedless of the danger around you. One sole focus consumes you; no one is available to free those horses…if you don’t do it, they’ll surely die.

Once again, your feet move before you can do more than register Duckie’s protesting cries from behind you. You fist the billows of your skirt in your hands, hiking up the thick material, making your reckless sprint a little easier, though the churned mud still sucks at the soles of your slippers, which are soon filled with icy water and slimy muck.

“My Lady!” Duckie’s cry follows you, closer than before. “Please, My Lady, no!”

“The horses, Duckie! We have to help them!” you beg, skittering to a stop in the muck, arms windmilling to keep yourself upright.

Whether or not she heard your desperate plea or simply followed you out of an attempt to get you to turn back toward the carriage, she stumbles to a stop beside you as you take in the carnage.

The carriage that caught fire was one of the ones lit with the hanging lanterns. Arrows dot the wooden side, which is now facing the sky. The entire thing has turned over in the muck from the mad dash of the horses combined with the sticky mud. It’s evident an arrow hit one of the lanterns and caused the fire. Whether by accident or intentional, the damage is done, and your time is running out as the flames lick across the carriage and shoot toward the sky.

A massive tangle of leather hitching straps and splintered wood connects the two draft horses to the wreckage. They rear and scream, massive hooves raking the sky as they thrash and pull in vain at their harnesses.

Ignoring the sapping cold of the mud seeping through the skirts of your gown, you throw yourself on the ground where the straps attach to the overturned carriage. Duckie lands in the muck beside you a second later, her hands moving as frantically as your own as you wrestle with the buckles and bolts. The entire wreck shudders every time the horses stomp and attempt to free themselves, but you don’t dare abandon the buckles to try and calm them. You’d likely catch an errant hoof to your person for the efforts.

Heat beats down on you, and the faint stench of burnt hair and singed fabric mixes with the acrid stink of smoke filling the air around you. The flames are growing closer, but you ignore the discomfort, pouring all your focus into freeing the horses.

“To your right!” a voice calls out over the din of battle a second before something thunks heavily into the ground beside you.

You spare a glance up, and your eyes catch on a hooded figure. Time suspends in a moment of what you can only describe as magick. Something flickers in your chest as your eyes meet the ones staring out from the cowl, like a blossoming flower opening under the warm spring sun for the first time.

It’s captivating, soul-capturing, and utterly unexplainable. Dark, seemingly endless eyes, inky hair, and a face you’re sure you’ve never seen in full before…yet know more intimately than even your own—a man of your dreams. Dreams you’ve had since you were a young teenager of a man with eyes like endless pools of night sky and a heart that beats in kind with your own.

A frantic cry from Duckie breaks the spell, the carriage shifting so violently it rocks you backward onto your bottom. You tear your eyes away from the mysterious man. Focusing back on the task at hand, you grasp the hilt of the forearm-length blade you know he’s responsible for tossing to you. It is embedded point-down in the ground by your side, still vibrating from the force.

Ripping the blade from the mud, you make quick work of slicing through the harness straps. The horses burst free from their restraints and take off at a panicked gallop away from the fire raging behind you.

Quiet sobs are hiccuping from Duckie. She grabs a fistful of the back of your gown and jerks. “Go!” But instead of directing you back toward your carriage, her momentum sends you sprawling in the direction of the closest darkened clutch of trees. “We need to hide! Hurry, to the trees!”

Digging for purchase in the icy muck, you lurch to your feet and stumble until the forest's darkness gobbles you up. Duckie is only a pace or two behind you, her mud-covered bosom heaving as she slumps down behind a knotted and gnarled tree.

Wordlessly, she beckons for you to join her, and you both sit there, peering around the side of the tree and back at the chaos still engulfing your caravan. The fighting has died down. A few green and brown-clad bodies writhe on the ground, making your stomach protest the senseless violence.

Broken crates and boxes lie scattered about, their insides spilled and pilfered through by the brigands—clearly a band of no-good highwaymen. It’s one of the main reasons the Sherwood Forest should be avoided after dark. Bands of rogues and disgraced knights have taken to prowling the thick woods.

As sour as your thoughts are, you can’t help searching the fray for a particular hooded figure. You feel like if you could get one more glimpse of him, you might be able to decipher what happened when your eyes met his. At the moment, you could have sworn he was the man of your dreams, but now, you’re not so sure. There is far too much adrenaline coursing through your system for you to make heads from tails of it.

You watch as one of the brigands uses the pommel of their sword to clock one of your escorts across the temple, crumpling him into a heap of red and gold. Focusing on each pitched cluster of violence, you realize the red and gold figures are the only ones trying to deal lethal blows. You’ve watched enough tournaments of combat to know the basics of battle.

“They’re not trying to kill them,” you mutter under your breath.

“What, My Lady?”

Sparing a glance at Duckie, you nod back toward the road. “The brigands. They’re not using lethal moves. It is as if they are intentionally avoiding critical damage. Like they…” you trail off, catching sight of a familiar hooded figure, glinting eyes shadowed in the cowl latching on yours.

“You cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“Behind you!” you scream, lurching from your hiding spot and sprinting back toward the road where you saw Yoongi creeping up behind the hooded figure as he was distracted, staring at you.

Branches scratch and rip at your gown and the exposed skin of your throat and hands. But the stinging lashes are second to the intense panic slicing through your chest as Yoongi’s bloodied sword arcs through the air.

By the time you spill from the cover of the trees, the cloaked man is springing up from a roll where he must have dodged Yoongi’s blade. You watch as he spins to face Yoongi. He brings a hand up, and an ear-splitting whistle pierces the air.

As if the sound has broken a dam, the dozen remaining hooded figures, including the one with those molten eyes locked on you, disengage and retreat. They dissolve into the surrounding trees like fog baked away by a noonday sun; there one moment and gone the next.

Yoongi barks an order to pursue, and half the remaining gold and red soldiers peel off to follow. They look like a ragtag bunch, their armor speckled with dark mud and blood. But, you know they have received extensive training under the tutelage of Yoongi and the Prince’s court mage and will try to track down as many of the brigands as they can like the good hunting dogs they are.

“Yoongi, please, call them back!” you plead. “The wood is dark. It is not worth it! Please, I beg you, let us hurry—”

The narrowing of Yoongi’s eyes causes your words to catch in your throat. You’ve never seen such a venomous glare. It pierces right through your heart, spearing you in place. You think he is about to lay into you, lashing at you with that curdling tongue. Yet, he just nods, turning away and stalking from you before whistling a sharp cadence that you recognize is used to call the guards back.

“My Lady,” Duckie sniffles. “Oh, your gown. This simply won’t do. Come, come, back to the carriage.”

She ushers you quickly back toward the open door of your carriage, the horses tethered to the front, finally calming their stamping hooves and wild eyes.

“Move out!” Yoongi shouts. The guards who had peeled off to follow the brigands emerge back into the clearing, and in a few short minutes, the caravan moves once again—albeit a few carriages short, the carnage left behind like a pock on the King’s Road.

🍂🍂🍂

Namjoon

There were too many.

Too many uniforms of red and gold and sharpened swords.

It was a bad call.

No amount of coin is worth the bodies that were left behind in the mud. Namjoon knows he shouldn’t have encouraged the men. He should have put his foot down and been firm in his insistence that they hold back.

But, there’s naught to do for it now except lick their wounds and hope the amount of coins and jewels they got off with can fill their larders against the coming winter. The bags seemed heavy enough, but one can never be too sure until they actually begin to count and weigh it out.

The men seem happy enough. Their jovial shouts and laughter carry through the woods, adrenaline adding to the thrill of it as they all easily lope along under the darkening boughs.

The dense foliage overhead absorbs their merriment, and Namjoon doesn’t wish to take it away from them by asking them to quiet down. He realized that the Sheriff called off his dogs shortly after anyway—a surprise for sure and a welcomed one at that.

“How many did we lose?”  Hoseok asks, pitching his voice low so others don’t hear. His long legs trot along, keeping pace with ease beside Namjoon.

Namjoon frowns, huffing a breath as they jog in silence for a few moments. “Five.” He rattles off their names, hating how each one coats his tongue with a bitterness that nothing but the most potent fyre ale will be able to staunch.

“We will honor them and ensure their families are taken care of,” Hoseok offers, his voice hollow but firm. He’s always been a softer guy, something Namjoon has cherished in all their years of friendship. Hoseok has helped to temper Namjoon’s anger and quell his intensity at dire times of need; he is an empath through and through.

Not trusting himself to say more, Namjoon just nods as they continue through the woods until they reach their destination.

It’s a hidden city—a village, really. But everyone likens it to a city, considering it stretches across nearly an entire league of forest, tucked into the upper branches of the trees. It’s a proverbial city of wooden treehouses and rope bridges spanning between platforms. They have nearly everything a city does, even a bakery and a small darning shop.

The only thing not within the hidden city in the tops of the trees is the smithy—too much of a fire hazard, of course. So, Jungkook has his forge and the bellows tucked away into the crumbling remains of an ancient fortress long forgotten in the woods.

As an exiled knight of the crown, Jungkook knows his way around weaponry. It wasn’t that far of a leap to smithing once he got the hang of it. Namjoon can just see the glow of the forge fire as his band approaches, the approaching call having been whistled just a moment before.

It’s safer like that, using mimicry of bird calls as signals. He learned early on that you can never be too careful. The last thing Namjoon wants is for someone to come across his home…his people, the outcasts and the damned.

“I’m going to check in with Jungkook. Be up shortly,” Namjoon tells Hoseok before veering off towards the old ruins.

Hoseok disappears into the foliage, rallying the band up the rope ladders to the hidden homes above, where most of their families wait. Despite how ramshackle and hodgepodge his little city is, there is beauty in it, too. Beauty in the families, the small children that have spent more of their lives living among the leaves of trees than on the ground. But at least they’re safe; that’s what matters most.

That and the food from the coin they managed to loot tonight will garner.

That’s the primary reason he needs to speak with Jungkook. Being an exiled knight, the man not only knows his way around weaponry, but he has a knack for trading and brokering deals as well.

Despite his exile, Jungkook is still respected among many of the Prince’s men. With a well-placed word and an extra coin or two, Jungkook can get just about anything Namjoon needs.

