#also too it does provide a small paper trail of sorts for like. if i seem suddenly Not Social friends that follow me can check my blog

[evreeone]

text (i can't put read-mores anymore without preface text, is why there's something here always)

i feel like there's a switch in my brain that gets flipped every other day that just has flipping between "i'm okay, i can just bide my time the next (hopefully only) four years, i'm somewhere that at least state-wise is protective, i won't have it as bad as everyone else, it's going to be fine. i have my small community in the form of my friends if nothing else, and i have at least One friend irl who is pretty supportive and protective, even if the world around me is going to fall apart i won't be alone in it and it might fall apart less for me personally so maybe i shouldn't be so negative" or "i want to [----] myself, i'm sick and getting sicker, old and getting older and i can barely physically handle climate change right Now let alone how it'll worsen once environmental protection policies get cut, i'm in a city where racists are pretty bold and i'm already too afraid to leave my house, i'm going to have to watch people i love and care about and family in less safe states suffer even more, i'm going to watch the birds suffer, Why do i even Want to continue living this life because there's no Living to it as someone who is just a shut-in and now any small tentative hopes i had for a future in being more openly queer are Pretty Much Gone because i'm not strong enough to persist as myself in the current political environment"

every time i wake up. the smallest tinge of hope some mornings and then complete and utter hopelessness other mornings, and it's exhausting. i never really think about the future much because i always expect to die before i get there but it's been especially hard to grapple with the fact that the one time i started to (within the past year) it immediately went to shit.

i still really don't know what to do, for myself or for others, and i think the answer might really just be Nothing and that's. hard. as it stands though i am still clinging to rain world dlc release date as at least a Gotta Get This Far marker and just crossing my fingers something else is dangled in front of my brain like a horse and a carrot that'll help me continue to push myself forward

[tennessoui]

when is anakin going to get his revenge and kiss divorced obi-wan back

yes hello this got out of hand and the best moment would be in the hypothetical part two but here is a KUWSK directly post kiss from Anakin's pov. For context, this snippet and this snippet probablllyyyy should be read?

(2.8k, ffs @ kit)

“He was thinking about Satine,” Anakin tells himself after he drops the kids off at school and starts making the drive back home. His hands are tight on the wheel. He’s been trying to think about something else--anything else ever since it happened, but his mind refuses to let go of that moment.

He’s replayed it so many times in the last hour and a half that it doesn’t even feel like an actual memory anymore, just a combination of sensations.

The chill of the almost winter morning that made the hair on his arms stick up. The tacky feeling in his mouth because he had slept a bit later than he had wanted to and didn’t have time to brush his teeth if he wanted to make breakfast before the kids and Obi-Wan left.

The woodsy-spiced smell of Obi-Wan’s cologne, stronger than normal. They’d been standing closer together than normal too, but it had been so early and Obi-Wan’s mind had obviously been miles away.

Anakin had been saying something stupid, something that didn’t mean anything, and Obi-Wan had replied and then Obi-Wan had leaned in and kissed him, full on the mouth. His beard had felt so soft against Anakin’s skin, his lips even softer, if a bit chapped.

Had they been chapped? Now Anakin can’t remember, he’s turned this memory over in his head so often. It had been for less than a handful of seconds. A quick brush of lips, a taste of a life Anakin has dreamt about for well over a year now. And Obi-Wan had just turned and left, as if he hadn’t done anything extraordinary. As if he hadn’t just kissed Anakin on the porch for everyone to see.

Obi-Wan would never be that cruel on purpose. Perhaps to that one profesor who always tries to refute Obi-Wan’s papers, but not to Anakin.

Which means Obi-Wan hadn’t been thinking. He had been perhaps caught up in the domesticity of it all, of having someone wish him luck and see him off. And maybe Anakin has been doing something like that for the last two years, but there’s a person who did that for Obi-Wan for much longer. A person they ran into at the park just two days ago.

“He was thinking about Satine,” Anakin tells himself as he gets out of the car and unlocks the house. He tries desperately to keep the despair and jealousy out of his voice, but at least no one’s around. It’s not that he hates the woman or anything. Really, he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand her, but that’s a given.

He’d never have Obi-Wan’s heart and soul and throw it away. He’d never get tired of fighting with Obi-Wan if he was fighting to stay with the man. He’d never be able to run into him at a park and then just leave again as if seeing him stirred up nothing inside of him.

Seeing Obi-Wan always stirs things up inside of Anakin. It makes no sense that Satine, who had had Obi-Wan’s love--knew all those things about the man that Anakin did not and could not know as just his housemate--had just been satisfied with saying hello and then just as quickly goodbye.

The same cold sinking feeling that Anakin’s been trying to shake off for the last two and a half days returns, and he has to lean against the countertop in the kitchen for a second to ground himself.

They’re going to get back together. They will.

At the park, they had seemed so in their own world, as if everything else had disappeared except for them. Anakin had had to send Luke over, couldn’t stand watching that reconnection happen without at least trying to remind Obi-Wan that he has a family now, that he’s not alone anymore, that there are people who love him.

Obi-Wan had glared at him for his meddling, which hadn’t admittedly done wonders to his confidence. And when Obi-Wan had deposited Luke--Luke--on the ground to chase after Satine, when he had hugged her, Anakin knew for sure.

They were going to lose him.

Anakin had had his set of chances and had taken none of them, and now Obi-Wan’s going to re-fall in love with his ex-wife and Anakin’s going to have to be the supportive best friend who has to figure out how to tell his children that due to unforeseen and tragic circumstances, their Obi is probably going to elope to Paris and maybe send a postcard once or twice a year addressed solely to the children and Anakin will grow old and die alone and the name Obi-Wan Kenobi will be banned from his small, shadowy apartment, and all Anakin will have is a few memories of the two most important and heart wrenching kisses he’s ever been a part of in his entire life.

“He was thinking about Satine,” he tells himself. “He kissed me but it wasn’t about me. It hasn’t ever been about me.”

There’s no denying that Obi-Wan loves Anakin’s children and also no denying that his children love Obi-Wan. Anakin thinks he wouldn’t love Obi-Wan half as much if he hadn’t absolutely been charmed by the kids and vice versa. But he had been. They had been. Those few weeks when Anakin had thought about leaving a year ago had been absolutely awful because he knew he would be breaking his twins’ hearts, not just his. He’d be hurting Obi-Wan too, he had known that.

But he had had to try. Because he knew that if he didn’t try to leave then he’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of Obi-Wan’s life when it came time for the man to grow tired of his presence.

It had been a last ditch attempt at saving his dignity. And it hadn’t taken much argument from everyone else to get him to abandon the idea completely.

Now he can’t help but to think he should have put his foot down, gotten some distance. Because now he’s entrenched in Obi-Wan’s world, the same way Obi-Wan is entrenched in his and the twins’ world. Leaving now will feel like ripping himself in two. He’ll probably wake up in the middle of the night five years from now and wonder about the academic response to Obi-Wan’s most recent publication.

He’ll probably have read it. He’ll probably still be fielding questions from his kids’ friends’ parents about whatever happened to that handsome man that used to come in to help during Show-And-Tell Day? Do you remember who I’m talking about, Anakin?

If he had left then, the idea of leaving now wouldn’t hurt so much. But there’s a ticking clock in his head.

Obi-Wan kissed him.

But he was thinking about Satine.

He calls Padme, because that’s sort of what he does when he doesn’t know what to do. She’s never turned him away--with the rejected marriage proposal being the one glaring exception, of course.

Thankfully, she doesn’t start now, though she does sound a little stressed when she picks up.

“Hey,” he says trying to sound normal and as if he isn’t a few minutes alone with his thoughts away from crying like a baby.

“Ani?”

“Are you--are you busy? Something sort of happened.”

“My flight is boarding,” Padme admits, but there’s a rustle on the other end of the line like she’s just sat down. “But it’s not like I’m not assigned a seat. They won’t leave without me. What happened?”

Anakin smiles in spite of himself. She’s really just such an angel of a person.

“Are the children alright?” she asks, sounding worried the longer it takes for Anakin to respond. “Ani?”

“No, yeah, the children are fine. I dropped them off at school this morning. But. Um.” He takes a deep breath. “Obi-Wankissedme.”

“I’m sorry?” Padme asks.

“Obi-Wan kissed me.”

The other end of the line is silent. “And we’re calling this a problem now?” she asks faintly. “Is he a bad kisser?”

“He’s a great kisser,” Anakin defends, shifting awkwardly on his feet, catching sight of the fridge door and quickly turning away.

“Then I don’t…?” Padme trails off uncertainly. Anakin can understand this confusion. Padme has only had to hear about how much Anakin wants Obi-Wan to kiss him for about two years now.

“I don’t think he realized he did it,” Anakin confesses. “He just did it as he was leaving. Because I said goodbye. It--I don’t think he realized who he was kissing.”

Now Padme sounds a distinct mix of skeptical and sympathetic, a tone Anakin’s only ever heard her use with him. “What makes you say that?”

“Because--because we went to the park the other day and he ran into his ex-wife and they were together for, for years so--so obviously he just--he wasn’t--it wasn’t me he was kissing. He was thinking about Satine.”

The words sound dull and practiced and lifeless.

“Oh, Anakin,” Padme says.

“And they’re probably gonna get back together, and we’re going to have to leave, and he’ll never know that I--” Anakin cuts himself off and thunks his head on the countertop with a groan.

Padme hums disbelievingly. “Anakin, I know you’ve never believed me when I say this, but that man is gone over you. And I think if he kissed you long enough for you to tell me for certain that he’s a good kisser, then he definitely knew he was kissing you.”

Anakin bites his lip and debates the pros and cons of being completely truthful. But he had called Padme for help, and she can’t provide the best advice if she doesn’t know the full story.

“That’s not the first time he’s kissed me,” Anakin finally admits, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck.

“What?” Padme exclaims, probably much louder than appropriate for a public space. “Anakin Skywalker, explain yourself right now.”

He exhales forcefully. “Last New Year’s Eve party.”

“That was almost a year ago! And nothing else ever happened between you two? What? We always thought that once the first kiss was out of the way we’d need to beat you both with sticks to keep you off each other.”

“Well--wait, who’s we?”

Padme tsks. “Myself and Obi-Wan’s coworker.”

“You’ve been gossiping about me?” Anakin asks, torn between being flabbergasted and offended.

“That’s not important right now,” Padme says airily. “What’s important here is the fact that you apparently kissed Obi-Wan Kenobi and never told me?”

“He doesn’t remember, okay?” Anakin snaps. “He. We’d been drinking. A lot. It was after everyone left. And. I was in the kitchen and he was in the kitchen and he--”

--had pinned him to the front of the fridge and just looked at Anakin for a few seconds like he was the most precious, important thing in the entire world, and Anakin had opened his mouth to say something and Obi-Wan had--

“--kissed me,” Anakin says out loud. “And then he--”

He had pressed impossibly closer to Anakin, one hand wrapped around his hip, caressing the thin skin there while his other hand ghosted down Anakin’s hair and back as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch, as his tongue mapped out Anakin’s mouth for what could have been seconds or minutes, and Anakin could have stayed there forever, but his own hands had grabbed too tightly onto Obi-Wan’s shoulders, must have jerked him forward too roughly, because he had been pushed away and--

“--threw up in the kitchen sink,” he finishes.

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line before Padme bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay,” she says once she’s calmed down. “But how do you know for sure he forgot about that? Sounds like something he might just never want to talk about if it ended up with him vomiting in the kitchen.”

“I just know,” Anakin promises. And he does. Obi-Wan had no idea about that kiss. It was a secret Anakin thought about too often, but one he had kept to himself for nearly a year, too afraid to reveal it to Obi-Wan only for the man to say he hadn’t meant to, it hadn’t meant anything, he’d been much too drunk.

Even the idea of Obi-Wan apologizing for one of the hottest kisses Anakin’s ever experienced in his life has been enough to keep Anakin silent on the matter.

But now he’s been kissed again, this time by a sober Obi-Wan, and it still--it still doesn’t mean anything.

“It didn’t mean anything to him then, or he would have remembered,” Anakin tells Padme. “And this one doesn’t mean anything either. The timing is just...it can’t be a coincidence, Padme. He’s never once thought about kissing me, about...about coming home to me like that, and now, a few days after he runs into his ex-wife he’s suddenly planting one on me as he walks out the door? I know--I know you think he...he might...he might have liked me, or...or wanted me, but. There’s no way I can hold a candle to a decades long marriage. I just. I can’t compete with that. He doesn’t want me to.”

Padme’s Anakin is cut off on her end by what sounds like a flight attendant. “Yes, I’m coming,” Padme tells the person, and there’s shuffling and then the distinct sound of the harsh beep of the ticket scanner, before Padme’s heels are clicking on the flight tunnel. “Do not rush me,” Padme tells someone. “What are you going to do, close this thing while I’m in it?”

Anakin has to hide his only sort of watery smile in his hand as he listens quietly on his end.

“Anakin?” Padme asks, and she must be on the plane because there’s a buzz of other people’s noises around her. “Anakin, I know you won’t believe me, and maybe--maybe you’re right and they’ll get back together, maybe you’re going to lose him.” Anakin’s heart hurts quite painfully at these words. “But do you remember what you did the first time you proposed to me and I said no?”

Great, yeah. Just bring up all his biggest failures in love. Sure, why start with Padme? When Anakin had been five he had tried to kiss a boy and been shoved into the mud for his efforts. That’s a fine place to begin, really. Just drag up all the old hurts. He sighs. “I went and got you a bigger ring.”

“And do you remember what you did when I told you that I couldn’t raise the children, but my parents wanted to?”

“I threatened to take them to court if they didn’t let me have them,” Anakin says. It hadn’t been his proudest moment, of course, but Padme’s parents had never really liked him. They still don’t.

Someone’s trying to talk to Padme on the other end of the line. “Yes, fine,” she snaps. “Anakin. Anakin, what I’m trying to say is I’ve never seen you give up on anything without at least trying to fight for it. And I don’t know why this should be different. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you have to watch him get back together with his ex-wife and know you never even tried to tell him he had other options.”