There is a chill in the air, but the forge is blistering hot, the heat reflecting off the stone ruins' few remaining walls. Namjoon thinks this particular nook of rubble was once a stable—the rusted iron hitching posts lining the lower wall leads him to that conclusion.

Jungkook seems to be getting ready to shut the forge down for the night. He’s shirtless and dripping sweat with an assortment of new blades, which are laid out on the makeshift table off to the side.

“Oh! You startled me,” Jungkook huffs, a soot-covered hand slapping over his heart as he turns and spots Namjoon.

Namjoon smiles apologetically. “Sorry, brother. I was just about to announce myself.”

“It’s no matter,” Jungkook says, brushing it off. He swings around further, depositing the leather roll of tools cradled in his other arm on the table beside the new blades.

“What brings you here? I thought surely you’d be up with everyone else, filling your belly with some ale. There are still a few casks left.”

“In due time.” Namjoon shrugs, looking for something to distract from the real reason he’s come to talk to Jungkook. “Do you mind if I have one of these?” he asks, gesturing to the pile of fresh blades.

Jungkook’s eyes sweep over Namjoon, landing on the empty dagger sheath at his hip. “That’s, what, the third blade you’ve managed to lose in as many months?”

Namjoon scrubs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Yeah…there was some trouble on the road.”

Those eyes that were resting on his empty sheath now narrow into a calculating query as they rise to Namjoon’s. “How did it go?”

The tense silence lasts just a spell before Namjoon clears his throat and breaks it. “We came away with a few hefty bags.”

“But? There’s a but there, I can tell. Go on, tell me, how many did we lose?” Jungkook leans a hip against the table. He pulls out the rough-spun towel tucked into the top of his leather apron and begins to absently brush and wipe the soot and grime from his hands.

As much as Namjoon would rather talk about the trade and bartering that would come from the coin, he knew Jungkook would ask after the loss. After all, it was Jungkook’s suggestion that took Namjoon and his band of men to the edge of the forest tonight. He had heard that the Sheriff would be moving precious cargo. It turns out the precious cargo was in the form of a woman.

A fierce and brilliant woman who came rocketing into Namjoon’s life like a shooting star blazing through the night as she streaked across the impromptu battlefield to free those terrified horses. It was an accident, the errant arrow catching one of the hanging lanterns. He heard the man who loosed the arrow curse and lament over it and they both got caught up defending their backs against the Guards before they could act.

“We lost five,” Namjoon says to pull his mind out of that rabbit hole. The last thing he needs to be thinking about is the odd, visceral connection and pull he felt with that mystery woman.

Jungkook nods, his lips thinning into a straight line. “They’ll be honored by all,” he says, mirroring Hoseok’s words from earlier. “Tell me what else went on? What was so precious Yoongi disregarded all safety guards and ventured into the Wood so late?”

The words get caught in Namjoon’s throat. In part, he doesn’t want to tell Jungkook because he somehow feels possessive of the woman. It’s absurd. Forcing that notion aside, Namjoon forges on, recounting everything that transpired for Jungkook. By the time he’s done, Jungkook nods with a faint look of knowing on his face.

“For some reason, the Sheriff signaled a pullback a few minutes after the order to follow. He’s never done that before.”

“That,” Jungkook says, tucking the now-soiled rag back into the top of his apron, “would be The Fair Maiden of York’s doing.”

“Wait. The who?” Namjoon has heard of The Yorkshire Maiden. She’s renowned throughout the parts, even for someone as hidden and removed from society as Namjoon. In fact, he knows that she’s— “The Prince’s betrothed? You mean to tell me we attacked her caravan?” He mutters your name, the sweet sound of it coating his tongue like honey. “That’s who that was?” Each new line of thinking has Namjoon’s alarm rising.

“I had thought she had already ventured south. It didn’t even cross my mind that the precious cargo could have been her. In truth, I should have considered it. I’m sorry, my friend. I’ll try to get better information next time.”

Namjoon barely registers Jungkook’s words, giving him a jerky nod and a half-muttered excuse of needing to go. Jungkook waves him off, saying he’ll be up shortly.

But he won’t find Namjoon when he does.

No, because Namjoon is now on a different trail, having passed off a curt message to a sentry about returning in a few days' time that he was going to speak to a contact. Which isn’t entirely a lie. He needs answers and fast. There is only one place he can think of that he might be able to find them. A place he hasn’t visited in far too long—months at this point.

The feeling in his chest…the name still echoing in his mind. There is an explanation. But he needs to be sure, confirm it, and see it once again with his own eyes. Because surely it’s impossible… fairytales are just that, fairytales.

It’s not like he didn’t already know your name. But the combination of your name and the feelings that assaulted him…Namjoon’s thoughts trail off as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping to the shadows.

He cuts around the tree-top encampment, skirting the ruins until he hits a very seldomly trailed path. It spears right into the heart of Sherwood, leading Namjoon directly to the outskirts of Nottingham.

Namjoon has to journey through the night, taking a brief reprieve under the drooping boughs of a pine. Thready light filters through the trees, guiding Namjoon. Despite the infrequent use of this particular trail, he knows it perhaps more intimately than any other. It was the path of his childhood, where he found salvation and freedom.

The spire of the old church comes into view, breaking through the canopy before it gives way entirely to the thick stone wall encasing the city proper. It was the wish of the church to remain outside the city so its doors could remain open to any and all manner of wanderers, even those who may have found themselves on the wrong end of the Kingdom’s sword.

“Friar Gill! Friar Gill, are you within?” Namjoon whisper-yells, peeking over the sill of one of the rear windows of the sprawling sect house that connects to the church proper. It’s early enough in the dim morning hours that daily service and devotionals haven’t happened, but the brother within should be awake to prepare for them.

“Is that you, Namjoon?” comes a familiar voice, though one that does not belong to Friar Gill.

“Jimin? Er, Friar Park, yes, it’s me.”

“What brings you here at this hour?” Jimin asks, his tousled head of dark locks poking out the window a second later. His eyes are bright, the dark irises catching the first glimmers of morning light. A hefty tome is clutched to his robe-covered chest and there is a smudge of ink on the apple of his left cheek.

“Is Friar Gill here?”

“I’m afraid not. He left per request of the King, nearly a month gone now. He’s to bless the front lines and bestow his grace upon the King as he continues his crusade. It seems the Prince’s favored mage has not brought the King any luck,” he adds that last part with a healthy smirk, his cheeks instantly coloring as he clears his throat. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the Prince’s Mage.”

It’s an automatic response, Namjoon knows, for Jimin to feel contrite over his words immediately. Even if he knows Namjoon holds no warmth with the Prince nor his Mage. If anything, Namjoon harbors far more resentment and hatred towards the snake of a magick caster than most.

After all, it was The Mage who saw to Namjoon’s displacement and subsequent outlawish ways. It’s his fault that Namjoon has had to resort to pillaging city-bound caravans to get by.

He reminds Jimin as much, “You know there is no pleasantry lost between Taehyung and myself.”

Jimin nods, a frown pulling down his full mouth. “Yes. Yes, I don’t suppose so.” Straightening up, Jimin gives a quick shake of his head. “Friar Gill may be gone, but perhaps I can help you. What is it that you need?”

“There’s a book…a book that was shown to me when I was just a boy by Friar Gill. It has a green leather cover and gold etching along the edges. The title was something odd, a language I’m not familiar with. Do you know it?”

“‘Prophetia Somniorum’,” Jimin intones softly, his eyes widening with twinkling wonder. “A book about dreams. Prophetic dreams.”

“Yes. That’s the one. I think it has the answers that I seek.”

🍂🍂🍂

“Please, My Lady, come away from the window before you catch a chill. It’s the last thing you’d want on this day.”

You sigh, turning away from the open window of your tower room. The landscape beyond is bleak, the sky streaked through with heavy, grey rain clouds. There’s been a perpetual drizzle ever since you arrived in Nottingham.

Six days. It’s been six whole days since the incident in Sherwood Forest. Six days since you saw him…and you can’t stop thinking about those dark eyes. You’ve dreamed about them several times throughout your life, a few times a year at most. Now, though, it’s become a nightly occurrence.

There was a point in your life, in your early twenties, when you asked your mother about the dreams and whether or not she thought they held any meaning. You’ll never forget the faraway look she got in her eyes and the sad smile that curved her rouged lips.

It was like she was haunted by your question, or rather whatever your question made go through her mind. Memories, perhaps. Though, she never would tell you, no matter how much you asked. She simply told you that you should always dare to dream, whether your eyes are opened or closed.

You wish you could seek her guidance now, to ask her whether or not the man on the road could genuinely be the man you’ve been seeing in your dreams or if that kind of thing only belongs in storybooks.

It’s been months since you’ve seen either her or your father. Ever since your mother took ill and she and your father took up permanent residence in Nottingham, you’ve spent far more time alone in Yorkshire than in either of their companies.

As it is, you’ve not even seen either of them since you came into the city. Their estate is on the far side of Nottingham, in the garden district, and you’re restricted to the Palace. You had received a brief letter from them when you first arrived, a simple check-in via a cursore. You sent a response, but there hasn’t been word since, not a single knock at your chamber door aside from the occasional servant bringing your meals.

You wouldn’t be surprised if it’s still months before you see them again, given your mother’s health and your father’s demanding position within the governing body.

Duckie titters, her hands automatically moving to straighten your gown, even though not a stitch has moved since she trussed you into the stays an hour gone. The sun sits heavy and low on the horizon, its thready rays trying pitifully to eat away the thickness of night and perpetually grey cover.

You woke long before you should have, feeling restless with an itch beneath your skin. The fine hairs along your arms prickle under the long bells of your sleeves. You can’t shake the feeling that’s been gnawing at your gut since your eyes popped open, the dream of your highwayman sluicing away like a rush of icy water down your back.

“My gown is fine, Duckie,” you mutter. It takes every ounce of nerve you have to not jerk away from her prodding and fluffing.

Her wrinkled lips turn down in a frown. “One can never be too lax on a day such as this, My Lady. I just want to make sure you are pristine for Prince Seokjin.”

You might have once smiled at the thought of a prince. Part of the girlish charm of childhood, you’re sure. Pretty dresses, handsome princes, and a single care of naught else in the world. Only, you’re not a girl anymore. Not even close.

“I’m quite alright. Please. If the prince cannot accept me as I am right now, then perhaps he does not befit me after all.” You meant to say that to yourself, a mere utterance under your breath, but your frazzled nerves must be affecting your senses as a whole.

The gasp from Duckie is so dramatic it belongs in the theatre, center stage with an anticipation-gripped crowd holding their breaths to find out what happens next. In this case, it's a twitching of your eye as you suppress an eye roll and plaster on a tense smile instead.

Duckie swallows whatever response is on her tongue when a loud, sharp rapt sounds at the door. She schools her features and turns towards it, giving you a quick glance over her shoulder. You nod, letting her know it’s acceptable to open the door, even if you’d rather tell her to send whoever it could possibly be away. Nothing good can come of a knock on the door today, even if it could be a cursor from your parents.

Just as expected, the door opens, and you’re certain the temperature in the room drops several degrees. If you were facing the window, you’re sure you’d see the sun slink backward in the sky, choosing to hide from the figure on the other side of your threshold instead of continuing its journey to spread its meager warmth.

The prince’s mage sweeps into the room, his upper lip curled in mild disgust as his gaze sweeps over Duckie, quickly dismissing her, until they land on you. Those cold, calculating eyes have always unnerved you. What with their slender vertical pupils that slice through his golden brown irises, he looks every inch the venomous snake you know he is.

“My Lady,” he says, tilting his unruly head of midnight hair toward you. Even his voice has a hiss-like quality to it, the syllables drawn out just a breath too long.

“Taehyung.” You hope he can hear the apparent disinterest in the flat tone of your voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Though it’s anything but, you mentally note.

“I came to escort you to the arena.”

Of course, he would be the one to come and escort you. You should have figured as much. Despite the threat of rain, today’s festivities are set to commence at high noon. In celebration of your betrothal to the prince, a tournament of varying specialties is being held. There will be horse jousting, stone lifting, archery, and a multitude of other events, along with a giant feast. The event is open to most of the public, one of the only times mere commoners may get the chance to mingle among the upper echelon.

You balked at the idea when it was presented to you by your father. But, he would hear nothing of it, nattering on about how this marriage will benefit not just the Kim crown but your father’s own standing with his home country as well. For lack of a better way to say it, you are simply a means to a political end. No better than a slab of meat being bartered for at market.

“There is no—”

“There have been more reports of attacks on the road, growing ever closer to the city. The prince worries for your safety. You can come with me, or I shall have to call for the sheriff. My Lady, there simply can be no other way.”

It’s tempting to make him call for Yoongi. However, you’re not sure who the lesser of two evils is. As much as you hold disdain for the sheriff, you know if he’s pulled away from his duties to escort you, his wrath will be great. While the prince’s mage unnerves you…best to get this over with.

“Very well.” You incline your head and clench your jaw in preparation for the feel of his skin against yours as you stiffly rest your hand over the top of his when he offers it to you.

Ignoring the foreboding feeling growing in the pit of your stomach, you allow Taehyung to guide you out your door, Duckie shuffling close behind. The soft whisper of your slippers over the cold stones in the corridor might as well be the toll of a bell, telling of your impending doom and the future you want no part of.

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to story masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2024-10-29 ColorMePurplex2

[2d-reality]

Little Things (The Greedy Secondborn)

characters: Mammon, GN!MC navigation: Lucifer | Mammon | Levi | Satan | Asmo | Beel | Belphie content/warnings: little things you do for the brothers, out of love. fluff. established relationship (implied you are dating all seven brothers equally with the exception of mammon whom i love more) word count: 584 notes: Each brother has their own part, linked above. I am still my own editor and I loathe editing, so please forgive any mistakes!

But even you can only stand so much of his klepto tendencies. He’s good about your most precious things, for the most part. Once, when you were still new to the Devildom, the heirloom necklace you had been unceremoniously transported with went missing. It was the only piece of home you had left, aside from your clothes, and you weren’t proud of the breakdown you’d had when you’d discovered its absence. You were so caught in your grief, and anger at every one of your newly-minted demonic housemates, that you didn’t notice the absence of your guardian for nearly two full days. 

It’s no secret you baby Mammon. Even, and especially, when his brothers make his life a little more difficult with their sibling antics. The prickly behavior certainly lessened with you around, as any off-color comments are immediately met with a harsh glare and sometimes a short word of admonishment. 

It was Asmo who returned your presently most prized possession; you’d been so relieved to have it back that you’d kissed both his cheeks through tears, uncaring of how it had returned to you and unaware of Mammon’s soulful eyes peering from around the doorframe of your bedroom. You had noticed he seemed out of sorts over the coming days, but chalked it up to his avoidant tsundere behavior. If you’d known back then he’d swiped it, in a moment of unawareness, gripped by his sin as he so often was, you might never have forgiven him. 

Your relationship had evolved since then, and you wouldn’t dream of being cross with him now, especially if you learned that he’d hunted for your necklace, shook up every fence he had connections to, levied a hefty charge on goldie with the curiosities dealer that ended up with it, and weathered the lecture from Lucifer as a result without a word, all to see it returned to you. 

He’d been much more careful with the things you held most dear since then. He’s more observant than anyone would give him credit for, especially regarding you, his shining jewel. But you knew that he was as much a victim to his sin as his brothers, and you had learned to cater to it, even if you didn’t know about his crusade for your necklace. 

Lucifer (at least partially at the behest of Diavolo, you presumed) had established an allowance for you. You, ever independent, picked up shifts at the local spots when you could to earn your own money, but you wouldn’t lie, having a little extra to keep up with the elite (which you could forget the brothers were, at times) was nice. It was also nice to have a couple extra grimm to stuff in a pocket, or a drawer, for Mammon to take when his fingers got a little sticky. He ended up spending at least some of it on you, anyways; a popup cafe, a second dessert at lunch, a trinket that reminded him of you. He would vehemently deny being so sentimental, but the twinkle in his eye when you graciously accepted whatever treat he gifted you and returned the favor with a kiss twice as sweet was enough evidence for you. 

If he knew you were purposefully leaving it in the same places every week, and never commented on the hit to your budget, he never mentioned it. You never said anything either, happy to make his life as easy as you could. It was no secret, after all, that you baby Mammon.

[dyannawynnedayne]

Btw, for anyone who is into medieval history, I HIGHLY recommend this book:

"The word “medieval” conjures images of the “Dark Ages”—centuries of ignorance, superstition, stasis, savagery, and poor hygiene. But the myth of darkness obscures the truth; this was a remarkable period in human history. The Bright Ages recasts the European Middle Ages for what it was, capturing this 1,000-year era in all its complexity and fundamental humanity, bringing to light both its beauty and its horrors. 

The Bright Ages takes us through ten centuries and crisscrosses Europe and the Mediterranean, Asia and Africa, revisiting familiar people and events with new light cast upon them. We look with fresh eyes on the Fall of Rome, Charlemagne, the Vikings, the Crusades, and the Black Death, but also to the multi-religious experience of Iberia, the rise of Byzantium, and the genius of Hildegard and the power of queens. We begin under a blanket of golden stars constructed by an empress with Germanic, Roman, Spanish, Byzantine, and Christian bloodlines and end nearly 1,000 years later with the poet Dante—inspired by that same twinkling celestial canopy—writing an epic saga of heaven and hell that endures as a masterpiece of literature today.  

The Bright Ages reminds us just how permeable our manmade borders have always been and of what possible worlds the past has always made available to us. The Middle Ages may have been a world “lit only by fire” but it was one whose torches illuminated the magnificent rose windows of cathedrals, even as they stoked the pyres of accused heretics. "

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

It is an absolutely wonderful, humanistic depiction of the middle ages, spurred on by a wish to reframe our view of it as the 'dark ages'. I am about halfway through it and it has made me cry plenty because god, PEOPLE.

I first heard about it on the Medieval Podcast when Daniele Cybulskie interviewed the authors:

And have been slowly chipping away at it with my other books I'm reading.

[gethoce]

I saw a thing on Discord about OC kill counts and Valfrey was somehow discounted for being a reaper in my absence, but let's try to take ALL of her lore into account!

Valfrey cares about nothing more than their purpose and the first purpose they saw in their life was to reap souls, that is true. The souls that were unwilling to come with them I would count as a kill, personally, but maybe you people don't.

They eventually found a new purpose after their wife died and began to send demon beasts to kill every living being, which was to kill all the demons. After all, they had killed a lot of her children! About half of them were wiped out. It really depends on whether killing demons counts to you I suppose but they were intelligent beings, if perhaps not innocent beings. Most of them that is. Not that it mattered to Valfrey, demon is demon.

After Valfrey sealed away their wife and its brother they assumed their negatively charged form upon… dying the honourable death of a samurai. In this form they are known as Yamata No Orochi, an eight-headed dragon large enough to swallow planets and swallow planets they did! Their hunger for souls was unparalleled. They ate 7 out of 8 forks of a galaxy until the legendary heroes Susanoo, Amaterasu and Kushinadahime defeated them, causing Valfrey to return to their positively charged form.

Then, after Twinkle Popopo had perished, Valfrey found their third purpose, which was to exterminate all dark matter. They went on a crusade, killing all dark matterborn they came across and everything that contained dark matter to a degree such as NZs, Scarfies and those who were infected. Valfrey pulled Demon Star (or Dämmerstern) into Yomi which killed everyone who was on that planet. They wiped out the Demon Tribe, caused the Dark Rooms to spread and cause massive destruction on a galactic level and continued their crusade for many decades erasing lineages and traumatising survivors until they attacked the wrong person and the Dark Nebula incident occurred.

Since their return they've been looking for a new sense of purpose. No notable killings occurred, though some probably died by their hand here and there. Conclusion… Out of every character in my AU they probably have the second highest kill counts after Baal Hadad.