Anakin opens and closes his mouth, speechless. “Then what--”

“So go,” Padme cuts him off. “Go tell him he has other options! For fuck’s sake, yes, alright I’m getting off the phone. Anakin, when I land I expect to have a very detailed account of events waiting for me on my email. Goodbye.”

She hangs up. Anakin stares at the phone in his hand for a handful of seconds, thinking over what she’s said. What she’s implied.

She’s right, of course. Anakin never gives in this easily. He doesn’t fully understand why he’s so ready to capitulate now. Maybe he knows full-well he can’t compete with whatever Obi-Wan had with his ex-wife. They have history. They grew up together, became adults together. Anakin’s just this weird twenty-eight year old man with a pair of kids too old for his age who crashed at Obi-Wan’s house during the lowest moment of his life. Of maybe both of their lives.

Love can’t bloom from that. Not really. Not...not the sort of love that turns into a lifelong marriage.

But. Padme’s right. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t try. If he doesn’t know for sure.

So either he could putter around the house all day waiting for Obi-Wan to text or call or come home, talking himself into and out of confessing every emotion he’s harbored for the man for the past two years, or….or he could drive to his campus and confront him in his office, put himself on the execution block and hand Obi-Wan the axe. At least it would be a quick death.

He glances at the digital clock on the oven. 9:38. The idea of waiting ten hours for a resolution makes his skin crawl.

And besides. 

Obi-Wan hadn’t packed a lunch.

[damistrolls]

hey father, hi

so is your sect relatively new or did you inherit it from someone? are you the only priest? what do the innerworkings look like, anyway? i'm sure it's a lot of work that goes on behind the scenes

where do you find the time and resources?

how often do you outsource for help?

"Hello, my child. You have excellent questions, so forgive me if this gets a bit lengthy.

This sect of the church—though in far smaller numbers—does predate me. It was started by our beautiful Lady Triqil. A kind, yet stern woman who owned this property before it was passed down to me. She laid the groundwork for what the church is today.

I'm indebted to her, as are all of the members of the church. It's a shame she's retired now, as sometimes I do wish I could seek her guidance, but she greatly deserves her rest. Not to mention... when she passed responsibility down to me, she told me not to doubt myself, and that I will know what to do in times of trouble.

Mm, though perhaps I ought to speak more on that, to avoid confusion. Though I am merely a priest, my duties here do differ somewhat from that of the other priests. Legally, the land belongs to me, and the others look to me as something of an authority figure. Lady Triqil lead us many sweeps ago, but eventually needed a successor, so she could retire in peace. She picked me to inherit her responsibilities.

So yes, there are other priests, but their duties and my own do differ. They look to me to make decisions, where their function is mainly to hold sermons and other small events. Though, I also do speak in sermons of my own, and I like to be around to keep watch over the church.

There is a decent amount of work that goes on behind the scenes, but it is nothing all that exciting. A surprising amount of paperwork goes into maintaining a place like this. I try and keep paper trails, too so it's... admittedly a bit of a mess in the back rooms. But it's important. Staying out of legal trouble is one of the main reasons we've been able to stay mostly under the radar. If the Empire had reason to look deeper into us, It would be more difficult to protect the trolls here.

Time comes from this church being my—and many of the other trolls who work here's—chief responsibility. We are fully dedicated to maintaining this church, due to our faith, and also our desire to help others.

In terms of resources, Lady Triqil does still assist with finances, but we also depend on outside help in order to maintain the church and its services. We're luckily friends with many very kind trolls, such as one Redivi Duxile, the Gracious Provider. His title is nothing if not accurate. I cannot overstate how important his contributions have been. I hope the Messiahs treat him kindly.

I should visit Thorezille again sometime soon. I need to show Mr. Duxile my thanks. Perhaps I could bring a gift of sorts.

I digress. I hope I did not accidentally miss anything. There were quite a lot of questions to speak on, haha. Thank you for your time."

[queenxxxsupreme]

Hi! Could you write an Arthur Morgan x reader where one of the gang gets lost in a snowstorm and the reader knows how to deal with this weather so she offers to go look? ☺️

A/N: I am so sorry this sort of strayed away from the prompt! Reader and Arthur are the ones who actually ended up getting lost and this takes place just before Colter.... If you don’t like this babe, I have no problem doing another! Also, I’m sorry this took quite a bit! My weekend did not go to plan. I hope you like it! And I’m sorry my hand slipped.... It’s 3.4k words...

***

Arthur cast a glance over his shoulder at you, wanting to make sure you weren’t lagging behind. 

Your horse, a golden palomino you promptly named Butternut, was having some difficulty traversing the deep snow, but with your little words of encouragement and pats on the shoulder and neck, she seemed to be pushing through. 

“You alright back there?” He called over his shoulder.

“Just dandy.” You looked up at him, taking your eyes off of Butternut’s mane. Her hair was frozen and collecting snow but you were trying to wipe it away in an attempt to keep her as warm as possible. 

“Hopefully we’ll find somethin’ soon.”

“That map Hosea gave us said we should’ve found something nearly thirty minutes ago.” You tucked your hands into the pockets of your coat. “You sure you’re reading it right, Morgan?”

“I know how to read a map.” He grumbled, pulling the map out of his bag to take another look at it. 

The two of you had been traveling for well over two hours through the snow in a desperate attempt to find shelter for the gang. They were holed up somewhere just east of Lake Isabella, but you were traveling north along the Spider Gorge. 

“This wind is getting too cold, Mr. Morgan. Put your mask up to cover your face.” You pulled the black and white plaid bandana from around your neck up over your nose. You almost sighed in relief at the warmth provided by the thick material. 

“M’fine.” He grumbled, his deep baritone almost drowned out by the heavy wind. 

“I don’t care if you’re fine right now, Arthur. Within the hour, your nose and lips will suffer from frostbite.”

He said nothing in response to you, blue eyes flickering over the map as his horse continued along the trail. 

“Mr. Morgan, don’t make me ask you again. I won’t be so kind.”

“This cold weather sure does make you mean, Ms. Y/L/N.” Arthur pulled his mask up over his nose, glancing over to you as you moved your horse up beside his.

“I’ve seen what this cold weather can do to stubborn fools.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He muttered, passing you the map. You brought your horse to a stop, so he did the same. “Think we got side tracked from that little establishment Hosea mentioned. If my thoughts and judgement are correct, I’d say we’re about here.” He pointed to the area between the home of a poor woman the gang had just taken in named Sadie Adler and Colter, the abandoned settlement the gang was aiming to lay low in for a short time. 

“You think we passed Colter?” You looked over to Arthur.

“Had to have. There ain’t no way we didn’t. We should’ve found it by now.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to miss a whole town, Arthur.” You looked back at the map, your eyes following Spider Gorge. You’d followed that very creek nearly the entire way north. There was no way you’d missed Colter. 

“Hard to tell with these mountains and all this damned snow. Can’t see shit with the wind blowin’ in our faces either.” He grumbled, carefully snapping the reins to make his horse move. 

You folded the map up and followed alongside him. 

“That’s ‘cause ole Arthur Morgan is used to warm weather. He isn’t used to the beauty of the Grizzlies.”

“And you are?” He cocked a brow at you.

Beneath your mask, you wore a small but proud smile. 

“I grew up around Tempest Rim. This weather ain’t new to me, cowboy.”

Your romantic relationship with Arthur was fairly new, so he had yet to learn every detail about your past. He took mentally took note of this detail, reminding himself that he’d have to jot it down in his journal at a later time. 

You let out a sigh, pulling him from his thoughts. Your eyes were focused on the mountains to the west where the sun was setting. 

“Sun’s goin’ down. We’re loosing daylight. Means it’ll only get colder from here.”

“Can’t turn around now.” Arthur shook his head. “Too long of a trip back to the gang. It would take most of the night.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we give up. But we need shelter of some sort. Somewhere a little warm to rest. And the horses need a break.”

“Well if we keep goin’ this way, all we’re gonna find is Mrs. Adler’s burned down house.” Arthur gestured in the direction you had been going. 

“Burned down? What happened to it? I thought you said O’Driscolls just got a hold of her.”

“Micah happened.”

You sighed. 

“She did have a barn or two on her property.” Arthur thought out loud. “They shouldn’t have gotten burnt down with the house.”

“You think it’s worth a look?”

“We can go see about that, or we can go back and try to find Colter.”

You didn’t think that you had passed Colter just yet, but you didn’t want to argue with him. Arguing and fighting in such extreme conditions wasn’t ideal, nor did it seem necessary. 

“Let’s try Mrs. Adler’s place.”

Arthur nodded, clicking his tongue twice to get his horse moving.

***

The sun had gone down and snow began to fall from the sky. 

Arthur was sure that you should’ve reached Sadie Adler’s ranch by now, but he wasn’t sure why it was taking so long. 

“Arthur, maybe we should stop and make camp.” Your voice was quiet and uneasy. You didn’t like the idea of making camp out in the open. It was dangerous. Not only were you open to the bitter elements, but to the chance O’Driscolls finding you too. 

“We can’t stop yet, pumpkin.” He turned his head to look at you. 

You were visibly shivering but you were trying your best to remain strong for him. He needed you to be strong. 

“What happened to you bein’ my strong mountain woman?” He teased, slowing his horse down a bit so he could move alongside you. “Don’t tell me this Grizzly weather is gettin’ to you.”

A little smile tugged at your slightly chapped lips. 

“Course not. Just-Just worried about Butternut. She ain’t used to this. Blackwater is so much nicer and warmer than up here, and that’s all she’s used to.”

Arthur let go of the reins to his horse with one hand, reaching over to pat your thigh. 

“We’ll find somewhere warm for Butternut to stay.”

Your eyes were focused ahead of you so instead of watching Arthur, you were focused on what was waiting for you on the path ahead. The faint outline of what looked like a building made you jolt. 

“Arthur, look!”

He looked in the direction you point.

“That don’t look like Mrs. Adler’s barn.”

“It has to be Colter.” You nudged your horse to make her move faster. You were all too eager to get her out of the elements.

“Y/N, hold on a second!” Arthur called after you, but you were already gone. “Damn it, woman.”

You made it into the abandoned town first, eyes flickering around to make sure you were alone. At first glance, you were alone. The place was vacant. 

A sudden burst of wind made your horses uneasy and made you grasp the hood on your head, fearing it would fall off. 

Arthur came up beside you, carefully inspecting the main street of Colter. He pulled the mask down from his nose. 

“I’m gonna put the horses in this old barn.” He gestured to your right. “Just hope it don’t cave in on them in the middle of the night.”

“Arthur.” You scolded him. He grinned, knowing he was only teasing you. 

“After that, I’ll make sure we’re the only ones here. You wanna get what we need and go into that building right behind you?”

You nodded and got down from your horse. You got as much as you could from your horse and from Arthur’s, taking what you needed as far as bedding and food, and made your way to the building Arthur talked about. 

Unsurprisingly, the house was empty. It consisted of one main room with a large fireplace in the center and three rooms off of the main room. 

You put the things in your hands down on the floor near the fireplace. Slipping the knife out of its holster on your hip, you moved to the room to your right. 

The floorboards creaked beneath your boots. It was evident no one had been there in a long time. There were cobwebs everywhere. The glass to the windows were broken, but they were boarded up too so that stopped some of the bitter cold air from coming inside. 

The room to your right contained a grinding wheel and a workbench. Seeing that nothing would be useful there, you continued to the next room. This room seemed to be a living space of some sort. There was a bed, a dresser, and an end table inside the room.

After searching the dresser and the end table, you went to the final room. It was set up similarly to the other bedroom, except this one had a large bed that was clearly meant for two people. 

In the corner of the room closest to the doorway was a small stack of firewood. You immediately became excited over the sight of the wood. Maybe you could start a fire in the fireplace. The very idea of heat almost brought tears to your eyes. 

***

Arthur slipped into the house, closing the door behind himself. He looked around, surveying the room. 

You were knelt down by the fireplace, trying to start a fire with a matchbook. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asked.

“Trying to get us some sorta heat.” You struck the match and put it into the fireplace. “We need some sorta kindling. The wood ain’t gonna light by itself.”

“Where’d you find that wood?”

“In one of the back rooms.” You stood up, passing him the matchbook. “I have a few newspaper articles from a few weeks ago when we were in New Austin. They’re in one of my saddle bags.”

“But ain’t those for your collection?” Arthur watched you as you started for the door.

“Yeah.”

“Pumpkin, you don’t gotta use those newspapers.”

You stopped at the door, your hand on the knob. 

“We need the heat, Arthur.”

“I got paper in my journal.” He started to pull his journal out but you were quick to stop him. 

“No!” You rushed to his side, stopping him from pulling the journal out of his satchel. “Don’t you dare ruin that new journal, Arthur Morgan. I just bought it for you.”

“I know, but I don’t want you to destroy your newspapers. I know you like to collect all the ones with strange news reportings and those ones from New Austin talk about a bunch of weird things.”

“I’m sure I can find more later on, Arthur.” You kept your hand on his that rested on his satchel. “Do not ruin that journal. Do not tear any papers out. I am using my newspapers so we can have a fire tonight.”

Arthur frowned, shaking his head softly. 

“Pumpkin-,”

“Don’t pumpkin me, cowboy.” You cut him off, leaning up on your toes to give his slightly chapped lips a gentle kiss. “If you so much as rip one paper from that journal, you’ll be relying on only the fire’s warmth tonight.”

He sighed, watching you move across the room and slip out of the house.

***

A few minutes later, you return with the newspapers. They’re folded neatly under your arm. In one hand, you hold a bottle of gin and in the other is a bottle of whiskey. 

“I figured we could do with a little to drink tonight.” You explained as you set the two bottles of liquor down on the mantle above the fireplace. 

“That’s a bit more than a little to drink.” Arthur commented. 

“I didn’t know which one you’d want.”