[magical-characters-tourney]

Magical Boy Tournament: Losers Bracket Round 1

Entrant Propaganda:

En Yufin

He's very laidback - or lazy. He loves lazing around in the onsen near their school after classes every day. Which is why he gets chosen to be a Battle Lover. His powers are all water based. He has a really close relationship with Atsushi, to the point where the whole group suffers when they're arguing. Like most of the others, he absolutely hates having to be a Battle Lover, but he's pretty good at it.

[jate-kara]

Star's Light | On AO3

If he had to hear one more bad joke, he was going to die.

Cayde tugged at his hood, like it could somehow muffle the whole damn mess if he only gave it a little more encouragement. Lush had a knack for a lotta things, but storytelling wasn't one of them - and neither was humor. Every hack at a joke that came out of his mouth was seven different shades of convoluted, and that was when he was sober. Drunk? Forget about trying to make any sense of anything he said.

Cayde set his jaw and dug his fingers into his legs. The fire they'd started had long since died down, and he wondered briefly if going to get more wood from the forest just outside camp would be a good enough excuse, or too obviously an escape. Lush had asked them to listen several drinks ago, and Cayde had agreed because everything about the current situation aside, he did genuinely like the guy: he was a good Hunter, and a good friend. Figured he'd burn out after two or three minutes, though. Bad guess. Lush was still going strong. Shiro had somehow found the strength to keep nodding along gamely. Tevis had left the second Lush started talking, off to brood in a tree somewhere, probably. Who knew with that guy. And Andal - had disappeared in the middle of a particularly excruciating tale a while ago. How unlike him to miss a chance to worsen his own terrible sense of humor. He could be taking notes. No, he needed to be taking notes. Right now. Immediately.

"I'm gonna go find Andal," Cayde announced, loud enough for the others to hear him, but apparently not loud enough to derail Lush's one man crusade to destroy Cayde's will to live. Shiro shot him a glance that felt a bit more accusing than he thought was fair. "Uh, don't have too much fun without me."

He darted off before Shiro could eviscerate him with his scowl. Andal had headed into the trees without saying where he was going, but he could hedge a pretty good bet on his whereabouts. Andal went one way when he wanted to get away, and that was up.

He found him exactly where he thought he would: in the clearing, sprawled out on top of his jumpship with his arms folded behind his head. He sat up at Cayde's approach, tracking him as he clambered up the side of the ship and swung himself over to sit beside him.

"Hey, beautiful," Cayde said, tilting his chin up with a single finger. "Come here often?"

Andal laughed. Traveler, Cayde never got tired of hearing it. "Has that line ever actually worked on anyone?"

Cayde opened his mouth to answer, and nothing came out. Not a single syllable. Not even a whisper of one. Andal was breathtaking on any given day, with his warm brown skin and his kind eyes and his long, flowing hair. Cast in starlight and a glowing smile, he was devastating. Cayde's chest ached. The closest thing to a response that he could manage was a punched out exhale, and even that felt like a monumental effort.

"Everything okay?" Andal leaned forward to scrutinize him. This close, Cayde could feel the light puff of his breath against his neck. Could feel the brush of his loose hair against his cheek as he pushed Cayde's hood down. Could see the mischief twinkle in his eyes. "Cayde?"

"You really have no idea what you do to me." Right, those were words. That was what talking felt like: hoarse, and unsteady, and utterly enamored. Real eloquent, gunslinger. Nice work there.

Andal's smile softened. "I have some idea," he murmured, and pulled Cayde in for a gentle kiss. He smelled like leather and evergreen and that fancy flowery soap he always picked up in the City, and when Andal pulled back, Cayde buried his face in his neck and breathed in deep. This night was just like a thousand before it, and hopefully like a thousand more after, but he wanted this moment forever.

Andal shifted slightly, enough to prompt Cayde to tighten his hold. Soft lips pressed to the top of his head. "Someone's clingy today."

"I'm clingy?" Cayde shot back. "Remind me which one of us didn't want to get up this morning."

"That was you, Cayde."

"Oh. Well, yesterday, then."

"Still you." Andal's voice was warm. He tugged insistently at Cayde's cloak until he got the hint and let Andal ease them into lying back, so Cayde was sprawled across his chest. "Not that I'm complaining."

Andal smoothed a hand up his spine, and Cayde gave a contented sigh. "Seriously, though. Why'd you leave? Lush's stories are bad, but they're not 'brood in a tree' bad."

"Is that where Tev went?"

"Maybe. When he doesn't want to be found, he really doesn't want to be found, so I didn't waste my time trying. Sundance worked out a deal with his Ghost, so if he doesn't turn up in a few hours, we'll get a ping from her to let us know he's not dead in the gulch somewhere."

"I'm sure he loves that."

"Shoulda stopped with the literal disappearing act if he didn't want me to take matters into my own hands. I did warn him."

Andal paused, then groaned. "Wait. You left Shiro to deal with Lush alone, didn't you?"

"He'll be fine. They go way back, so if you think about it, he's actually the best guy for the job."

"Uh-huh." Still, despite the skepticism, he made no move to dislodge Cayde. His heart was pounding a rapid pulse beneath Cayde's head, like he was running for his life through the forest, and not trying to relax under the stars, and as flattering as it would be if that racing beat was for him, Cayde knew by the sick twist in his gut that it wasn't. Andal's body was as familiar to him as his own: he'd mapped every tell, whether it was soundless or a scream. He knew every hitch in his breath; he'd felt every twitch, every spasm, and every heaving gasp, sometimes in the safety of a quiet night, and sometimes in the suffocating thick of the Darkness, clutching Andal to his chest to keep pressure on a wound - pressing a kiss to his crown and begging him to hold on. No, this wasn't anticipation. It was fear.

Cayde shifted so he could raise his head and prop it up on one hand, then reach out and press his other palm to Andal's cheek. "Startin' to think I should be the one asking you if you're okay," he murmured, stroking a soothing arc with his thumb. "Something happen?"

Andal leaned into Cayde's touch, though there was a pinch to his brow that hadn't been there before. "No," he muttered. "Not recently, anyway."

Cayde gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, and waited to see if he would continue. Old history was a touchy thing, especially when it was the painful kind, and Andal had just as much trauma in his past as the rest of them, no matter how hard he tried to convince them that the worst his experiences got was getting rezzed a few times with water in his lungs. He'd had a whole other life before they'd come crashing into one another's orbits, and while Cayde knew a lot more about it than probably anyone else in the pack, there were still plenty of agonies that Andal kept close to the chest. Whatever it was that gave him nightmares so bad he didn't sleep for a week last month was one of them, and whatever had him a million miles away tonight was clearly another.

"You ever think about how we're going to die?" Andal asked at last. "The final time."

Lightless, alone, and in a hell of a lot of pain. They both knew the old Guardian adages. Nobody with this kind of power made merciful enemies, so if push came to shove, fight until you made 'em kill you quick. Of course, not everyone's luck held out that long. Cayde was pretty sure his wouldn't. Not that he could say it. "Who doesn't?" he offered, instead of that. "Job's too dangerous not to."

Andal's eyes took on a faraway look. He didn't say anything else. Cayde stayed there for a few minutes, then slowly scooted up so they were laying side by side with their legs tangled together. "Had a lot of close calls, back before we met," Cayde said. "A few of 'em were with Tevis. Guy's got some nasty enemies, I'll say that. Not just cuz his attitude sucks, either. His Ghost found him right around the last few years of the Dark Age too. Pretty bad time. Glad you never had to see it."

"What about you?"

"Huh?"

"Your enemies."

"Do you mean people I cheated out of glimmer playing cards, or-"

"Cayde." Andal's voice cracked.

Cayde took one of his hands and laid a whisper of a kiss on his knuckles. "No one we need to worry about. Most of them have dropped off the radar, or already got themselves killed by someone else. I always keep an eye out anyway, just in case."

Andal's answering nod was almost imperceptible. Cayde hesitated. "You? Old ghosts?"

Andal stiffened. A tremor ran through his shoulders. His face twisted into a grimace. "You know me too damn well," he grumbled, but it sounded hollow. Cayde turned his hand over and pressed his mouth to his palm, and let himself linger. Andal's breath hitched; he leaned in to rest his forehead against Cayde's, and stayed there for a long moment. When he moved to pull back, Cayde stopped him with a gentle touch.

"Stay here with me?" Cayde asked, barely a whisper, and that was all it took for Andal to crawl into his arms and curl up against his chest. Once he was settled, Cayde propped his chin on his head and waited. Andal was good with his words, and generally better at dealing with his feelings, but sometimes, that wasn't saying much. Sometimes, he locked down hard, and if you pushed, he'd shut you out completely. With him, it was always a question of patience, and of holding on until he was ready to let go. Fine by Cayde. He'd hold Andal for the rest of eternity if that's what he wanted.

"Back when I was a New Light, I was running my own patrols in the EDZ," Andal started, muffled against Cayde's neck. "Right where we are now, actually. Tallulah had just started out as Vanguard. The City wasn't as fortified then. She didn't have a way to keep track of every damn threat passing through, so I went out there with a pack full of sensor beacons. Spent a lot of time dodging or fighting Fallen to get them placed. I was tired when I finished, and I didn't see the blitz coming."

Andal nudged him, and Cayde loosened his grip so he could move. He didn't go far - only the few inches he needed to be able to meet Cayde's eyes. "At first I thought it was the Fallen again, but the Fallen don't carry handcannons, and they sure as hell don't have the Light."

Cayde set his jaw. Rogue Guardians weren't the anomaly the City leadership wanted to believe they were. They weren't like the Warlords of old, sure, but that distinction didn't make them any better in his book. More often than not, rogues went after other Guardians: for sport, out of some sick curiosity, or because of their devotion to whatever new freak fringe cult had formed. A shudder shook Andal's body, and Cayde slipped a hand into his hair to rub soothing circles into his scalp, until some of the tension strung through him slipped away.

"They hunted me across the EDZ. By the time I circled back here, I'd taken a lot of hits. Lost track of how many, but it wasn't safe for Astraea to help me. It was dark. I'd slid down to the bottom of the gulch and broke my legs. There were a lot of them, and they had me surrounded. I just remember laying there while they closed in, looking up at the stars, and wondering if that was how I was going to die for the last time." Andal let out a breath that was somewhere between a choked laugh and the start of a sob. "It was a long time ago, and it's not even the worst damn thing I've been through. I still can't shake it."

"Hey, a near-miss like that isn't something you can just forget."

"You think it'd fade a little," Andal muttered, and Cayde closed the small distance between them to kiss him - just a brush of the lips, and nothing more. Just to ground him here, in Cayde's arms, safe beneath the open sky, and not back there, lying broken and bleeding and alone and waiting to die.

"You made it out," he reminded quietly, and carded a hand through his hair. Andal chased after the touch, and Cayde rested his palm on his cheek, and let him close his eyes and breathe.

Andal drew strength the same way he drew Void: in a single, intense surge. When he opened them, his eyes had that faraway look again. "Not by myself. There was another Guardian there. Nightstalker, I think. I don't know. I couldn't even see them until they were cutting one of the Warlocks down. Still don't know why the hell they got involved when they were that badly outnumbered."

"You catch their name?"

"Maybe. I just remember them checking on me after, and telling me to get the hell out of there." Andal sighed. "Head was ringing even after Astraea healed me. I couldn't even tell you how I got back to my ship."

Andal found catharsis in talking with him. It was one of their immutable truths, and while Cayde treasured the peace that came with that trust and vulnerability, every pained shudder and strangled breath made his chest ache and his heart scream. If those Guardians weren't already dead, he'd kill them himself for what they'd done to Andal. "You know," he said, burying that feeling deep with all the rest, "we can pack up camp and get moving. No reason we have to stick around here."

"You really wanna manage drunk Lush on a ship?"

"We'll figure it out."

Andal shook his head. "I'll be okay," he said, and rested his forehead against Cayde's chest. "No reason we have to haul ass out of here because of my old ghosts."

If it was anyone else telling Andal they had serious trauma around their current location, he would just say they were going to leave, no question. But since it was Andal who had the trauma, obviously uprooting them was unthinkable. Cayde resisted the urge to sigh. In the entire course of their partnership, he'd never figured out how that equation worked in Andal's head. Probably never would. "All right," he said. "We'll stick around for a while like we planned. But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Don't go wandering off on your own again. I missed you."

"You missed me suffering with you, you mean."

"Hey, I love Lush, he's a great guy, fantastic Hunter, hell of an Arcstrider. But you or Shiro have got to teach him the difference between a story, and - whatever the hell it is he does when he's trying to be clever."

"He's not that bad."

"He's terrible."

"You can't compare him to Shiro, it's not fair."

"Can. Have. And will. But you know, I gotta say, I am impressed that his jokes manage to be worse than yours."

Andal huffed. "What's wrong with my jokes?"

Cayde kissed the top of his head. "They need work."

Andal shoved at him, though there was no real force behind it. "You're a pain in the ass," he said, but there was a warm note of teasing in his voice that unwound some of the tension wrapped around Cayde's heart.

"You love me."

"Obviously."

Warmth bloomed under Cayde's ribs. He never got tired of hearing that, either. He squeezed Andal tightly, and was rewarded with a contented sigh. "You know what the worst part is?" Andal said. "I lost the knife Tallulah gave me when I first came to the City. She was so disappointed."

Hunted, tormented, and stalked, all alone in the dark with only the stars and his own pounding heart - and he was sad about the knife. Sure. Cayde managed a chuckle. "You are somethin' else," he said. "It's the damn knife you're worried about?"

"It was beautiful," Andal said wistfully.

"Well, yeah, sure. Lulah had great taste in knives."

"Dropped it when I slid down the gulch."

"You want me to go look for it? It's been a long time but you never know. Could still be there."

Andal sobered. Cayde almost had time to regret his words, but not quite. "No," Andal said quietly. "I want you to stay here."

"That's the easiest thing you've ever asked me to do."

Andal nuzzled into his neck and took a deep breath, like he wanted to memorize the moment, too. His heartbeat was steadier now, pulsing a slower pace. Cayde carefully rolled them so he was on his back, and Andal was laying on top of him, and Andal shifted too, pushing himself up and propping his chin on his hands to gaze down at Cayde. His eyes shone in the starlight. Most of the tension in his shoulders was gone. "Nice view?" he asked, and his lips curved into a smile.

Cayde's chest ached again. He tucked a lock of hair behind Andal's ear, and let his touch linger and hold. "Yeah," he said, as he leaned up for a kiss. "The best."

-----

"I'd say I thought I'd find you here, but I never know where the hell to look for you half the time."

Tevis didn't look up at Cayde's approach, or when he invited himself to drop down on the boulder beside him. The gulch was a result of a landslide or an earthquake or some other disaster a long time ago, probably during the Collapse, so it was steep and jagged; the bottom was littered with old pieces of shattered armor - the last vestiges of some really unfortunate souls. Cayde wondered briefly how many Guardians had met their end here, and how many had been just like Andal: new to wielding the Light and just learning what it felt like.

"Did you put another damn tracker on me?" Tevis asked at last, voice tight.

"No, this time I just had a hunch."

In the full light of the sun, Tevis looked less offput and more exhausted. His hood was down for once, and his long dark hair fell loosely around his shoulders in tangled waves. There was Void in his eyes, an amaranthine glow that Cayde had only seen swell around his usual grey when they were about to be in a hell of a fight - never when they were sitting quietly beneath the full sun.

"You look like you're not sleeping," Cayde said, making a show of scrutinizing the dark circles.

"I don't need a damn lecture, Cayde."

"Not gonna give you one. I know you've got the whole 'Void is stronger when you're running on empty' thing you do, but, uh - there's nothing out here. It's just us. You don't need to do that."

Tevis shrugged. The glow didn't dissipate. "What do you want?" he asked, though it was almost a grumble.

"Andal was getting worried since you didn't turn up last night, so I thought I'd come check on you."

"You got the damned ping, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah-"

"Then why are you here?"

"Maybe I just wanted to piss you off," Cayde returned breezily, and Tevis snapped to meet his gaze. The Void surged in his eyes like a gathering storm before he quelled and quieted it.

"'Andal was getting worried'," Tevis repeated. "Sure."

Cayde leaned back on his hands and kicked his legs idly. Talking to Tevis about something emotionally charged was a bit like navigating a minefield. He'd spent a decent amount of time getting blown up, back when he'd dragged him kicking and screaming into a friendship all those centuries ago. But he'd learned. With Tevis, you had to have trust, and then you had to find a way to push, or you'd watch him break himself apart in his own head. "I'm gonna level with you, Tev," he said. "I think you disappeared cuz you've been on edge since we got here."

"No, I left camp because you're all so fucking annoying."

"Ah, cut the bullshit already. Me? Sure, I drive you up a wall sometimes. That's just part of what makes our dynamic work. But you respect Andal too much to see him the same way, Lush is too scared of you to do anything that might seriously piss you off, and Shiro always reads you like a damn book no matter how many walls you throw at him, so you're never really mad at him. Kinda jealous of that, actually. I wish he'd teach me how he does it."

"He doesn't read me like a book," Tevis huffed. "And spend less time trying to get on my nerves, and maybe I'd be pissed at you less."

"If I didn't get on your nerves so much, we'd never have become friends. Admit it: you like the challenge." Cayde flashed him a grin, and Tevis mumbled something scathing and indecipherable under his breath, but the shove he gave Cayde's shoulder didn't have any weight behind it, and the ghost of a smile curved a corner of his mouth.

"Tell me why I've put up with your shit for so long," he muttered, and leaned back to mirror Cayde.

"Because sometimes a situation calls for a little personality and not an arrow to the face, and I've never seen you talk your way into anywhere."

Tevis rolled his eyes. "That was rhetorical, Cayde."

"I knew that."

"Sure you did."

Cayde hesitated. "You wanna tell me why this place gets to you so bad?"

Tevis locked his jaw, then sat back up and hunched forward with his hands clenched together in his lap. He wasn't exactly slight, but he was a lot smaller than the rest of the pack, and built wiry. Usually, it just meant he was quicker, more agile, and harder for their enemies to hit, so Cayde thought nothing of it. Now, though, curled in on himself as he was, Tevis just looked impossibly vulnerable. A faint shudder ran through his shoulders, like he was in a physical fight and had just taken a hit.

Cayde waited until the shaking subsided, then slowly put a hand on his shoulder. Fifty-fifty shot at success. Odds would be better if it was Andal trying it: everyone had a soft spot for Andal, and he knew it, which was only a problem when he was being a smartass. This time, Cayde got lucky: Tevis didn't rip away from the touch; if anything, he pressed into it.

"Old history," Tevis said at last, and shrugged helplessly.

Cayde hummed a vague acknowledgement. Tevis sat there silently for a minute, then reached into his pack. pulled out a bundle of fabric, and shoved it into Cayde's hands. "Give that to Andal," he said, deliberately avoiding Cayde's gaze as he tugged at the wrappings.

The knife in his hands was beautiful, and had clearly been recently restored: it was shining, all ornate purple and black, with a twist of gold around the bottom of the blade. Cayde turned it over and choked back a laugh. The name Andal Brask was carved in tiny scrawl on the hilt. "Do you think Andal did this?" he asked, shoving the grip toward Tevis so he could see. "Or do you think it was Lulah?"

Tevis pushed the knife away with a sigh. "Don't know. Don't care. Found it out here and figured if it didn't belong to him, he'd probably appreciate it anyway."

"How many Andal Brasks do you think there are in the world?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Cayde tilted his head at him as he set the blade aside. "Okay, I'll narrow it down for ya: how many Andal Brasks did you save from a full-on RTL here?"

Tevis, to his credit, didn't jolt, or start, but he did flinch. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he snapped. His hand curled into a fist at his side, and the Void surged in his eyes.

Cayde gave him a moment - waited for the Void to go from seething tendrils to just mist. "C'mon, Tev," he said quietly. "There aren't a lot of Nightstalkers around, let alone ones who'd jump into that kinda fight without a second thought. And there aren't a lot who'd come out on top, either. You just happen to be this wound up as soon as we get here, you just happen to come to this exact spot, you just happen to find Andal's knife, and you just happen to fix it up and not wanna give it to him yourself? That's too many coincidences."