He nodded, standing up from the chair he had been sitting in. He picked the chair up and moved towards the front door. He propped the chair beneath the doorknob and wedged it there so that no one would be able to come in. 

You watched him and when he turned around to face you, your eyes met.

“Just wanna make sure we’re safe tonight.”

You nodded.

You knelt down in front of the fire, placing the small stack of newspapers in front of you on the floor. 

“If we rip the paper in half and twist it up, it’ll burn better.” You explained, taking the top piece of paper and ripping it in half. It hurt to see the newspaper go, but you knew it wasn’t as important as your life or as Arthur’s. The temperatures were too low to go without a fire through the night. 

Arthur knelt down beside you, assisting you with the process of ripping the newspaper up and twisting it. Then the twisted pieces were placed into the fire below and around the pieces of firewood. 

You picked up the matchbook from the floor and struck a match. You watched the flame for a few moments, then threw it into the fireplace. The paper caught on fire almost immediately. This would give the wood a chance to heat up and catch flame too. 

Arthur’s eyes flickered to you. You were staring into the heat, a little smile adorning your lips. He could see the sadness in your eyes. You really did like collecting newspapers. It was the one thing you enjoyed doing. Everyone at camp knew you liked it too, and sometimes they’d bring you back clippings and papers if they thought you’d enjoy the piece on it. 

Arthur took off one of his gloves and slipped his hand around the back of your neck, drawing you in to him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Your hands are freezin’, Morgan.” You giggled.

He chuckled, letting you go and putting his hands closer to the fire.

“Sorry, pumpkin.”

“I’ll start gettin’ our beds set up.”

“Beds?” He repeated, emphasizing on the s. Arthur looked over his shoulder to watch you go to the bedrolls that were not to far away from him. “We ain’t sharin’?”

“I never said that.”

“You said beds. Our beds.”

“My apologies, Mr. Morgan.” You grinned, looking over to him. “I’ll get our bed set up.”

“Much better, pumpkin. Apology accepted.” He winked at you. 

You stood up straight, placing your hands on your hips. Arthur stood up and stepped back from the fire, putting himself a foot or so away from you.

“If we’re gonna share a sleeping area, how should we go about this? One bedroom ain’t gonna fit us both.”

“It will if you squeeze. I’ll suck it in.”

“Suck what in?” 

“My gut.” He patted his stomach, a grin playing on his lips. You giggled, rolling your eyes. 

“That ain’t the problem. The problem is no matter how much suckin’ in either of us do, we’re too much for one of the bed rolls.”

Arthur looked at the bedrolls then to the fire. 

“Well, we can make it work. You get in both ours and I’ll lay on the floor by you holdin’ you. We’ll be by the fire. I don’t need nothin’ but you.”

“Arthur, I’m not doin’ that.” You shook your head.

“What if I want you to?” He tilted his head to the side. “You know how overheated I get sometimes when I’m sleepin. I don’t need a blanket with all these layers I have on right now plus sleepin’ so close to the fire. But you, Miss Y/L/N, I can’t have you gettin’ cold tonight.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t let me get cold, Mr. Morgan.” You smiled. “But I can’t take both bedrolls.”

“I beg to differ, pumpkin.” He picked up his bed roll and put it down far enough from the fire that it wasn’t a safety hazard but close enough that you could still feel the heat. Arthur took your bedroll and tucked it into his own, giving you double the bedding. 

“Arthur, I don’t like it.”

“Well tough shit. I already told you how I’m sleepin’ tonight. I wanna be able to wrap my arms around you and hold you close.”

You frowned as you looked down at the bedrolls. This would mean that not only would you be the only one with a blanket of some sort tonight, but you’d also be the only one not sleeping directly on the hard and freezing cold floor. 

“Arthur, can’t we just try somethin’ else? M’not gonna sleep good knowin’ you’re on the hard floor. And these floorboards are far too creaky and drafty for you to be sleepin’ on them without anything.”

He let out a sigh, glancing around the room. 

“Well, we got another option.” His eyes landed on one of the bedrooms. “We could pull a mattress out here and throw the bedrolls over it. That way we ain’t sleepin’ directly on the floor or the old mattress.”

You thought about the idea for a few moments, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

Any other day, you’d pass and sleep on the floor. But it was too cold and you could feel a draft coming from between the floorboards. A mattress could stop that. 

“Okay.”

As Arthur left the main room to retrieve a mattress, you moved the bedrolls out of the way. He came back in a few moments later with the smaller of the two mattresses in the house. 

He placed it in front of the fire and allowed you to fix the makeshift bed to your liking. 

You laid out both bedrolls to cover the mattress and provide protection between you and the old mattress. Then you shed your thick coat knowing you could use it better as a blanket. 

“You think we can both squeeze on to that mattress?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the mattress on the floor.

“We’ll find out in the mornin’ when we see if one of us have fallen off.” You grinned a little, settling down on the mattress. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it beat riding on horseback all night in the snow. “Make sure you grab those drinks before you get down here, Mr. Morgan.”

He retrieved the gin and whiskey from the mantle, placing them down on the floor by the mattress, then he got down on the mattress behind you. You were sitting facing the fire. This put your back to Arthur, but he didn’t mind. 

You took the gin, opened it up, and took a swig. The piney liquor was exactly what you needed. It seemed to fit in well with the atmosphere as you looked at the fire. 

“How do you reckon we got lost?” You looked over your shoulder to him, offering him the gin. He took it and drunk from it before answering. 

“Think we must’ve gotten off the road at some point. Made it feel like we’d traveled longer or something like that.”

You nodded, looking back to the fire. 

“What happened at Blackwater, Arthur?” Your voice lowered and a solemn tone took over. 

Arthur didn’t answer you immediately as he leaned back on his elbow. His eyes studied the side of your face, brows drawn together just slightly. 

“I don’t know, pumpkin. Wish I did know, but I didn’t have time to ask Dutch or anyone who was there.” He tapped the gin bottle against the side of your arm. You looked down and took it from him. 

“You think they’ll be okay when we get back to them?”

“Course they’ll be okay, Y/N.”

“Well, we were gone longer than we were supposed to be. The weather was bad down there by Lake Isabella. Just hope they were able to stay warm.”

Arthur sat up and moved a little closer to you, kissing the side of your cheek once he could reach you. 

“They’ll be just fine, pumpkin. They got Dutch and Hosea lookin’ after them. And Javier and Charles are plenty able to make sure everyone’s okay too.”

“What about John?”

“Well…. John’s a different story.” Arthur sighed. “But m’sure John’s okay too. He’s got dumb luck.”

You nodded, knowing Arthur was right. 

“We need to sleep.” He reminded you, laying down on the mattress. 

You put the bottle of gin down and shifted down to lay next to Arthur. 

“You got any more space over there, pumpkin? M’nearly rollin’ off the edge.” He grunted a little, moving around a bit. The springs squeak under his weight. “I can only suck it in so much, Miss Y/L/N.”

You giggled, thankful that he had the ability to lighten the mood. 

“Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, pumpkin.”

Taglist:  @doggone-cowgirl @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @gabstaroc @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm​ @sargeantsea

if your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

[manikas-whims]

A Place Good Enough

[Read on AO3]

Ship: Kaz Brekker X Inej Ghafa

Summary:

Kaz pays Inej's indenture at the Menagerie and she joins the dregs.

_

A short fic that adds a little more of what happens that night after Kaz takes her with him.

Note:

I'm a new fan and read the SoC Duology this Feb.

This is my first time writing these characters so please excuse anything weird, I tried my best.

Inej may seem a bit scared in this because she isn't the Inej we know in SoC. This will be the first fic of many where I'll try to show our Crows before the events of SoC. A look at their daily lives in the Dregs. And the slow development of feelings between Kanej.

Hope you enjoy this short piece ♥

Kaz

“Let’s start by getting out of here and finding you some proper clothes. Oh, and Inej,” he says, “don't ever sneak up on me again.”

And yet as he ushers the Suli girl out of the salon, the bustling streets remind him how foolish it will be to roam around the barrel at night. Ofcourse a mere glance at his cane and gloved hands is enough to ward people off. No one in Ketterdam dares crossing the young man that goes by the title of Dirtyhands. Even so, it won’t be good for his carefully crafted reputation to be seen limping around at indecent hours with an exotic girl in tow. Dirtyhands doesn’t waste time on frivolous things. He has vengeance to condemn and for that he requires proper focus and meticulous steps. Brick by brick. He reminds himself.

With a quick scan of his surroundings to make sure no one is looking, he removes the deep grey coat he’s adorning and hands it to the girl. He doesn’t miss the way she flinches at the action, probably just as scared of him as the rest of this city.

“Cover yourself.” He commands and continues walking. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t waste time being confused or shocked and quietly does as told. He also notes how she maintains a distance whilst following him but makes sure to stick close enough, her feet soundless despite the bells tied around her dainty ankles.

Inej

Kaz Brekker finally slows his walk as they approach a shabby building in the remote parts of the Barrel. Its lit and noisy but Inej can tell its definitely not a clothing store. And it is only moments later that cold realization dawns on her. There was no release from enslavement to begin with, just a deal struck between a bawd from the west stave and the lieutenant of a notorious gang in the east stave. It was a sham all along. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would one of the most sinister criminals in Kerch buy her out of slavery only to be shifted to an indenture? She should’ve been skeptical. Instead, she had been hopeful because the boy named Dirtyhands is after all, a young one like herself. She thought he may have empathized with her. He had even offered his coat to her. But oh what an utter fool she had been! Everything in Ketterdam comes with a price. Even something as natural as freedom.

Should she sprint away? She can take-off right now. He hasn’t looked back even once to check if she’s there. And he’s a cripple! She can easily outrun him. Yet all these plans formulating in her head are laced around a grim sense of fear. Kaz Brekker doesn’t need a reason. Or so she has heard. He has already earned an ill reputation for being whimsical. She mustn’t start giving him reasons to chase and drag her back down these dark alleys. So she quietly trails behind him as the door opens with a creak.

Men of varying ages who had been busy chatting and drinking, stare at them. His entry seems to raise everyone’s attention as they watch him walk by and approach the staircase. Although that’s all she sees as she continues after the uncaring boy, she does hear numerous brazen remarks.

“Am I too drunk or has Brekker actually brought in a girl?”

“Ghezen! We all must be sloshed.”

“I almost believed something was going on between him and that Zemeni boy.”

“So…Suli huh?”

Some snickers follow this particular remark but the boy doesn’t seem to mind. Does this mean their assumptions aren’t wrong? A wave of panic courses through her but Inej tries to calm herself with deep breaths, tries to focus her mind on the stairs instead. She has faced all sorts of repulsive men in the sheets. Dirtyhands can’t be much different. And even if the rumors aren’t false and he’s part-demon beneath the façade of his sharp suits,  she can still push herself to handle anything. If serving as his mistress will warrant her safety from the likes of Tante Heleen, she can do this. 

A soft clicking sound pulls her out of her trail of anxious thoughts. She notices they’ve walked past several floors and are currently going up into an attic. The inside isn’t much special but appropriately furnished— an old door placed atop several crates acting as a desk, a big window overseeing the surroundings and a door separating what she assumes must be a storage of sorts or a bedroom.

When Brekker finally turns around, his expression as unreadable as ever, Inej shivers. She takes one last gulp of air in hopes of easing herself. She can do this. She just needs to leave her body like she always does. Let the little lynx take care of such matters.

She begins by discarding his coat. Her eyes are lowered to the floor but she can sense his unwavering gaze. Maybe he’s one of those who take pleasure in watching a woman undo herself for him. Or maybe its something else entirely. His stoic demeanor doesn’t provide much to guess. Her shaky hands reach for the hooks in the back of her purple blouse. I can endure this! She mentally assures herself.

“What exactly are you doing?” comes his low voice, like a rasp of stone on stone.

Her hands fumble and come to a halt. She raises her eyelids to find a barely visible, amused smirk marring his pale countenance. “I..thought..I just–”

“Inej, was it?” he interrupts, leaning his weight on his frightening cane shaped like the head of a crow. Did she do something wrong? Will he use it on her? Her shoulders hunch slightly in preparation of whatever is to come. She hears an audible sigh instead. “I don’t remember us agreeing to such terms back at the Menagerie.”

Now she does look up, eyes wide in disbelief. “Oh..”

He passes a hand through his hair. “But since you seem eager to–”

“I’m not!” she yells, her cheeks tinted a lovely shade of pink. Frankly she doesn’t know how to react. It’s her first time speaking to a man who isn’t demanding any sexual favors from her but isn’t being very nice either.

He hobbles over to the makeshift desk and settles on a chair behind it. “Let me guess,” he starts, resting his bad leg on the tabletop and the cane in his lap. “You didn’t trust me.”

“I did!” she protests like a child  falsely accused of stealing candies. However, the embarrassment of her response follows immediately and she tilts her head down again. “Not truly but–”

“Wrong answer.” His tone is even more gritty now. “Its good that you expected the worst. Never trust anyone in the barrel.”

Inej looks at him again. It’s far too late for that lesson now. She’s learnt it the harshest of ways.

“I may be many things but I keep my word, Inej.” He adds solemnly, then fishes out a lone key from his pants' pocket. “Here” he gestures for her to come forward and receive it.

She scurries to the desk and takes it, her fingers lightly grazing along his gloved ones. Is he sending her on an errand already? Is procuring something important going to be her first task for the Dregs?

“Head downstairs and unlock the room directly below this attic with the key.” He tells simply and starts working on the tall stacks of papers lying on the desk.

She waits for further details but when he says nothing more she inquires herself, “For what?”

He glances at her, a brow quirked as if mocking her obliviousness. “Its your room from now on. Go get some sleep.”

“What about my..services?” she asks.

“We’ll discuss all that tomorrow morning.” He answers and waves her off, willing her to leave already.

Downstairs, upon unlocking an old cream-colored door and switching on the light, Inej is greeted by a tiny room. There’s a window overlooking the barrel, a cot arranged directly below it and an empty trunk lying open. Fortunately, everything is clean and dry and without any trace of smells.