Tevis shot him a withering glare, but it was a poor mask for the soul-crushing guilt beneath it. "It was my fault," he managed. The words came out strangled. He stopped to heave a labored exhale, and Cayde risked putting a hand back on his shoulder.

"You know that's not what Andal's gonna say."

"Don't tell him."

"The minute I hand him this knife, he's gonna put it together on his own. I won't have to tell him anything."

Tevis dropped his head into his hands. "Yeah," he whispered. "I know."

Cayde scooted a little closer, waited a beat, and swung an arm around him. It earned him an elbow to the side that would have hurt a lot more if he wasn't an Exo, but Tevis didn't shove him away and slip into the Void, so that was progress. "It wasn't your fault," he said, for all the good it would do. "And you saved his life."

"His damn life wouldn't have been at stake if I hadn't gotten him caught in the crossfire," Tevis hissed, snapping upright to stare Cayde straight in the eyes. "It was me they were after. I thought I'd lost them, and it turned out they'd just run across another Nightstalker. They'd have figured it out pretty quick, with how damn new to everything he was. But they kept after him anyway. I don't know if they were trying to draw me out, or if they were just so fucked in the head that they were really gonna tear apart a New Light instead."

Cayde blew out a breath. "You know, I told Andal you had some pretty nasty enemies. What'd this batch want with you?"

Tevis gave a soul-weary sigh. "What do they always want, Cayde?"

Cayde inclined his head in half a shrug. Tevis's connection to the Void was unrivaled, so renowned for its strength that the Speaker himself sometimes put out a general summons to ask Tevis to come to the City, so the scholars could pester him with seventy different questions about it. Tevis never went, of course, but word had long since spread through the Wilds, too, and not everyone out there was as innocuous as a couple of nerds who had their faces perpetually glued to a book. Some groups, mostly left over from the Dark Age, still thought the Void was aligned with the Darkness, and that being so thoroughly submerged in it made Tevis a heretic of the highest order. Others saw him as a saint. And then there were the ones that thought they could replicate the Call if they took him apart enough times.

"Guess being a legend's not all it's cracked up to be," Cayde said, trying for a note of levity.

Tevis snorted. "I liked it better when they all thought I wasn't real."

Cayde forced a chuckle. "Andal said he didn't remember how he got back to his ship. You know anything about that?"

"I carried him there."

That twisted something in Cayde's chest. Tevis was more of a loner than anyone else in the pack: closed off, bottled up, and sometimes a real pain in the ass to get along with. But he was also the kind of man who'd break himself apart to save a New Light he'd never met. There were plenty of other Guardians who would've taken the diversion and run instead of throwing themselves into the Void and an impossible fight - who would've disappeared rather than carry a traumatized comrade back to their ship and see them off to safety. Tevis had a self-loathing streak a mile wide. He'd never call that selfless; he'd just say he was doing what needed to be done. Cayde knew better.

"You're a good guy, Tev," Cayde said, and squeezed him close for the half a second he'd tolerate.

"Don't start that shit again."

"Nah, we've been having this argument for decades now. Gotta keep it going."

"One day, I'm gonna get sick of you."

"That hasn't happened in all the centuries we've known each other, and it's not gonna happen now. That'd be like quitting, and we both know you can't stand to let me win." Cayde pushed himself to his feet and retrieved the blade. "We should get back to camp, though. I wasn't kidding when I said they were starting to get worried."

"You go. I'm staying here."

"Nah, I know that look. No self-loathing spirals today. C'mon." Tevis, surprisingly, didn't resist when Cayde tugged him to stand, and pressed the blade into his hands. "You've gotta get this back to Andal anyway."

Tevis followed him out of the gulch, up an incline so steep it was almost sheer, and through the forest. Cayde heard the camp before he saw it: Shiro and Lush were embroiled in some heated debate about whether arc was best wielded as a staff or when shaped into blades. Tevis shot him a weary look.

"They're never gonna settle that," Cayde confirmed, in answer to the question he hadn't really asked. Shiro and Lush noticed their arrival enough to give them a wave each, and then they were back to their fight. Andal, for his part, was perched on one of the logs they'd turned into the camp's makeshift benches, looking for all the world like he wished he could sink into the ground and disappear. Cayde draped his arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his crown.

"Hey," Andal said, tangling their fingers together and craning his neck back to give him a tired smile. "You found Tev."

Cayde slipped down to sit beside him. "Yeah. How long have those two been at it?"

"I stopped counting."

"Damn, that long?"

"Afraid so."

Cayde sighed, and cast a glance at the edge of the camp. Tevis was frozen, and he stayed that way for an alarming stretch of time. Cayde was just considering stalking over, grabbing his arm, and dragging him into the circle when he jolted, closed the distance in a few stiff strides, and pushed the knife at Andal like it was burning him. "I found that near the gulch," he bit out, like he wouldn't say the words if he didn't force them all out at once.

Andal's face went through an impressive array of emotion impressively quickly: surprise, then confusion, and then old grief, before he settled on dawning realization. He set the knife to the side, snapped to his feet, and pulled Tevis into a tight hug, and Tevis didn't really flail, but he did stand there with his arms raised awkwardly for a second before he realized he was supposed to do something with his hands too. Then he patted Andal lightly on the back twice.

"I don't remember if I said thanks then," Andal said quietly. It sounded loud, though, since Shiro and Lush had finally figured out they should stop.

Tevis pushed at him, like he wasn't sure if they were supposed to hold on that long. Andal didn't move. "You don't owe me any damn thanks. You just wouldn't shut up about the knife on the way back to your ship. Figured it might still be out there somewhere, and we were here anyway."

"Thanks," Andal said, regardless. "For saving me. And for returning the knife."

Tevis blew out an exasperated breath and tried again to shrug off the hug. It worked about as well as it had the first time. "Fine," he grit out. "You're welcome. Let go."

This time, Andal did, though he left one hand on Tevis's shoulder when he pulled away. "Wait, you said 'on the way back to my ship'. Did you carry me there?"

Tevis rolled his eyes. He didn't answer, to confirm or deny it, only pushed Andal's touch away and tugged his cloak closer about his shoulders, as if that would deflect the eyes locked on him. Then he stalked over to sit on the log across from Cayde with his arms folded tightly against his chest.

"What the hell just happened?" Lush asked, glancing around the circle. Even in full daylight, he didn't look hungover at all. Maybe it was an Awoken thing. "What did I miss last night?"

"Nothing," Tevis snapped. Lush jumped and this time, Tevis did flail, but only because Shiro had tugged his hood up and over his head with enough force to send him pitching forward.

"I have no idea what they're talking about either," Shiro said, with a final side-eye at Tevis.

Cayde caught Andal's wrist and tugged him to his side, then hummed contentedly when Andal immediately settled in his lap and wrapped his arms around his neck. "You know," Cayde said, "I can't decide if you look better in sunlight or starlight."

Andal's laugh made his heart clench. "You've got to work on those lines, love."

"Why? You like them."

Andal laughed again, and pulled him down to eye level. "Yeah," he murmured, a soft breath on Cayde's cheek as he leaned in for a kiss. "I do."

----

[dujour13]

Owlcatober 10. Stars

Still ignoring date order with impunity. An epilogue to The Prodigal Tiefling. Also on AO3

---

It might have caused quite a commotion if anyone noticed the Knight-Commander had climbed out onto the roof of the Citadel watchtower, the highest point in Drezen, and perched perilously close to the edge of the steeply sloped tiles with his legs dangling over the city and a baby havoc dragon curled up in his lap.

It was past midnight. A cloak would have been a hazard, so he sat shivering in only his jerkin and shirtsleeves, but the stars out on this crystal night were worth catching a chill for.

He tipped his chin up as if drinking in their light.

“I would say thank you, but divine intervention is the opposite of luck, isn’t it?”

Cynosure twinkled.

“There’s something about having him back that makes all the difference. My courage was failing.” As he said it, his voice failed too. Absently he stroked the silky scales on Aivu’s snoring flank.

When he found his voice again he went on, “For a while there I admit I started to doubt my vision of a Free Crusade. It’s true, recruiting any and all, and offering forgiveness and redemption on nothing but good faith leaves us wide open to traitors. The price has been terrible.”

He paused, breathing ghosts into the frigid air.

All those lives lost.

“I was beginning to think I was deluding myself, talking to the stars.

“But I’m not.”

“Nope,” mumbled Aivu without opening an eye.

At that the wound complained, a shearing pain in his sternum, or deeper yet—like tectonic plates pulling apart and sending aching ripples through his body. Like bile rage lay at the back of his throat but soothing starlight washed it away and buoyed his spirit.

“Because it doesn’t matter if you’re listening. All I can do is trust my heart is leading me in the right direction, and with Cynosure as my guide I’ll make my own luck.

“Like he did, lost in the Worldwound. Like we did, stumbling across him.”

Siavash smiled at the stars like he was confiding in an old friend; which, in a way, he was. “I owe you. I know I’m terrible at keeping promises, so I won’t make any, but from now on I won’t forget that I followed my heart, I trusted you, and it worked out.”

“What worked out?” Aivu asked sleepily, raising her head and blinking.

“One small thing, but that’s all I need. I’m doubling down on this Free Crusade idea.”

“Woo hoo!” Her dragonfly wings began to buzz with excitement. “I knew you weren’t boring! Does that mean we get cookie rations? I get to decorate the barracks yard? The soldiers have to do a little dance when they join? Ooh! I know! Every crusader should have a big, purple feather on their helmet and—wait, what small thing?”

“Woljif.”

“He is a small thing. What worked out? Did he give back something he snitched?”

“I asked Desna to save him.”

“And she did?”

“Not exactly.” In the darkness his disembodied grin reflected starlight. “It was sheer luck.”

[overwatch-does-stuff]

Bad Memories

Summary: The first time Bastion saw the armor, they ran. The second time, they froze. And present at both was a man with more compassion than common sense.

(Author's note: this fic was written before the story announcement trailer showed that Reinhardt was not, in fact, okay with Omnics, so that's the reason he's fairly out of character here.)

---

The first time Bastion saw the armor, they ran.