As she steps inside, memories of her old life flash before her bleary eyes. This place is not even close to the large tents she used to perform in with her parents yet for some reason, she feels warm. Its not home but it’s good enough.

Shutting the door, she turns off the light and drops unceremoniously onto the cot. Moonlight illuminates the room- her room- in a dim glow. And slowly it happens. Her tense body relaxes into the mattress and her unshed emotions are set free in the form of tears slipping down her cheeks. Loud sobs rack her small frame as her hands hug the grey coat close to her chest. Amidst her shock and disbelief at actually being saved from sexual exploitation, she must have forgotten to return it. Kaz Brekker’s statement was like a dream she’s had every night since being stolen and shackled. A dream of being saved from the hell that is prostitution. I keep my word, Inej. She giggles at the sound of her real name being called by this stranger, tears staining her lips. She hasn’t heard it in so long that she almost forgot who she was. In letting her body go so as to persevere everyday at the Menagerie, she hadn’t noticed that the lively girl called Inej Ghafa was also withering away. She clutches the coat tighter as if fiercely trying to hold onto her remaining self. And for the first time since an year, she sleeps without the fear of being hurt.

Hope it was enjoyable!

I'm thinking of writing a short sequel drabble where Inej just goes to return Kaz's coat in front of everyone at the Dregs xD

.

SoC Masterlist

( divider by @firefly-graphics )

[jebazzled]

They can’t ALL be serial killers: keeping your villains funky fresh

Ah, villains. Spicy assholes. Tricky buggers.

Villains can be very intimidating to write: writing requires you to put yourself in the shoes of another person, which is one thing to do with a decent person. But when you are putting yourselves in the shoes of a bad one - whether it be someone who is simply not very likeable or someone who functions in an antagonistic capacity to a story or rp universe’s hero - well, it can be uncomfortable. 

I didn’t start writing villains until well into my rp career, and I can’t think of a single character I wrote in my undergraduate creative writing degree who was an asshole. I now write a small handful of them - and like most things, I don’t think writing a villain is quite as scary as we sometimes build it up to be in our minds!

That said, writing a villain is an exercise in nuance, and this is something that is often missing from antagonistic characters. In this tutorial, we’ll talk about what makes a villain, and what makes a villain a well-rounded character. 

Triggers, mentioned largely in passing as examples: criminal activity, murder, assault, child abuse, car accident, drunk driving, animal abuse

What makes a villain?

Generally, when we talk about villains, it’s in the context of a narrative, some sort of overall plot theme where there is Good and there is Evil. Think: Death Eaters, the Dark Side, the Horde, the Daleks, the Orcs, etc, etc etc. For the purposes of this tutorial, I’m talking about characters who serve in that antagonistic role, but everything can also be applied to characters who are just shitty people without a part to play in any larger scheme. 

In a plot context, per Oxford Languages, a villain is “a character whose evil actions or motives are important to the plot.” To be important to the plot, you do have to post, and if that’s something you’re struggling with, you might want to check out my Writer’s Block TED Talk ;)

A villain can have any number of reasons for being Like That: perhaps they were raised with a particular worldview, or were targeted by a negative influence at an impressionable and vulnerable stage, or genuinely believe they are doing the right and good thing. Maybe they’re just an asshole. In-character, your character likely doesn’t identify as a villain (because everyone is the hero of their own story) and in-character, your character might have friends, allies, and others with varying knowledge of your character’s misdeeds. 

However, out-of-character, you and other writers should recognize that your character is a shitty person. Writing one-dimensional, universally terrible assholes isn’t much fun, though. Which is where nuance comes in. 

Give your character other traits than “evil.” 

Unless your character is THE Big Bad - the Voldemort, the Sauron, the Hordak Prime - there is no reason for them to be Ultimate Evil, and writing them as an endless wash of evil will be boring for you to write and boring for other people to read. Your character should be something other than naughty. 

Using my own handful of villains/bad guys as examples, since obviously I take my own advice, and with apologies that 99% of my rp writing is in the HP verse:

Claude is a Death Eater as well as second-in-command of the magical mafia. He’s an expert blackmailer, has no qualms with murder, and can get pretty gruesome about it if he’s pressed to make a point. He also doesn’t drink, is a devoted father (has framed finger paintings in his study! drinks the pink lemonade his daughters love in crystal rocks glasses!), uses weird slang (”beat it, bozo!”) and takes the family spaniel on daily walks through Kensington Gardens. 

Cleo is a Death Eater and a lifelong bully, prone to theft, physical abuse, and with a knack for the Cruciatus Curse. She’s also deeply insecure, with an unshakeable need to be seen as useful; she’s competitive, and she’s horny enough to drop her purist pretense if a Muggle girl is what’s easiest to get her rocks off. 

Sadie is a squib spying on Order-organized safehouses for the Death Eaters. She’s also intensely curious and ambitious, determined and self-directed, and if she doesn’t understand emotions, it certainly doesn’t stop her from understanding how to manipulate them to maintain the illusion that she is not a threat. 

All three of these character concepts are more compelling than:

Veronica is rude, hates people, is outwardly mean to everyone she meets, uses cultural slurs on the regular.

We get it! Veronica is a shitty person! What else is she? In real life, shitty people typically do find camaraderie somewhere, somehow. Maybe Richie is a total asshole but has made a lot of money from his hedge fund, and he is generous enough with his yacht, ski condo, and jet that he has an entourage he thinks are genuinely his friends. Maybe Kaiytlynn is selfish and entitled, but her access to the entire royal family of Spain keeps her gainfully employed, and she’s genuinely good with her bedazzled bra business. Maybe Claudia is a giant racist, and she’s also YouTube’s most popular craft video creator. 

In real life, maybe there are some shitty people who exhibit fully antisocial behaviors and are rewarded for it. But this is fiction writing, and moreover, it is collaborative fiction writing, and Veronica is not a character who is fun or enjoyable to plot with. Antagonistic plots can have more trouble finding their footing than strictly romantic ones - but they can be fun and rewarding, provided that the antagonist is a compelling one. 

Let your character be something other than “evil.”

Give your character a cover.

More specifically than a trait other than “evil,” give your character a cover. By this I mean: give your character an angle that obscures their true colors, something that lures people - good people and bad people - into a sense of safety. 

Give your character something that keeps other characters from taking one quick look at yours and immediately clocking them as a bad guy. 

In real life, it often takes time to realize toxic people are toxic. In real life, people enjoy circumstances that make people less likely to view them as toxic - just look at the number of people who think Jeff Bezos’s obscene wealth is a marker of his merit as a human being. 

If your character commits a murder a week, is actively abusive to everyone they meet, and has no relationships with any other characters who might vouch for them - idk, man, I think your character is going to get caught! If your character is a quiet and unobtrusive owner of a vintage boutique, however? Well, they certainly don’t scream “IT’S ME! I’M BAD TO THE MOTHERFUCKING BONE!”

In the case of my bad guys:

Claude is a doting husband and father, notably not ascribing to purist tendencies that discourage women from work outside the home. He does legitimate work in real estate and investments, in addition to his shady dealings, to have a legally-sound paper trail should he ever be investigated. His family money funds an entire wing at St. Mungo’s Hospital, and he contributes to political campaigns for centrist politicians. He presents as a harmless goofball. He killed a man well before he turned seventeen. He almost went to Azkaban before graduating from Hogwarts. (”Oh, but he’s on the straight and narrow now!”)

Claude’s cover is that he masquerades as a genuinely good person, and a nice person. When people think about his old-money Sacred 28 family and what that might mean for Claude’s political activity, they also think about how he is a Gryffindor - not known for churning out Death Eaters - and they think about how he doesn’t seem intense enough to be a Death Eater. They don’t suspect enough to have much to go on. 

Cleo works as an Auror, and she’s genuinely good at her job - if only because she manipulates cases away from incriminating Death Eaters and their allies and occasionally Imperiuses a contact or two from her days as a Knockturn Alley bouncer to frame them for a crime. She doesn’t use slurs like “mudblood” at the office and doesn’t talk about blood status there, either. She doesn’t pretend to be nice, and her honesty there makes it easier to believe she’s not pretending when she does her job. It helps, too, that she is not Marked. 

Cleo’s cover is that while she seems like an asshole and is an asshole, she works in the agency tasked with eliminating Dark wizards and she’s good at her job, as far as anyone can tell. She is an asshole, but there isn’t reason to suspect she is an asshole who is part of the Death Eaters, and it is not illegal to be a dick.

Sadie goes out of her way to be friendly to every new safehouse occupant, acting as a guide to newbies about how to live in the shadows. She performs the role of caretaker, therapist, and confidant, carefully doling out the reveal that she is a squib for sympathetic effect. 

Sadie’s cover is that she manipulates other people into viewing her as too weak to be any kind of threat, and she intentionally manipulates people into relying on her for support and guidance. 

If your character is not experiencing social repercussions for being an asshole, they need to have a cover. If they are being an outright asshole, this should negatively impact them somehow. 

An outright asshole might be stuck in a dead-end job because no one wants to promote someone who’s not a team player. An outright asshole might be super lonely without the self-awareness to realize that their garbage personality is the reason for their romantic troubles. An outright asshole might not be able to talk their way out of a problem. 

If your character is an outright asshole and experience no repercussions whatsoever, they’re probably a bit OP. 

Give your character a motive. 

Now the big question: why is your character Like That? Like, for real. It’s so easy not to be a dick. Why are they a dick? What’s in it for them?

Yes, some characters might be an asshole because they think it’s fun and they like to watch other people suffer. But if all your characters are like that - isn’t that kind of boring?

If all your characters are like that - are you actually writing distinct, well-developed characters, or are you just spitting out the same edgelord with different faces?

Some of your character’s reason for being a dick can be because they think it’s fun. It can’t be the entire reason. It especially can’t be the entire reason all the time. 

Of course you can come up with a big tragic reason why a character is an asshole - but it truly doesn’t have to be that deep. (Tips on tragic backstories here.)

Of my baddies:

Claude is a purist because someone has to be a lesser class, and it’s sure as shit not going to be him! Claude is a Death Eater because his father saw a business opportunity - both direct work (e.g. the DE contracting Claude and his goons out for a hit, trafficking dark goods, doing deals with purist groups in other magical organized crime outfits across Europe) and indirect work (e.g. having stronger appeal to some of the most influential wizarding families.) He doesn’t love being branded with the Dark Mark (HE is the master of his fate, goddammit!) but hey, it’s a living.

This is a motive centered around financial gain and expediency. Claude is shitty to value money over human life, and he has no qualms about violence - but the motive is not “fun.”

Cleo is a Death Eater because, as a girl from a pureblood family of no importance, she recognizes that many of the people in the Death Eaters are important and influential, and she wants that kind of power. Additionally, she does get a kick out of violence, but she’s a weapon more than she is a fighter: she’s a tool who needs someone to wield her, to give instructions, to give her purpose. The Death Eaters offer both.

This is a motive centered around status and around order - Cleo being a person who needs order externally forced upon her. 

Sadie is working for the Death Eaters because she believes they will win the First Wizarding War, and she wants to secure a place in their new order - ideally something more than she had previously as a squib. She figures if the good guys are really good they’ll forgive her for keeping herself alive - but that the bad guys won’t forgive disloyalty. Also, her boss in the Death Eaters indulges her research in the Dark Arts, which is fun. 

This is a motive centered around security and self-satisfaction. It’s very selfish and cold, but it’s not, like, Sid from Toy Story. 

Why is your character Like That? What do they get out of Being Bad? What do they like about it? What purpose does it serve for them? 

If you can’t think of a reason your character would be a Bad Guy beyond that you want to write a Bad Guy, you should probably rework the character. It’s tricky to write someone who really should just be a Good Guy as a Bad Guy because, depending on your site’s setting, you might end up being a Bad Guy Apologist, leaning into the positive qualities of your character without writing them as an actual villain/antagonist/baddie - and remember, Death Eaters are shitty people! Antagonists antagonize! They should be complex, but you should never lose sight of an abusive class being abusive! 

And finally,

They can’t all be serial killers.

It’s tempting, since we’re writing fiction here and we all love drama, to reach straight for a Big Evil when we’re writing a baddie. They murdered ___! Egads!

If all of your baddies murdered their spouse/parent/sibling, again I ask you: are you actually writing distinct, well-developed characters, or are you just spitting out the same edgelord with different faces?

(If all your baddies specifically murdered a woman, might I ask you to examine this choice? Misogynistic violence is not a shortcut to character development.)

Cast of characters aside - what is it your character does that makes them evil? It is worth noting that bad behavior exists on a spectrum, and to jump to the far end of that spectrum without building the character up to it is often jarring and confusing. There are many, many things your character can do that might contribute to their Bad IdentityTM without killing anyone!

Baby Bads: No one gets hurt in a serious way, but the character is unpleasant. Think: a schoolteacher might not let you go to recess. You might get detention. Examples:

petty theft

general assholery

bullying

lying, small & large scale

general unkindness

minor manipulation for personal gain

Middling Misdeeds: These might cause some harm - physically, emotionally, or otherwise - but there’s some room for smart-talking or otherwise evading major consequences. Think: suspension. Examples:

larger theft and other money-related naughties: money laundering, ponzi schemes, etc

physical assault/battery

blackmail

bribery

large-scale manipulation for personal gain or for fun

hate speech (to be clear, I, JB, think this is way more than middling, but in art as in life, a lot of characters are going to do it and get away with it.)

Terrible Transgressions: The far end of the spectrum of antagonistic behavior. If your character is doing this shit, it shouldn’t be coming out of the blue. If your character is doing this shit, there’s got to be a character-driven reason beyond “flavor.” These are things that would get you expelled and moved into criminal court. A lot of things that are viewed as standard topics requiring a trigger warning fit into this category. 

murder

sexual assault

torture

child abuse

It’s easy in rp, where there are often way more criminal types in a character population than we hope exist IRL, to forget that murder is.... like.... it’s a BIG DEAL. It’s not something everyone has done. And thank dog, right?

If you’re attached to your character being someone’s cause of death, for specific character-driven reasons, you might think about alternatives. For example, if you hope to convey that Brandon Baddie is a callous asshole, instead of having him kill his roommate over a household chores dispute, you might have him drive drunk, hit a pedestrian, get out of the car, see the body, and drive away. If you hope to convey that Sandy Sadist is cruel, you might have her threaten her sister’s dog, but not actually hurt it, enjoying the fear of the sister and of the dog more than she would enjoy actually hurting either. If you hope to communicate that Ruthie Reckless is thoughtless, you might have her driving 100 mph speeding to the edge of a cliff while her father sobs in the passenger seat, stopping just inches from the edge. 

There are so many ways to make a point. If you’re going to kill someone to make a point, do it sparingly, and with very deliberate purpose.

Whether you’re starting your first villain or hoping to hone your villainous sword, I hope you found this tut helpful! Best of luck, and happy writing!

[itachi-uchiha-deserved-better]

Apperently my brain is in a ShiIta mood today. I've got an idea for a vampire Au stuck in my head where the clan head family of the Uchiha are vampires that are served by the mortal branch families (in a way more similar to the Hyuga.)

Since Shisui has no living family, when he comes of age he is offered by the branch families as a gift to Vampire Lord Fugaku's heir Itachi.

Shisui is nervous. He's heard plenty of stories about Lord Fugaku's cruelty. While Itachi is more reclusive, he has no reason to believe that the younger vampire or his fledgling brother are any different that Fugaku himself.

As he enters Itachi's chamber for the first time, his hands curl into fists and he has to fight to stop himself from shaking.

He waits.

After an hour, he finds himself calming down. Anger at his predicament replaces fear. Another hour passes and his anger fades and curiosity starts to take his place. He starts to observe the chamber around him, eyeing the book shelf taking up an entire wall, an ornate bed that has never been slept in, an ornate sword hung on the wall above a small desk that is neatly organized with several locked drawers. The longer he waits, the more Shisui's curiosity overcomes his better judgement and he finds himself rifling through Itachi's belongings.

The books he finds cover all topics. Many are history books, but there are books on math, physics, poetry, mythology and all of them are well cared for. Shisui occasionally finds books with pages that have been marked and he spends more time with those books, trying to learn anything he can about the man he has been given to.

He pulls the sword down from the wall, expecting the blade to be dull and brittle, nothing more than a decoration and he is surprised to find the blade is excellently balanced, sharp, a beautiful and deadly weapon.

There is nothing on the desk for Shisui to find, but he uses a hairpin he spots by the dresser to jimmy open the lock on the drawer and finds a leather bound book which is filled with beautiful sketches, mostly of landscapes, some pages filled with tiny, neat handwriting in a language Shisui doesnt know.

That's when he feels the presence behind him. He never heard the door open, no footsteps, but he turns and finds the pale figure, with the appearance of a youth no more than 20 with long, raven black hair. Watching him with piercing red eyes. He drops the book and scrambles back, waiting for some kind of retaliation for his snooping.

Itachi just sighs, moves to pick up the book and places it back in the desk drawer.

"I'd have unlocked it for you if you asked."

Shisui just stares. The young vampire has this stunning tragic beauty about him. But as Shisui calms down from the shock of Itachi's sudden appearance he also notes that there is something....almost sickly looking to him. He looks too thin to the point where Shisui would call him fragile. His skin, pale as snow, has none of the luster he is used to seeing in Lord Fugaku and Lady Mikoto. His eyes, while unsettling, dont have any shine to them.

"If your worried about me harming you, I can assure you that I have no intention of feeding on you. My father insisted I accept your presence here, so you will be my guest. Nothing more. Anything you desire, I will provide for you. But I swear, I will never feed on you."

And with that, Itachi vanishes. He leaves instructions for the servants to make Shisui comfortable in his chambers, to give him anything he asks for.

At first Shisui is relieved. His fears of of a slow, painful death have been abated. Night comes and Itachi does not return and Shisui eventually settles into the unused bed and sleeps. In the morning, he wakes up to find Itachi at the desk, reading. Shisui watches him for a while.

"You're probably hungry." Itachi rings a bell to summon a servant to bring Shisui breakfast and Shisui takes the moment to peer over Itachi's shoulder to see a sketch of himself from the night before, fear in his eyes.

They settle into a sort of routine. Itachi is at his desk when Shisui wakes up. Itachi escorts Shisui around the manor and makes sure Shisui is happy and comfortable. They talk. Itachi asks lots of questions about how Shisui grew up, about his home, about his family, his friends. He looks sad when Shisui tells him he had no one. He asks about the things Shisui enjoys. Asks what kind of books he likes and then presents Shisui with a brown paper wrapped bundle of books Shisui mentioned and a few new books Itachi thought he might like. Then, as evening comes, Itachi would escort Shisui back to his chambers and disappear.

As time goes on, Shisui feels more and more certain that something is wrong with Itachi. The sickly look to him gets worse and worse. Itachi starts to seem weak. He has to sit down frequently as they walk.

It takes a while for Shisui to realize the answer. That Itachi hasnt been feeding at all, that he is slowly starving to death because he refuses to feed on Shisui. And to Shisui's surprise, he finds himself incredibly upset at the idea. He tries to ask Itachi why he wont feed and for the first time, he sees Itachi get upset. Itachi harshly rebukes Shisui, telling him not to ever ask about that again. Itachi has a servant take Shisui back to his room and he doesnt show up the next morning. Or the morning after that. For a week, Shisui is left alone. When Itachi finally reappears, he appears to have deteriorated significantly.

That's when Shisui makes his decision. That night He asks the servants for a silk robe, for some nice soaps and to prepare a bath. He spends a few hours getting ready and then waits.

He is still awake when Itachi comes in the middle of the night. Hes dressed in the silk robe, loosely tied so that the skin of his shoulders is exposed.

"Itachi, you have been nothing but kind to me. You're suffering and it hurts to watch. To see you like this. I want you to feed on me."

Itachi's face twists into a pained expression. Shisui watches as his eyes drift to Shisui's exposed skin. Before Itachi can flee, Shisui closes the distance between them.

"I swore that I wouldnt." Itachi chokes out. Shisui wraps an arm around Itachi's waist.

"You promised I would have anything that I desire. This is my choice. My desire. Please, Itachi."

There is a moment of silence and then Itachi leans in. He kisses Shisui's shoulder and before he pierces the skin he whispers, "as you wish."

Shisui expects it to hurt. He winces as he feels Itachi's fangs sink into him but quickly the pain is replaced with pleasure.

When they're finished, Shisui aches, but in an incredibly satisfying way. Itachi is holding him nuzzling against him and he looks over and he is awestruck at the transformation. Itachi looks vibrant, almost like he's glowing.

In that moment, Shisui risks asking Itachi again why he wouldn't feed before. Itachi goes silent for a long time and Shisui starts to worry he's upset Itachi again until in a quiet voice Itachi answers him.

"I didnt ask to be what I am, to be turned into a monster. But just because I am like this, does not mean I need to be like /him/." Shisui can hear the venom in his voice as he refers to his creator, Lord Fugaku.

"When I came to my senses after being created, when I saw the bloodbath that had fed me I hated myself. Hated what I was. The sight of all that blood was revolting. Knowing that I had...." itachi trails off a moment.

"I swore after that I would never feed on another living creature. But I also never expected you. For you to offer yourself to me freely." Itachi kisses the place where his bite mark was on the curve of Shisui's neck, sending a shiver of pleasure through Shisui.

"I will never take from you, Shisui. But your wish is my command."

[oh-so-scenarios]

ᴛʜᴇ sᴇʀᴇɴᴅɪᴘɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs...♠| 09

⤖ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀs ᴛɪᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇs? Jᴜɴɢ Hᴏsᴇᴏᴋ ɪs ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴜsʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏғ ʜɪs ᴍᴀғɪᴀ ɴᴇᴛᴡᴏʀᴋ. Hᴇ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇʀᴇɴᴅɪᴘɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ʜɪs sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ…ʀɪɢʜᴛ?

⤖ Mᴀғɪᴀ Lᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ Hᴏsᴇᴏᴋ x ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ Fᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, Aɴɢsᴛ, sᴍᴜᴛ, sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ!ᴀᴜ,

A/N: Now this chapter is....interesting. Kind of a filler, kinda of important. But its a chapter that needed to happen! Unedited! Ignore any errors!

(Word Count: 5.4K)

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Y/N:

We somehow ended up with both fried chicken, noodles and other foods being delivered. Of course, the guys didn’t have it delivered right to the building. It was delivered to the convenience store not too far from here. Jungkook and Jimin went to pick it up and was currently setting everything out. 

I sat at the table, my seat not too far from Hoseok who sat on the actual table. I turned my chair around Namjoon who was explaining the words he wrote.

“So this guy and his goons have appeared at these three clubs.” Namjoon points to the names he has written down. Hoseok nodded his head, setting the papers on the table beside him, He glances at me for a moment, noticing that I was interested in what Namjoon was saying. I look back at him for a moment, smiling. 

He looked back to Namjoon, not returning my smile or saying anything. 

“So what happens is they go to these clubs and event claiming to be Seok, in which they proceed to rob people with guns. Now the problem is they more and more aggressive with each stop.”   

“And the good news?” Hoseok says.

“Boss, stop working so we can eat!” Jimin whined from across the table. Hoseok doesn’t reply to Jimin, urging Namjoon to continue. 

“The good news is that they have a trend. So it’s easy to tell which club they’ll be hitting next. They move about every 2 weeks, and so they should hit club 8Heart in a few days,”

Hoseok nodded, “Sounds goods.” 

It seems that’s Hoseok’s way of ending the conversation because he gets off the table and turns around to face the food that has been set out, while Namjoon also finds a seat. 

Hoseok takes a seat beside me, not looking my way but focusing on the food. The next moments are full of silence, other than chewing and lips smacking. I focused on eating the black noodles that sat in front of me, sipping away at the water bottles that Namjoon provided.

“So boss, what’s the plan? Are we going to that club?” Yoongi suddenly asked, wiping his fingers off the sauce from the chicken wings. I looked over at Hoseok who froze for a small moment before finishing the food that was in his mouth. 

“I’m not sure. I’ll figure it out.” He answered stiffly. Yoongi nodded, reaching out to grab one of the small containers of white rice. My face scrunched up at the small interaction, before looking around the table. Where is the conversation?

“Why do you still call Hoseok boss?” My voice cut through the silence, and everyone peered at me in confusion. Though Yoongi was the one who just spoke, my question wasn't anyone in particular.

Yoongi gaped at me in a confused manner, “What do you mean?” 

I could see Hoseok, still eating as if it was still silent, “You guys are friends right?” 

“Of course.” Jimin chimed in softly.

“But Hoseok is our boss, we gotta show that respect,” Taehyung says flashing a small smile. He looked my way, before looking at Hoseok who had stopped eating. He had no more than 20% of his food left but I watched his face twist up slightly before he wordlessly stood up from his seat. 

Everyone gawked at him, noticing the frown that rested on his lips. I couldn’t help but pout, understanding how Hoseok was feeling. He walked from the table and headed down that strange hallway I’ve never ventured into.

He walks briskly with his hands in fits at his side. Everyone watches his back as he goes and disappears down the hallway. 

Before the others could say anything I rushed out a question.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you guys meet Hoseok and how did you start working for him?” I cocked my head to the side and leaned forward with curiosity.

“I want to know as well.” Jennie finally spoke, before taking a sip of water. We both lean in, our eyes bouncing around to each guy at the table. 

They shared glances with each other before Jungkook sighed, leaving me to believe he was going to speak first. 

“All of our parents were friends,” Jungkook says quietly, his usually kind eyes looking...sad. He turned his gaze down and onto the table. I watched him scratch the back of his neck nervously, looking to his hyungs for help. The other guys remained silent for a moment sharing glances with each other. Jennie and I also stayed quiet, hoping someone would come forward.

“No wonder Hoseok thinks you all hate him,” I mutter a bit bitterly. Eyes snap my way, looks of confusion and hurt. I ignore them, taking the wooden chopsticks in hand to take another bite of my noodles.

“What?” Yoongi asked breathlessly. I chewed the food that was in my mouth, glowering at the confused man.

“Hoseok thinks you guys hold some sort of resentment towards him and I’m trying to figure out why. So before we go any further I’d like someone to tell me how you guys met.” I said quickly, Hoseok’s dejected tone replaying in my ears. 

“With details please,” Jennie adds quickly, adjusting herself in her seat.

“It’s like Jungkook said, all our parents were friends with each other. Or so we thought.” Jimin said softly, running his fingers through his hair as he always does. 

“So you thought?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow at the change of tone.

Jin sighs, frustrated by the way the others danced around the subject, “Our parents owed Hoseok’s father money...like a lot of money. So rather than being friends...he was the debt collector.” 

My mouth drops open a bit, “Oh...so that’s how you befriended Hoseok?”

Jungkook nodded, “We’d see each other at events our parents would drag us to. We saw each other so often, we couldn’t help but become friends.”

“Boss was so friendly, he came right up to us and made conversation,” Yoongi said quietly, remembering a scene clearly. Small chuckles rippled through the room, each guy remembering the same scene.

“Hoseok was?” I asked in surprise. 

“Oh yeah!” Taehyung chimed, “Boss used to be the light of the party. There was no being shy around him! He’d walk up to anyone with a big smile on his face and befriend them.” My shoulders slumped, unable to picture Hoseok in such a manner.

“So that’s how you all became friends, how did you come to work for him?”

Another thick silence lingers, leaving me with my heart pounding in my chest.

“Boss’s father gave our parents an offer...he’d erase their debt if they agreed to sign us over to boss as...his employees,” Jungkook said softly, a sad smile pulling at his lips.

My heart dropped and for some reason, my eyes began to water with tears. I huffed out a breath and placed my hand on my chest.

“I’m sorry...what?” My voice trembled.