The day had otherwise been peaceful. Happy, even. Two new friends had arrived, friends of Torbjorn’s, which of course made them both Bastion’s friends by default. There was the tall, enormous man named Reinhardt, with a loud voice and a big smile. Then there was his smaller companion, a woman named Brigitte, with long red hair and a smaller but still muscular build. Torbjorn seemed equally fond of both. 

After the introductions, Brigitte and Winston had brought something in from the outside. Something big and covered in a tarp. Brigitte had smiled and pulled the tarp down. Silver glinted off metallic angles, twinkling, catching Bastion’s attention. They couldn’t look away.

The crested helmet and bulky frame crawled from their optic and into the deep recesses of their memory bank. It reached in and pulled forth shambling strings of a memory that might not have been their own, pulling, pulling, until the fire licked the edges of their vision and warnings spilled throughout their most primal systems.

Crusader.

It was suicide to turn one’s back on a Crusader. Bastion’s systems told them that. Their legs did not want to move and their torso did not want to turn, but a last-ditch override took care of that. Diverting power from threat analysis to hydraulics was also a horrible idea, but they did so anyway.

Active processing began to null as more power transferred, their speed picking up. The door ahead did not open so they tore it down with their momentum.

They were bathed in sunlight and their optic adjusted to the outside. They barreled past further buildings in the complex before thinking to take shelter. Too many open angles, too many lines of sight. They turned, sliding across the ground as they readjusted their trajectory, to an alley between buildings. 

The alleyway ended in a solid wall which housed a decrepit dumpster, which they noticed too late. Bastion crashed into it and it crinkled like a leaf underfoot in the fall. The impact rattled loose the protocol they had been trying their hardest to avoid.

The transformation sent old damage warnings shooting up their frame as they configured into sentry mode. Their barrel swung around to the entrance of the alley.

The Crusader was coming, it had to be coming, but Bastion couldn’t tell whether the thundering they heard came from its footfalls or from their own shaking as they spun their barrel up.

No threats registered. No threats registered. As long as it stayed that way, then they wouldn’t do something that they knew they would regret.

Footsteps from the other end of the alley.

“Bastion, luv. Bastion! Where did you go? No need to be scared. It’s all okay.”

A blink of blue. Target registered. Bastion fired.

The vibration of their firing pins hitting the ends of cartridges, one by one by one, was a well-oiled symphony. It felt familiar. Bastion hated how it almost felt good. It was their purpose, after all- raining metal hell upon whatever was down range.

The chorus stopped. Their clip had run out. 

Nothing followed but silence.

The urge to reload was mounting the longer they stayed configured, but a quick justification- the target is gone, must go find -let them transform back to recon mode.

But they did not investigate. That urge was far more easily quelled. Instead, they turned to face the wall. With no visuals to distract, they focused on turning off their combat protocols. They dug in their memory banks and brought up images of the forest. Sunlight filtering through trees. Butterflies sunning themselves on rocks by a stream.

With a click, their targeting overlay disappeared. The commands keeping their body rigid disappeared, and they sagged forward, letting their gun arm sink towards the ground and putting their hand against the wall to steady themselves. They stayed there until their cooling fans spun on, venting the heat from the strain from their systems. 

A small background notification appeared and they let it through without thinking. Target confirmed eliminated?

Bastion jolted and turned their head down the alley. Immediate visual scans did not turn up a body. 

“B-bastion, luv?” called a meek voice from the other end of the alley.

A head poked around the corner, just revealing a set of eyes, before jerking back again. Then it crept out once more.

Bastion didn’t know what to do.

“Lena, get away from the thing! Now!”

Bastion recognized Torbjorn’s voice. It scared them to hear the man so angry and afraid.

The peeking person disappeared. There was more conversation in quieter tones that Bastion could not pick up on, so they came forwards. They at least tried to muffle their footsteps.

Bastion peered out of the alleyway. Torbjorn and- their processor finally cleared enough to recall -Tracer huddled against the front of the building. Her chronal accelerator glowed only a faint, dusty blue.

The blink of blue. She was. . . unscathed.

Bastion let out a whine of relief. This caused the both of them to turn. Torbjorn flinched and his mouth opened, curses pouring out. Bastion ran back into the alley. They thought up pictures of the forest again, as a precaution. Just in case. Just in case.

There was a pitter patter of footsteps. Torbjorn had followed.

“Damned Omnic! You were supposed to be peaceful! You weren’t supposed to have any battle protocols!” He shook his fist in the air.

Every declaration bit into them worse than a bullet ever could.

“You could have killed her!”

Bastion turned off their audio sensors. They watched as Torbjorn circled around them, his eyes wide with anger, his mouth opening and closing in sharp rhythms that caused him to spit. 

He stopped mid-syllable, before giving a glare. Then he pointed a finger right into Bastion’s chest and yelled. The vibration traveled through their plating and they flinched away at the unexpected sensation. Torbjorn’s fury only grew. Soon he was pounding a fist against their leg.

They knew they deserved this. He had every right to be angry. They had lost control. 

Bastion slowly turned their audio sensors back on to ease into the man’s voice again. At a certain point they realized that they were whining out loud. They silenced themselves. 

“So you’ve finally decided to listen again, hmm?” Torbjorn said.

Bastion made a sad, downturned noise. A noise of regret. There had been no place for regret in a vocabulary made for war, so they had invented the noise in the forest. They had given it to the animals many times. It was the first time they had given it to a human.

“So sorry, aren’t you?” Torbjorn’s tone was mocking.

Bastion nodded.

“Like I’d believe that. You’re one of mine. I should have known you were programmed like the rest.”

Bastion shook their head.

“Come on. No more frolicking around for you. You’re going into my workshop and staying there.”

Bastion knew they deserved it but they didn’t want to go.

“I said, come on, you lump of lugnuts!” 

Torbjorn was behind them now, and kicking at their back legs.

“Did you turn off your audio sensors again? Damn tin can-!”

“My friend, stop.”

Bastion whirled their torso around. A new person had come around the corner. It was the tall man, Reinhardt, only he was not smiling now. 

“Reinhardt! What are you doing here? You need to get out of here. It might kill you if it gets the chance!” Torbjorn shouted.

“Says the one who’s kicking the Bastion.” Reinhardt replied.

This caused Torbjorn to pause. “Touche.”

Whereas Torbjorn was all hard lines and tension, Reinhardt was calm. He was muscled and large, trained for combat, Bastion’s targeting system added unhelpfully, but he didn’t register as a threat. His movements were slow and thoughtful and the only defined lines on his face weren’t from a harsh expression- they were wrinkles, wrinkles from smiles and laughter past, gently juxtaposed with the scar that went down his eye.

Reinhardt walked towards them. Bastion stepped around to meet him.

“Hello, friend.” Reinhardt spoke to them. His tone was as gentle as wind ruffling the grass.

“Wait, are you talking to it?” Torbjorn said.

“I’m sorry to have scared you.” He continued.

Bastion at first thought the apology was meant for Torbjorn, but the man’s steady gaze into their optic told otherwise. Bastion could only cock their head in response.

“The armor holds many bad memories for you, doesn’t it?”

Crusader. Bastion chirped as the word appeared again in their processor. They nodded.

“Reinhardt, it wasn’t scared. Don’t be silly. Given its origins, it’s programmed to engage combat protocols when it sees your armor.” Torbjorn huffed.

“Then why did it run?” Reinhardt asked.

Torbjorn opened his mouth to retort but no words came out. He shut it again and frowned, before kicking the ground.

The hostile motion caused a flutter of activity in Bastion’s threat analysis systems. They began to glance around and realized they were cornered.

“Easy, my Omnic friend! You are not trapped.” Reinhardt took one step aside.

Bastion took a small step. Torbjorn conceded his space as well and went beside the wall. Bastion walked forward, exiting the shade and dark of the alley and entering into the bright sunlight once again.

It was late afternoon, they noticed. The wind whistled across the rooftops, carrying the songs of birds from the sea below. Details they hadn’t noticed before.

“Better?” Reinhardt asked from behind.

The pavement lined with metal had some cracks, from which dandelions grew. The walls of the buildings were soft gray with accents of blue and orange. There was a peculiar pattern in the wall right ahead, many holes upon holes-

The realization was instantaneous. Bastion sunk down with a long, dull whine.

“You are ashamed.”

The statement was not framed as a question. It was a statement of fact, to which Bastion did not know how to respond. They were somewhat certain that regret and shame were similar, but where one ended and the other began was a mystery.

“The war left its impact on us all.” Reinhardt continued. “It took me some time before I could look an Omnic in the optic. Forgiveness comes slow. It can take even longer for the fear to fade.”

The statement, though softly spoken, was unsettling. Bastion looked at Reinhardt’s height again, this time taking an exact measurement. They recalled Torbjorn’s use of a certain possessive in regards to the armor. The armor. Its height. The measurement.

His armor.

“Crusader?” Bastion sputtered in Omnicode, their first comprehensible code in a while.

Reinhardt gave a sad nod. “You used that phrase when you saw my armor. I take it you figured out who I am?”

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense. The man before them was kind and gentle. He couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.

“Does it make you afraid?”

Bastion looked him up and down. They tried to run a threat analysis, but it fizzled out when they saw his face where a steel helmet should be. They started the program again, and again, and again, but there was no conclusion.

Eventually, they shook their head.

“That is good to hear.” Reinhardt placed a hand upon their shoulder pad and grasped it firmly. “It means we have a place to start.”

 Bastion tensed. They did not move.

“That is alright as well. I understand you may not be ready to be too friendly yet.” He dropped his hand.

“Are you done coddling it?” Torbjorn asked.

Bastion turned their head around and realized Torbjorn was behind them. Likely, he had been back there for some time.

“Maybe. Are you done scolding it?” Reinhardt replied.

Torbjorn gave a huff. “Yes.”

“Very well. I shall give it back to you.”

Torbjorn came in front of Bastion. “You’re following me. Back to my workshop. Clear?”

Bastion gave a glance to Reinhardt, before nodding.

Without another word, Torbjorn marched in the direction of a nearby building. Bastion hesitated, before urging their legs to move.

“Wait, my patient Omnic friend!”

Bastion turned their torso around to look.

“Take good care of Torbjorn for me. Make sure he doesn’t stay up all night working on you!” Reinhardt laughed, before growing serious again. “And when you are ready to try and overcome your fear, I am here.”

Bastion paused. Reinhardt wore a close-lipped smile. There was something in his eyes. Something knowing. Bastion nodded.

“Come on, rustbucket!” Torbjorn called.

Bastion turned back around again and jogged to catch up. Torbjorn opened a big steel door and they followed through. The door shut behind them, sealing the sunlight away. There was only the dim light of fluorescent bulbs overhead. Torbjorn began to navigate down the many halls.

“. . . I suppose he thinks he’s getting closure.” He mumbled as they both traveled.

Bastion gave an inquisitive chirp.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

But Bastion did not forget.

---

The second time they saw the armor, they froze. 

It was a few weeks after the first time. Bastion had gained their peaceful reputation back, for the most part. Tracer was quick to forgive (“Poor thing, just startled, that’s all”) and the armor had been hustled away to some deep recess of the Watchpoint, out of sight and out of processor. 

So Bastion did not have any incidents and was allowed to leave Torbjorn’s workshop.

They did notice, however, that people kept an eye on them. There were more people now. Torbjorn didn’t know all of them. New members, he called them. The only thing they all had in common was that they all looked at Bastion whenever they entered a room.

Humans told a lot of emotions through their eyes. Bastion was programmed to read eyes for hostile signs, so they knew a thing or two about what the eyes said. They knew that some eyes were kind and some eyes were angry, but everything else was more difficult to discern.

The constant gaze of the eyes, demanding to be read, was exhausting. They did not spend much time among the others during what was considered their ‘down time’. Instead, they set about exploring the complex they now called home base.

That was when they had found the auxiliary workshop. That was when they had found the suspicious-looking tarp, with its telltale peaks and valleys, laid across a platform.

Bastion turned the lights on. The room was bathed in lights brighter than those out in the halls. Light beams reflected off of the plastic-coated tarp, accentuating the mass that laid beneath. 

They were not stupid. They knew that shape. Their threat analysis systems ticked on in the background, heightening their senses. The buzzing of the light bulbs above was the only sound, and the tarp, like any normal tarp, lay unmoving.

Bastion walked forward. They grabbed the edge of it.

They pulled.

Their systems screamed in perfect harmony as the glint of an orange visor appeared. Threat analysis, targeting overlay, engagement protocols. A thousand different strategic choices bombarded them from every direction- stay, fight, transform, run -and in an instant their processor had selected for them the best course of action. This action, of course, was to fill the room with lead.

They did not want to do that. They remembered the consequences.

Their systems scrambled to find an alternative. Target within melee range. Door is four meters away.

Bastion dismissed those thoughts and every thought that followed with the same reasoning. Consequences.

And they stayed very, very still.

Moments passed like great big clouds rolling across the sky on a sunny afternoon. Their targeting reticule, an angry red symbol brimming in omnicode threats, remained trained on the helmet of the armor. There was no movement. There was no other sound besides the buzzing of the bulbs.

The buzzing became louder. Louder. Their audio sensors maxed their limits. Missing a single sound could mean death. 

But there was nothing more than the vibrations that traveled through the floor as the building shifted on its foundation. Nothing more than the faint whistle of air circulation units. Nothing.

Their targeting reticule faded from red, to orange, to a dull yellow, but it did not disappear. It was still a threat. . . but not an active one. 

Bastion realized their cooling fans had spun on, providing some relief from the tension in their frame. With a deep intake of air, they continued pulling off the tarp.

They disposed of the tarp to the side. The Crusader lay bare before them on the platform. They poked at its side, and their targeting reticule flashed back to red, causing them to flinch backwards, but the armor did not move, so they approached it again. They prodded it again, more firmly. Nothing.

They picked up one of its limbs. It did not resist, and as far as they could tell, it contained no power or life. They let it drop out of their hand and back onto the platform. The sound boomed in their audio sensors before they recalibrated back to normal levels.

They traveled around to the helmet. They tapped the orange visor with their finger. They grabbed the crest that extended from its forehead and pulled. Without much tension, the helmet popped from its mounting. 

Their targeting reticule disappeared. Target eliminated. Bastion could only chirp in confusion.

They looked down to the helmet, then back to the rest of the body. There was no obvious connection port as far as they could tell. They picked the helmet up off the ground and examined it. No results either.

They pressed the empty opening of the helmet back against the empty hole in the armor, but this did not cause the two to join. They pushed harder, then let go, but it fell to the floor again. They tried twisting it, turning it, tilting it, all to no avail. When gravity reunited the helmet with the floor once more, Bastion beeped and kicked the thing with their foot.

It bounced along the concrete floor before rattling to a stop. Bastion beeped at it again for good measure.

“Having fun?”

Bastion flinched and turned to look. In the doorway stood. . . Reinhardt.

They walked over to the helmet and picked it up again, bleating out apologetic noises as they did so. They glanced over to Reinhardt and the power of the man’s gaze pinned them to their spot.

“I. . . understand if that’s how you feel about me.” He said, his voice like a winter wind.

Bastion jerked and shook their head. “Negative, negative,” they told in Omnicode.

They walked back towards the armor. With every step, they looked back to Reinhardt. His expression did not change. 

Bastion pressed the helmet back onto the hole, then let go. The helmet fell down again. Bastion then gestured at it with their hand and made the same beep they had at the helmet before.

Reinhardt’s features unfroze. The corners of his eyes crinkled as his lips formed a smile. He let out a laugh that rang from floor to ceiling, punctuated by thuds as he slapped his hand against his thigh.

Bastion found that they were imitating a giggle as well.

“Ha! That helmet never stayed on right.” Reinhardt pointed as he strode into the room.

He was filled with such vigor and speed and volume that Bastion took a step back. Reinhardt paid no mind, grabbing the helmet out of their hand. He held it out, the crest pointing towards his chest and the open end presented to Bastion.

“See, right here?” He pointed to the rim of the inside. “There’s a little lever you must push.”

If Bastion focused their optic, they could see a tiny mechanism flipping back and forth as Reinhardt pressed on it. They nodded.

Reinhardt tossed the helmet in his grip before aligning it with the rest of the armor. With both hands, he shifted it until the two finally joined. When he let go, the helmet stayed in place.

“A finicky thing, that helmet is!” Reinhardt gestured. 

Bastion nodded. They looked at the complete armor, then to Reinhardt, then back again.

Their targeting overlays sputtered on and off again, never on the man, but on the armor. With the head back on, it was a full suit again, and therefore dangerous, but other observations clearly contradicted that conclusion. With one final notification, the overlay turned off, and stayed off. Bastion could relax again.

When they looked to Reinhardt again, he had taken a step back and his expression no longer bore such joy. Bastion took a step towards him and gave an inquisitive chirp.

“Your optic.”

Their optic. What about it? They reached their hand up and trailed their fingers across the glass of their optic. They couldn’t detect any changes. They repeated their chirp.

“You do not know?”

Bastion brought their hand back to their side, then imitated a shrug.

Reinhardt laughed, but it was a different laugh than before. Something much shorter and more abrupt, but it eased the tension in his shoulders. Then he brought a hand to his chin.

“Bastion, did you know that your optic has a habit of turning red?”

Bastion knew a bit about what they looked like, based on what they saw of their reflection in ponds and streams and what they could see when looking down. They knew that their optic was about the same blue hue as the sky. 

Then again, Reinhardt hadn’t said ‘just red’. He had said it ‘turned’.

Either way, to answer the question, Bastion shook their head.

“It tends to do so whenever you are, shall we say, distressed?” Reinhardt continued.

The targeting overlay. It had to be the targeting overlay. With the way it changed their vision and how sometimes there was a distinct clicking noise when it turned on and off. Bastion nodded, and imitated a noise they had seen Torbjorn do whenever he made a realization.

“Ah, you are aware!” Reinhardt nodded along. 

Bastion searched their vocabulary for a string of codes they could use to tell him exactly what they meant, but all they could pull together was “Danger-warning-moving-sensor.”

Reinhardt’s eyebrows furrowed. Bastion repeated the phrase and tapped their head.

“Apologies, but I only know a few phrases of yours.” He said.

Bastion gave a warm tone with no meaning and nodded. Reassurance, hopefully.

He seemed to get the intent. “Thank you.”

They stood in silence for a few beats, before Reinhardt stooped down to pick up the tarp from the ground. He talked as he did so.

“Brigitte always covered my armor in this tarp when we transported it in the van. I, at first, objected. Who would not want to see such a shining beacon of justice?”

He shook the tarp with one motion, and specks of dust went flying into the air. 

“But as we traveled, she proved to be correct. Some of the places we traveled were not so hospitable. They did not want our help. It hurt, seeing my own countrymen reject me.”

He reached over to lay the tarp back down across the armor, but stopped.

“I realize now that I- my face, the armor, my legacy -only reminded them of the hardships of the past. When they saw me, they only saw the war. I cannot blame them for that.”

With great care, he spread the tarp across the great frame. The silvery metal disappeared from the light. Reinhardt put a hand on where the armor’s shoulder pauldron was.

Bastion brought up their own hand. They closed it into a fist, then opened it again. They then looked to their other arm. The arm that caused people to scream and run whenever it even twitched. 

They remembered the barrel on their back that everyone else could see but they could only notice if they turned their head around. They remembered how others would flinch at the sound of their footfalls.They remembered just how tall they were compared to most humans, and that alone was enough to make them shrink away. 

Yet, they certainly weren’t laying under a tarp in Torbjorn’s workshop.

Bastion grabbed the edge of the tarp and gave a tug. Reinhardt let go, startled.

“Are you sure?”

“Affirmative,” they coded with a nod.

Reinhardt joined in unveiling the armor. This time, there was no target overlay. No threat analysis, no combat protocols. The metal was empty, and there was no fear.

[lesmotsdemoi]

Christine’s Nail Art Therapy 💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻

Featuring Jen & Berries Cranberry Crusader

>>Stamping Plate

Uber Chic Tis the Season

>>Stamping Polishes

Moyra Beige

Painted Polish Stamped in Chocolate

Twinkled T Icey, Lady Luck

Hit the Bottle To Have and To Gold

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