“Noona, please don’t cry...it was years ago...we’re okay now.” Taehyung cooed, showing me a small smile. 

“Your parents basically sold you off?” Jennie said in disbelief. The tears blurred my vision and I tilted my head up to keep them from falling. 

“S-so what, you dropped everything you were doing?” I asked still staring up at the ceiling. When I didn’t get an answer I brought my eyes back down to the still faces in front of me. They all avoided eye contact, poker faces shielding any possible hints to their current thought process.

“So what were you doing before you started working for Hoseok?” I asked. 

“I was part of a dance program.” Jimin answered, “contemporary.” 

“Were you any good?” I tease softly. 

Jimin beams at me, “I was the best in my class.” 

Only a few of the guys speak. Taehyung was studying art, Namjoon was writing novels and Jungkook was singing. Jin and Yoongi didn’t speak to reveal what they were up to, but I had a good enough idea. 

Another silence passed, their words handing heavy on everyone’s shoulders. 

“He didn’t know at first,” Jin begins, “Hoseok didn’t know...and though we couldn’t blame him...we were angry. We were hurt. I’d say that the first year was...hell. We rarely spoke to him. We’d only address him as ‘Boss’. All his attempts at keeping the friendship going were shut down. We stopped going out together, we stopped confiding in each other…” Jin trails off.

“We shut him out and he had no idea why,” Yoongi added. 

I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek and hit my hand that sat on my lap. I nodded slowly, taking in their words.

“All while he was mourning his father?” I spoke gently, wiping my face quickly. 

“So, young 16-year-old Hoseok, had to take on the weight of this mafia empire and mourn his father all while wondering why the only people he had left no longer loved him?” My tone came out harsher than I intended. It wasn’t the guys' fault. They were also hurting. Their dreams and future had just been ripped away from them. Everyone was hurting. 

And I don’t want to think of Hoseok as some broken man. I don’t think he’s broken at all...he just adapted to his surroundings.

“When did he find out about the arrangement between his father and your parents?” I asked in a softer tone.

“After we’d been working for him for 3 years. It came out in an argument.” Jin replied.

“So did you all ever explain why you stopped talking to him?” This was turning into an interrogation, but I couldn’t care less. I was finally gaining an understanding of how things became what they are now.

“No,” Taehyung answered simply, “We all just kind of got over it and things went back to normal...or as normal as they could get.”

A ping of anger entered my system, “Of course things can’t go back to normal!” I exclaimed. The volume of my voice was shocking. Breaking the quiet conversation we were having until now. 

“You guys never told him what was going on! You should have told him what was going on! You all could have healed together!”

“Y/n, we tried to talk to him later on but he was so...off.” Jimin hissed back at me. He was getting annoyed with me and I didn’t care.

“Well duh, he was off. Who did he have to cry to? Who could he lean on for strength? It didn’t matter that you all started talking to him again, you never sat down and discussed with him. Then he finds out later that y’all were forced into this life with him?”

My words get slurred together as more tears flow down my cheeks. I know Hoseok hates pity, but I can’t keep but feel sorry for him, Him and these 6 men sitting in front of me. I use the back of my hand to wipe my tears.

“And how could things go back to normal when you all still call him ‘boss’ like that’s all he is. That’s why Hoseok thinks you all secretly hate him.” 

Yoongi snickers an underlying tone of nervousness clear in the action, “He doesn’t think that.” 

“Oh come on! Be real guys! It’s always ‘Boss this’ or ‘Boss that’. At no point did you guys reassure him, let him know you didn’t blame him or anything like that!” I stood up from my seat, shocked by the emotion that was coursing through my body. 

The hurt in my heart was heavy, for Hoseok and for the guys. I’m not usually one to cry like this but the thought of Hoseok hurting in such a way became too much for me to handle. I wiped my tears, sniffling as my cries changed into short and small sobs. I watched Jennie rise from her seat to comfort me. I dropped my head down, trying to get my breathing under control. 

“Ok, I’ve heard enough.” A monotone voice called from the distance. I didn’t have to pick my head up to know that was Hoseok. I can’t be sure how long he’d been close by listening, but I could hear his steady footsteps getting closer.

None of the other guys said anything and he didn’t say anything to them as he stopped beside me. I turned to face him, my head still down, giving me a view of his shoes. There was the comforting warmth of his. His cologne filled my lungs and I took in a deep breath before slowly my breathing. 

I finally looked up to see Hoseok staring down at me. The look in his eyes were somewhere between anger and hurt. I sniffled and wiped my face as his eyes stayed on my face. 

“Why are you crying Y/n?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft and all I could do was stare back up at him, pressing my lips together while my eyes burned with a fresh batch of tears.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I buried my face into his chest, trying to keep the tears from leaving my eyes. My arms wrapped around him and I took in a shaky breath. I noticed Hoseok’s body grow stiff and rigid but I didn’t step away. 

“I’m sorry Hoseok, I’m so sorry you had to go through something like that alone.” My voice came out muffled by his chest but he still heard me. I heard him sigh deeply and I couldn’t help the jump my body did as a warm hand found its way on my back.

“And that’s why you're crying?” The slight chuckle that leaves his lips makes me feel childish, but I can’t help it. 

“Y/n,” He pats my back in a soothing manner, “I am okay now, I got through it. There is no need to cry.” 

“I know, I know.” I answered, “I just can’t help it. There’s this sadness in my heart and I gotta cry it out.” We stand there in silence for a moment while my breathing got back to normal, but I dared not let go of Hoseok, the heaviness in my heart feeling like I was physically weighing my body down.

“Don’t worry,” Jennie said from her seat. She walked around the table to stand by my side, and I drew back from Hoseok slightly, only noticing at that moment that his other hand was hovering over my head. He was hesitating and trying to figure out what to do.

I acted like I didn’t see that hand nervously drop to his side, almost in defeat.

“It’s a soulmate thing. I cried for 3 hours when Jaehyun told me about his cat, that I’d never met, dying.” Jennie stated, “It’s usually the female or more emotional partner that ends up like that. Taking on the sadness of the other. I heard the longer you’ve been together the less often that will happen.”

I buried my head back into Hoseok’s chest, feeling his chest rumble as he spoke.

“Look what y’all have done,” He playful shouts at the other guys, “Why are you going around telling her these useless stories of the past?” 

The guys, however, don’t joke back or even crack a smile. They stare at Hoseok, their eyes just as sad as I was feeling. It was clear that Hoseok was hoping to dodge the conversation that was going to be had. But I believe that this can’t be avoided. 

Hoseok rolls his eyes and sighs, “Please don’t look at me like that guys. It’s fine. It’s the past.” 

“I’m sorry Hyung,” A choked up Jungkook croaks. I turn my head so I can see the boys, and notice Jungkook’s big doe eyes filled with tears. I’ve become so used to Hoseok’s warmth, I don’t want to remove my arms from around him. The more I calm down, the louder my heart pounds while my thoughts unscramble. 

Hoseok continues to speak, his hand now resting on my back while the other hand gestures as he speaks.

“Kook, come on...no need to start crying!” Hoseok exclaims, trying to muster up a small smile. Hoseok pats my back slightly, telling me to let go of him. I drop my arms from around him, sniffling and looking down, avoiding his eyes.

“I didn’t take you to be such a crybaby.” He teases the corner of his lips pulling up just a bit. His eyes hold a warmth I haven’t seen before and my eyes widen. 

“You’ve been hanging out with Jungkook too much, he’s rubbing off on you.” He jokes, causing me to look over at the young Junkgook who was pouting while tears ran down his cheeks. All the other guys were sitting around with wet eyes, the weight of just how alone Hoseok must have felt, weighing on them. 

Maybe they finally understand why the cheerful and kind Hoseok has disappeared too. Though I don’t know what kind of person Hoseok was before his father passing, I knew it couldn’t have just been this lifestyle that made him so...unapproachable.

However, I haven’t gotten any insight into why he doesn’t like the soulmate concept and just what that has to do with doctors. I’ve thought about it a bit and I believe it has something to do with his mother. 

He thinks I haven’t caught on to the way his body stiffens when I ask about his mother or how he doesn’t answer the question. I won’t push it.

“I’m sorry, I feel like I was poking my head into your business--”

“You were.” He cuts me off, though there was no hostility in his voice. 

I pause for a moment nodding my head in agreement, “Yes. I definitely poked my nose into your business, but I couldn’t let this miscommunication continue anymore.”

“I understand Y/n.” He says stretching out the words as if he was singing. He was trying to get me to stop my talking, but my rambling continues.

“I really care about all of you and I just want you to be happy Hoseok, so I thought I'd figure out why you found it so hard to believe that I could actually like you and that the guys truly held no anger towards you. It was--”

“Y/n!” He said sternly and my words stop as he stares at me with a slight annoyance. But my heart hums at the recognition of fondness in his gaze while his ears turn red. 

“Oh,” I say in a small voice. “I’ll stop talking.” I put up my hands up defensively before using the back of my hand to wipe seeming nothing, off my face. Ugh, I probably look a hot mess.

“The boys and I have some talking to do, so I’m gonna call you and Jennie an uber home okay?” He said looking towards the guys and back at me.

I nodded, “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked, pouting slightly. Though the action wasn’t on purpose I quickly regret it. 

“Yes, you’ll see me tomorrow.” He answers, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He presses a few buttons, types a few things and then shoves the phone back into his pockets. 

I turn towards the guys who were now fidgeting nervously. The conversation is going to be hard but it needs to happen. I couldn’t have kept working here knowing such an elephant in the room was looming.

“I am sorry for yelling and acting so rudely. I don’t know what came over me.” I said calmly, messing around with my fingers to help my nerves.

“It’s okay noona!” Jungkook chimes, though his eyes were bloodshot now, his smile still beamed brightly and I couldn’t help but smile back. I gathered my stuff and Jennie did the same when Hoseok made a small statement.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in that sharp white coat of ours.” His eyes rake down my body and meet my eyes quickly. I scoff at him playfully, as his phone sounded.

“I can’t bring my coat from work here! I don’t have a doctor’s coat for my work here, I don’t know if I really need one.” I explain as he brings his phone up to his ear. I stood there watching him with such interest. The way he had one hand in the pocket of his joggers, the other holding his phone that was pressed to his ear, the pricey Rolex shining the light. 

I let my eyes wander over his face, taking in his smooth skin, his shape jaw, his fiery eyes, and his lips. Whew...they look soft. My eyes felt swollen from crying but that didn’t stop me from practically undressing this man with my eyes. Everything about him is so sexy. 

His stance, his demeanor and the way he carries himself. Wow, this man doesn’t even have to try. 

“Y/n,” Jennie called out to me, taking hold of my wrist slightly. My head snapped to look over at her, still dazed and lost in my thoughts.

“Mh?” I reply, looking at her curiously. 

“At least wait till you’re alone to make eyes like that.” She giggled, shyly glancing at Hoseok who I noticed was looking at us. 

I cringed at the thought of how my face looked in that moment, “Heart eyes?” I asked her.

She shook her head with her eyebrows raised, “Nah...those eyes were something else.” 

Before I could question her father, Hoseok interrupted us.

“Your uber is right outside.” He said, pointing towards the door. Jennie gave me a small smile and headed towards the door. I turned around to leave but spun back around to Hoseok.

I stepped closer to him, kissing him on the cheek shortly, “Okay, bye.”

He clears his throat, turning around to turn his attention to the guys. 

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

~!~

Jennie and I strolled through the hallway, heading towards the lunchroom. We were discussing a few things while she read something from her phone.

“The emotional ties manifest themselves through the most emotional partner, often feeling intense grief for their soulmate when hearing of a previous pain the soulmate has gone through. Though it can be jarring, it shows growth in the couple’s connection and relationship. Some partners become sad for their partners when hearing of past pain, while others grow in affection, due to the contagious affection of the other partner.” She glances at me for a moment, looking back down at her phone as we got closer to the lunchroom.

“This often happens in the male or dominant soulmate, as the two grow closer, the affection of the emotional partner becomes contagious, leaving the dominant soulmate eager to the affections of the other.” She grins at me and I roll my eyes, stopping my footsteps. 

“So what was the point of you reading all that?” I question as she also stops to look at me.

She shrugs, “Meeting and getting to know your soulmate isn’t as simple as people think. That deep connection messes with your mojo sometimes, exceptionally since you guys are getting closer. I didn’t want you to freak out once Hoseok starts to act...weird.” 

I shake my head, “I doubt Hoseok would be affected by such things. The guy barely sees me as a woman.”

“Oh please!” Jennie whines, “Stop with those thoughts. You must not notice the way you two eye each other these days. For example, the way you near undressed him with your eyes a few days ago.”

I groaned, running my hand over my face in embarrassment. That emotional breakdown was enough to make me want to run and hide my face. And though I didn’t see Hoseok the next day as he said I would I received a short text that made me giggle in joy.

Thank you, Y/n. 

That was all I’ve heard from Hoseok in the past 4 days. He’s been busy again, and though I tried to call him once, he didn’t pick up. He’s probably going about chasing that impersonator who goes about robbing clubs. Through my research, ‘Seok’ as the head of a mafia head is known to be quiet and subtle with his dealings. His violence is often not heard of and he tries to work with as little attention as possible. 

I can’t be sure if this is Hoseok or his father that is so well known for that, but those impersonators are going to ruin that reputation. So while he’s figuring that out, we’ve had a few surgeries to do at the hospital, thus taking time to focus on the black market work. 

Though the money from the jobs is very good, I can’t be sure what to do with it. I mainly keep it in a small safe I bought, thinking that it’ll be useful for a rainy day.

“He should stop by the hospital today,” I said to Jennie as we entered the lunchroom, “There is a funding meeting, along with talks about the case of the swapped artwork from the gala.”

“They’re still talking about that?” Jennie asked as we approached the line. 

I nodded, “Yup, it’s not good publicity for the hospital so they have to do damage control.” I grabbed a ray, picking up some salad and an apple juice before heading over to a small table near a window. Jennie follows after me not too quickly after. 

“What did Hoseok do with the real works?” She whispered. I shrugged, not really knowing. I didn’t even care to ask.

But our conversation carried on. Jennie talked to me about Jaehyun’s latest project, along with how he’s been busy and she didn’t want to come off as clingy. 

“I doubt he’d think of you like that. You miss him, so It’s okay that you want to check up on him.” I answered while eating my salad. 

“I guess so, it just seems like I’m always the one setting updates. He just wants to hang out on the couch.” She pouts before getting another spoonful of rice. 

“Maybe he sees those as dates as well. You see dates as going out, but maybe Jaehyun sees a night on the couch with movies as a date.”

Jennie’s face scrunches up as she flips her hair behind her shoulder. She decided to leave her hair down today. Though she doesn’t say anything I know what she’s thinking. Her standards of dating are different from Jaehyun’s and this is what she often complains about. Though he has caused her to loosen up a bit, her standards remain high. 

We weren’t there eating for long, knowing that some paperwork was waiting for us in our offices. As we strolled through the hallways once more, and as we turned a corner, my heart buzzed at a familiar figure walking the opposite direction as us. He dressed in a more casual fashion.

He wore a black button-up with grey slacks and black dress shoes. He was walking with other chairmen. They were clearly discussing something serious and I didn’t want to interrupt. 

“Are you gonna say something to him?” Jennie whispered my way. 

I don’t reply to her, keeping my eyes forward while we walked. I can’t help the way my eyes flicker to him just as we are going to pass each other, and unlike what I expected, something warm grabbed my hand, pulling me back and keeping me from walking with Jennie. 

My eyes widen and I turned around to see Hoseok looking at me, a small smile on his lips.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly. The businessmen who were walking with him also stopped to share confused glances. They stepped away a bit, keeping a distance from us but not leaving completely. I looked over at Jennie to see her doing the same. 

I turned my body to face Hoseok, not forgetting that he was holding my hand still.

“Hey, I haven’t been able to see you in the past few days.” He spoke normally. His tone still as neutral as always.

“Yeah, I figured you were busy,” I explained, shrugging and bringing my gaze down to our hands. I looked back at Hoseok, surprised by the sudden skinship. I swallowed hard and tried to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, I’ve been all over the place, but I saw that you called. I wasn’t able to pick up, but I was meaning to talk to about some other things.” He stated. Yet, I couldn’t focus on anything he was saying as his thumb now caressed the back of my hand. Was he doing this for show? Because we’re in front of people?

But who is he showing off? The other chairmen? I doubt it. Yet he was talking with his same plain face. He could have been talking to a stranger with such a tone in voice, yet his actions were different.

“Sure, I’ll just call you later and you can tell me how the talk with the guys went?” I answered back, a bit too excited at the casual conversation we were having. 

“Okay, well I have to go.” He says throwing a glance at the chairmen waiting. 

I nod, “Okay!” However it seems that simple goodbye wasn’t good enough for Hoseok, Before I could process what was happening, Hoseok leans forward and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. I’m frozen in shock and just as my arms start to wrap around him in response he pulls back, holding me back at a distance with his hands on my shoulders.

He looks just as shocked as I feel. He blinks at me a few times, looking at me for answers. 

“I don’t know why I just…” He says in a hushed voice. I look around us, noticing more eyes tuning into our awkward interaction. We’re supposed to be a couple in love. People are gonna wonder what happened after seeing us so close at that gala.

Though Hoseok’s action did throw me off. 

“You don’t need a reason to hug me Hoseok.” I beam up at the stunned man before rising on my toes and giving him a small peck on the cheer. Internally yelling at just how close to his lips that kiss was. I almost kissed the corner of his lips.

I made sure to not show the momentary panic on my face before spinning around to stroll back to a grinning Jennie.

“I thought you said those types of soulmate things wouldn’t affect Hoseok.” She raised an eyebrow and looked back at Hoseok. I did the same, just in time to see the dazed look on his face as he turned his back on us and walked back over to his chairmen.

“I didn’t think it would.” I retort, still feeling the warmth of his arms lingering all over my body.

“Welp, at least that tells you there’s progress being made. Whatever was blocking that ‘soulmate connection’ you wanted to feel so bad, has been removed. I can say things are moving in the right direction for you too, and I’m so excited about that.” Jennie claps her hands together in excitement, her hair bouncing and she did a small happy dance.

“Don’t happy dance just yet. It’s just hugs and cheek kisses, still very middle school. We’re taking baby steps.” I calmed her down, “And please remind me to go visit Mrs. Cho before I leave today.” 

Jennie nods, but I have little faith that she’ll remember so I remind myself to make a note in my phone. 

Mrs. Cho is slowly becoming one of my patients. I go to visit her often and am finding myself befriending her. She has an infectious smile and is always cheery. She loves to talk and will talk about anything. Her physical therapy begins soon and I want to give her some words of encouragement. 

The more I time I spend with her the more questions I have. How can a kind woman like her have no one but her husband in her life? No friends to visit her? No other family? How sad.

♠----♠----♠-----♠

Thank you for reading! Like, reblog and let me know what you think :)) My question for this chapter, what are your thoughts on Hoseok’s relationship with the other guys? And what are your thoughts on his blooming relationship with Y/n? 

[whumpqin]

Quinn - Chapter 1 (This Wasn’t the Plan)

Hello all! It’s been a while since I’ve posted some of my own writing. I’ve decided to make a side story to Elisha, which is what this is! I hope yall are interested in some Quinn whump >:3c

Taglist: (considering this is a similar but also different series, I’m tagging Elisha’s people, but feel free to want to be removed from this taglist! I will make sure to make the difference.) @faewhump​ @galaxywhump​ @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​ @insanitywishes​ @burtlederp​ @whumpasaurus101​ @simplygrimly​ (ask if you want tagged!)

CW: nonhuman whumpee, creepy whumper, muzzles, forced muzzling, fantasy racism, kidnapping, smoking, guns, briefly mentioned assassination attempt, manhandled, getting patted down, gut punching, drugging, needles

Word Count: 2,799

It’s a dull ringing that rouses him from his sleep - an annoying tone that he’d sworn to fix and still hasn’t gotten around to.

Quinn groans at the rude awakening, and rolls his head over to see why it was going off by planting his hand on his phone and dragging it closer. It reads unknown against a background of black. Despite the annoyance that makes his tail curl lazily in his bed, he still swipes his finger across the bottom to answer it, bringing it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

The other side of the line is quiet for a moment, before a gruff voice, a little lower than Quinn expects, speaks. “This number was provided in relation to contacting a ‘Quinn Devereux’. Is this who I’m speaking to?”

“This is he,” Quinn says, sliding his blankets off of him, confusion lighting his voice.

“I am calling on behalf of my employer, Mr. Delaney, who has arrived at the meeting place. Except, it does not appear that you are there. I do hope you plan to be on schedule, yes?”

Ah, hell.

Quinn sits up in the bed quickly as alarm saps all the weight from his body. “Uh, of course not! ‘Pologies, I was plannin’ on makin’ it a uh…” he pauses to bring his phone down and note the time, which is about ten ‘til nine. Shit, shit shit- “a little earlier than this. Same place, right? That old abandoned house?”

“Yes. Don’t be late, Quinn. We wouldn’t want this deal going south, now would we?”

“‘Course! I mean, I-'' The phone makes a beeping noise to indicate that the other side hung up, stopping Quinn in his tracks. He looks down at it to be sure, before heaving a large sigh. It’s going to be one of those days it seems.

He needs to work fast. Firstly Quinn rifles through his apartment for nice-ish looking clothes, and though he’s never bought a suit and swears that he’s not going to no matter how much his Ma tells him to, he finds one of the newer button-up shirts that he bought recently. He scans its surface in case it magically had gathered stains on it while sitting in his dresser drawer in exile, but considering he only wore it once for a job interview he figures it’ll do the trick. He slips it on and finds some day old jeans that don’t smell too awful before he takes a look at himself in the mirror.

He’s a little worse for wear, but at a quick glance it’s only those faint dark circles underneath his eyes that catches his attention the most. Quinn combs through his black hair with his fingers, flattening it to look more presentable while also unhooking strands that wrap around his antlers and the bright orange tag against his ear. He pauses there, looking himself up and down.

Bedraggled and half awake, in clothes that are only somewhat clean. Going to a shady place to make a shady deal on behalf of people he barely knows.

“You can do this,” he quietly tells his reflection as he leans against the sink. “Get in, get out, get paid. Get in, get out, get paid.”

He repeats the phrase a few more times, committing it to memory on his way out. He picks up the handwritten letter he’d left on the small table at the front door and stuffs it into his front pocket. Then Quinn grabs onto his muzzle, slipping the buckles around his antlers to fasten it loosely against his face.

As he walks out of his apartment and onto the street, he makes the mistake of checking his phone one he’s properly in the morning light. It reads five minutes before his meeting, and he still has a ways to walk yet. Quinn lets out an exasperated sigh, eyes falling upwards to the adjacent apartment complex. It’s there he notes some curtains quickly shutter closed. His eyes narrow.

There’s someone watching you. Real strange fellow, he remembers the considerate old lady from down the hall telling him.

Tell me something I don’t know, he had responded. Quinn wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out it was just his employer keeping a good and proper eye on information.

To make up for time, he runs. Quinn dips into the alleyways to escape the busy streets of the morning, taking a few turns that he’s become familiar with while walking through the streets. A couple turns here and there, and he exits out onto another main street very close to his destination. He counts himself lucky he remembers the address at all. It would have been embarrassing as hell to have to ask the guy on the phone where he was supposed to have this meeting in the first place.

Quinn jogs up to the specific house, noting the old “for sale” sign that doesn’t even have a number on it anymore. It’s a huge place, once a mansion that was abandoned a long time ago because of bad press or something. He’s never looked at it before; even looking as ruined as it is by time, the place is still out of his price range.

He knocks on the door politely, taking the small pause to smooth out his clothes in a last ditch effort to not look like he had just gotten up a little bit ago, and waits patiently. The door creaks open with several years’ old whine that makes him wince, squinting one eye while he notices a human, dressed in dark clothing with short brown hair and amber eyes, staring back at him. Due to the muzzle making him unable to speak, Quinn offers a small wave before hovering his pinkie over his mouth and thumb over his ear, then pointing to the man. The human offers no reaction, but merely steps to the side. He takes the cue and steps inside the house.

It’s not as majestic as he once thought it might be. It hasn’t been taken care of in ages; the wallpaper is peeling off of the walls and there are holes in the floor, and the more Quinn steps through the house and hears it creak in response to him the more he wonders if the whole thing is going to cave in on him. It’s practically a deathtrap at this point.

He tries to make his reservations known to the human with a pause, knitting his brows in an uncomfortable position as he shoots a glance back at him, but he doesn't get the message.

The human opens up an old door for him that Quinn peeks around. There’s another human sitting in a chair in the middle of the living room, his legs crossed as he reclines into his seat. There’s a cigarette in one hand trailing smoke into the air, filling the room with its scent. His dirty blonde hair was perfectly styled like his fancy suit, and the only thing that didn’t look put together was the rough stubble against his chin.

The man who greeted Quinn closes the door behind both of them and steps around, joining another man with different hair behind the reclining human’s chair. The human in the chair - the boss he’s supposed to speak to, he supposes, flicks out his left wrist to check his watch almost casually. Then, he looks to Quinn with that icy blue stare of his.

“Right on time, it seems,” he says. Quinn tries not to let the dual feelings of discomfort and relief wash over his face too plainly. The man motions to a table he hadn’t seen yet. “Please, take off that muzzle. We can’t talk business if, well, you can’t talk, now can we?”

At his behest, Quinn slides his fingers up to the buckles against his head to loosen them and pull the muzzle off of his face. As it’s drawn away he takes a moment to work his jaws, careful not to bare his teeth too much in the presence of other humans, just in case. Then he places the muzzle on the table.

“Thanks for that. Are you uh, Mr. Delaney?” Quinn asks.

“Yes. I believe you have a message for me?” Delaney sits up in his chair and takes a long drag of his cigarette.

“Uh, yes, I do, I-” As Quinn reaches into his pocket to pull out the letter he’d been given, both of the humans to Delaney’s left and right immediately pull out guns and aim them directly at him. His chest goes cold. “Whoa, whoa, I’m just pullin’ out a letter!”

Delaney brays out a chuckle, puffing out smoke like some sort of dragon. “You’ll have to forgive these two. A bit jumpy after the last attempt, especially with lone messengers like you. Can never be too careful. You understand, right?” His eyes are squinted from his friendly smile, but there’s an emptiness in them that makes Quinn uncomfortable. Moreso when he waves his free hand towards Quinn and tells the guards to, “search him.”

The two bodyguards step forward without putting their guns away. Quinn swallows and stays perfectly still just like his Pa always told him to, allowing the two to move his arms about and go through his pockets. It’s a bit awkwardly invasive with two sets of hands patting him down like they are, but he’d rather have his personal space invaded than, well, the other outcome. The guards dig into all of his pockets, pulling up his wallet and the letter that had come from Quinn’s employer.

The human who found the letter gives Quinn a side eye that makes him draw a blank in terms of words, before opening the letter himself. He draws out the paper that was carefully handwritten and placed, unfolding it like it was a bomb of some sort.

Quinn was watching him like a hawk, so much so that he didn’t notice the other human had stepped away and given his wallet to Delaney.

“So, Quinn, it seems. You’ll have to forgive me for not remembering, it’s hard to remember everyone’s name nowadays. What brings you to this type of work, huh?” Delaney went on, rifling through Quinn’s wallet with curiosity.

“Um, I-I needed the money,” he mutters, watching the bodyguards hand the letter off to Delaney. “For the record, my employer thought it’d look wrong to bring more people besides, well, me. Wants to be cordial an’ all.” It’s not really his message, but he can’t help but feel a bubbling nervous feeling in his stomach as Delaney reads the letter.

“You mean he doesn’t want to lose any more men, so he figured I’d take mercy on just the messenger,” Delaney cooly corrects.

“Well I’m not sure what my employer’d think, but I’d for sure want the messenger t’ be spared,” Quinn says in the attempt at a joke.

When no one in the room laughs, he curls his tail around his ankle.

Delaney huffs a small bit of laughter as he reaches the end of the letter, beginning to slowly rip it up into little pieces and shoving it into his nice suit. “Quinn, do you know what happens when you give someone an inch?”

“They take a mile?” He swallows as the human stands up from his chair and adjusts his cufflinks.

“Yes, good, at least you’re not totally brain dead like some I’ve seen. I’m not about to relent and give that man a fraction of space like he’s requesting. You of all people should know that this is my territory, right? Where I do my business?”

“Right, but-” His breath hitches when the guard next to him grabs onto his shoulders and holds him before he can step forward. “This agreement is so they won’t encroach, is all. Wouldn’t it’d be better to not have any more territory disputes?”

Delaney regards him for a moment, having to tilt his head upwards just slightly due to Quinn’s height. Then he smiles a bit more widely. “I don’t think we’ll be making a deal today. But… I think we’ll take care of it from here. When are you meeting with your employer again?”

“As, as soon as I can.” Quinn’s eyes frantically look around for an exit as the other bodyguard closes in. He needs to get out of here. Now. “I’ll uh, leave you to it then, I guess. Sorry we couldn’t come to some sorta agreement-”

“Let me at least escort you out. My treat,” Delaney offers with an extended hand towards the door.

“Um, I ‘preciate the offer, but, I actually have a uh, a few things to tend to after this, so-”

The bodyguard holding him delivers a solid blow to his middle, knocking the air out of him in one fell swoop. Quinn doubles over, held up only by the strong hands gripping onto his shirt now, gasping to fill his lungs quickly.

“Perhaps I wasn’t very clear. I wasn’t asking, Quinn.” Delaney tilts his head to the side to catch his eye. “I’m not about to let you blab about everything you saw here just yet. Need a few things in order, you know? I just need to know if you’re coming with me willingly, or if my men need to get involved.”

“Hold… hold on a minute now,” he says quickly and yet still breathless as the panic wells in his chest instead of the oxygen he desperately needed. “I’m, I’m just a messenger, I’m not- what-what are you doing?”

Delaney had sighed and looked to his other body guard while Quinn was talking. He points over to the muzzle lying on the table and flicks his hand. “Muzzle him. I don’t have time to deal with his blabbering.”

Quinn’s arms are wrestled behind him before he can realize. The bodyguard is stronger than he thought, and he holds him still long enough for the other one to draw close enough, muzzle in hand. He struggles, lifting his head out of their reach and kicking his legs out to delay the inevitable. One of them grabs his antlers, jerking his head downwards for long enough that they can wrap the buckles around his face. They’re affixed tightly against his face, muffling most of the panicked cries erupting from his throat beyond whines.

“Enough of that whining,” he hears from Delaney as a firm command. He glances over with terrified eyes to see him pull a phone out of his pocket. “I have to make a call. Oh, you two, make sure to get him comfortable in the trunk, will you?”

The two humans nod, and drag him out of the room. Quinn screams as best he can through his nose, kicking his legs and struggling to get away from them as best he can. One of them spits out a curse, unhooking the gun from their side.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses. “I’m not dealing with a spitfire devil today. I’ll just shoot you and get it over with. You want that?” Quinn breathes hard and shakes his head frantically. “Then fucking act like it.”

They pull him out of the house with little issue after that. Quinn’s tail coils, tightening painfully against his ankle as it worries at the fabric and skin, as they approach a dark car with tinted windows. One of the bodyguards walks to the other side and pulls out a few items from the front seat, and Quinn can hear the clinking of chain along with it.

He’s suddenly thrust forward, and his face impacts against the side of the car. His bright eyes go wide, searching frantically for what’s happening, and then he feels metal tightly wrap around both of his wrists. Then he is taken from the side of the car to its back, as one of the bodyguards opens up the trunk. Quinn jerks against the cuffs holding his hands together, frustrated and scared tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

This can’t be happening, he thinks, looking at the interior of the trunk. His antlers are roughly grabbed again, dragging his head to the side. He can’t help but roll the thought around in his head, how this wasn’t supposed to be how it went, as something sharp sticks into the side of his neck. Quinn squirms, a muted whine slipping from his nose as a wave of dizziness hits him and his legs nearly buckle. The guards take the opportunity and throw him into the back of the trunk, and as Quinn lands with a harsh thud his vision blurs from the force of the impact.

“Get comfortable,” the one who cursed at him before remarks. “You’re gonna be with us for a while, I think.”

[argylemnwrites]

Fight or Flight - Chapter 7: Resignation

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Heir (canon divergent from the end of book 2)

Word Count: ~4200

Rating: R (language only)

Summary: Thirty hours since The Walker Absconding

Author’s Note: What day of the week is it even? Oh well, here’s a chapter, hahaha. This series follows the Walkers, their friends, and Cordonia as a whole after they flee the country with their daughter during Barthelemy Beaumont’s attempted coup. To catch up on this series, check out it’s masterlist. (link can be found via my bio - sorry, Tumblr is once again not putting my posts with links in tag searches)

“My fellow Cordonians, it is with a heavy heart that I speak to you today.”

His words echoed in his mind, over and over again, his speech something that was likely to stay burned into his mind for the rest of his life. After all, he couldn’t predict anything quite as memorable as having to announce his loss of title to his citizens and the world at large happening to him at any point in the future.

“I never anticipated having to bring this news to you, but even though I am no longer King of Cordonia, I have no intention of yielding the power of the crown to anyone who I feel is a threat to the safety and prosperity of this country.”

Stefan was following the media coverage of his speech that he gave this evening that provided an overview of the day’s events, including his removal from the throne, Bridget’s ascension to queen-regent until the Conclave, and his intention to name a regent for her tomorrow. Liam knew he personally should be watching to see how people were responding, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. His emotions were frayed, raw, and strung out. It felt like everything was spiraling out of control. He hadn’t felt like this in a very long time. Not since Father died, in all honesty.

The weeks surrounding his father’s death were sort of covered in a surreal blur whenever he reflected back on them. Not only had his relationship with Father been more complicated and fraught than it had ever been before at the time of his passing, making his loss a thorny storm of emotions, but he’d barely even had time to mourn in any capacity. His country had been in the midst of an active terrorist threat, plus he’d been processing true heartbreak for the first time in his life. He had somehow gotten through those days, those emotions, those struggles though. He knew he would get through everything happening now as well, but at the moment, that seemed like an impossible task.

“I know that this is an unprecedented combination of events, comparable to nothing that has occurred in hundreds of years of Cordonian history. But I have seen the strength and resilience of our citizens first-hand, and I am confident that we will emerge from this Social Season stronger than ever.”

As far as next steps went, naming Rashad as Bridget’s regent was really his only option. Thankfully, in spite of the man’s ambivalence when it came to his noble title, he’d agreed to fill the role and was coming to the hearing in the morning to allow for a rapid transfer of power. He was one of the only truly neutral parties available who was appropriately titled and qualified. Liam had brought Hana with him to broach the topic with Rashad, but her gentle powers of persuasion proved unnecessary. The only point at which the conversation was anything but pleasant and agreeable was when Rashad wanted to schedule a meeting with Riley and Drake to discuss how best to handle legal and physical custody of Bridget in ways that would be in accordance with the results of the no-confidence vote, but Liam had been easily able to convince him to table that topic until he was sworn in as regent.

“No matter my title or role, know that I will always serve the citizens of Cordonia in whatever way they require.”

He half-heartedly pulled more documents from his desk drawers, trying to focus on the task at hand. He needed to determine which pieces of information were private, and should come with him to Lythikos, versus those that he needed to leave behind as essential information to allow Cordonia’s next leader to govern. In all honesty, he probably should be creating a sort of quick-guide, a makeshift introductory pamphlet with the most important pieces of information required to lead the country to ease the transition of power. However, another part of him felt like that would be a mistake. Maybe he should allow things to be rough initially, giving the people a chance to miss his leadership. It’s not like Rashad was completely incompetent, so it shouldn’t cause a dangerous power vacuum if he just left Rashad without any formal instructions. And, after all, didn’t a no-confidence vote indicate he shouldn’t be attempting to wield any power at the moment? If this was the wish of the majority of the major houses, maybe he should just let their little scheme play out and backfire on them in spectacular fashion. But was it fair to subject the common citizens to engage in such a game of political chicken?

A wave of loneliness and isolation washed over him as he weighed his options. This dilemma was just one of many he was facing at the moment that he wished he could discuss with Drake. Over the years, Drake had, more often than not, served as his sounding board, devil’s advocate, and unofficial advisor. The countless instances they’d sat in this office at the end of the day, sipping whiskey while Liam solidified his stances and bounced ideas off of Drake had helped him prepare to face political opponents, foreign negotiators, and skeptical members of the press time and time over. Now, he had to make decisions on his own, without his most trusted friend and ally.

For perhaps the tenth time that evening, he pulled the slip of paper Hana had given him out of his pocket and stared at Drake and Riley’s phone numbers. He could call Drake to talk, he supposed. But he was struggling to work up the courage to do so. He couldn’t just pretend nothing had changed and ask Drake to listen as he worked through his thought process. Drake had different priorities now. That much was wildly apparent.

There was also the small matter of the fact that Liam knew he would need to hide some of his thoughts and feelings from Drake at the moment. He’d done it before, back during Drake and Riley’s engagement, but part of doing so involved keeping his distance from Drake at that time. Drake just knew him better than anyone and could more easily read through his diplomatic mask. It was really only in the past six months or so that it seemed things had fully returned to normal, Drake’s marriage to Riley no longer a point of awkwardness between them. Now, for Drake to flee in the middle of a coup, it felt like the foundation of their friendship was being torn apart yet again.

A few sharp taps on the door interrupted his thoughts. A second later, the door swung open, revealing Olivia with a bottle of wine in her hand.

“I thought you might want some company,” she said as she strode across the room, grabbing two wine glasses off the bar cart before flouncing into the seat across from him. “I won’t even make you switch seats with me, even though the monarch’s desk should technically be mine tonight.”

Liam forced a smile as she sat down and moved to uncork the wine, noticing the vintage of the bottle for the first time.

“Olivia, that bottle is worth over ten thousand Euros.”

She grinned at him as she poured them both a glass. “Exactly. This fine wine was procured by a member of the Rys family, and therefore if anyone deserves to drink it, it’s you.” With that she handed Liam a glass and picked up her own. Liam could only shake his head lightly before tapping his glass against hers gently.

“To the end of Rys rule in Cordonia,” he said with a little shrug before taking a sip. He saw Olivia raise her eyebrows over her own glass.

“Liam…” she started as she set down her glass on the desk.

“It’s nothing, just a bad joke,” Liam lied, waving his hand through the air. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you which documents you think are the most important ones to leave for Rashad?” he asked as he placed a stack of paperwork on the desk between them, trying to divert the conversation.

His question was met with silence, so Liam glanced up from the documents. Olivia was staring at him intently, and she took another sip of her wine before she responded.

“I can certainly help with that, but Liam… are you… shit, I don’t know what to say. This fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”

He let out a little snort at that. “Indeed, it does.”

“I can’t believe those assholes are trying to pull this bullshit. Like fucking Barthelemy would make a better king than you. You’ve given up everything for this country.”

“It feels that way sometimes. I was happy to do so for so long, too. I always knew that leading Cordonia was an honor, and after my brother’s abdication, I never resented needing to prove to my people that I would be a worthy king. But now…” he trailed off, unable to vocalize the rest of that thought. After everything he’d done to be a good king, a better king than his paranoid, ruthless father ever was, and this was how the universe chose to repay him.

The tense silence hung in the office for a few moments before Olivia spoke again. “Speaking of your brother, I hope you don’t mind, but I gave Leo a call and told him what was happening. I figured this isn’t the sort of thing he should hear about on the news. I think he’s flying back. He seemed pretty upset over the whole thing.”

Liam just hummed at that. He loved his brother, but he wasn’t sure if the man who willingly chose to shed his title of Crown Prince would be able to sympathize with his personal pain of having his title stripped from him. Maybe he could help provide some nice distractions, though. Leo was always good for that.

“Thank you,” Liam finally said with a nod, “I planned to call him tomorrow.”

“No problem. I just figured you and Drake might have… a lot to discuss.”

Liam gave a weak smile and shook his head. “I actually haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly at his comment. “Well, that needs to be addressed.”

He frowned, taking another sip of the admittedly very excellent wine before he responded. “Quite frankly, Liv, I don’t know that I want to discuss my reasons for not calling him with you. At least not tonight.”

“Tough shit. You have no reason not to call him anymore. And seeing as he’s been your… confidante,” she said, clearly taking a moment to decide how to describe their relationship, “for decades, it strikes me as pretty concerning that you didn’t rush to call him at the first chance you got.”

Liam sighed heavily. He didn’t really want to get into this all, but she was clearly not going to let him brush this off. “I don’t know what to say to him. He left, and I just…” Liam trailed off, unable to fully vocalize the pain he felt in regards to Drake’s actions.

Olivia pursed her lips for just a moment, her bright red nails tapping rapidly against the stem of her wine glass. “I can’t figure out if you are attempting to punish him or protect him here.”

Her response caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you clearly are all sorts of angry and frustrated with him at the moment. I just can’t tell if you think that’s justified, and this is some sort of passive aggressive punishment, or if you realize you aren’t being fair, and you don’t want to make him feel any guiltier.”

“Are you saying that my irritation with him isn’t justified?”

“Irritation would be fine. But I don’t believe for one second that you would avoid talking to Drake if you were merely irritated with him.”

Liam was expecting some sort of sly comment about how surely talking to Drake was always irritating, but it didn’t come. Instead, Olivia continued on, serious and solemn.

“You must be insanely upset with him if you haven’t given him a call, and I’m going to be honest, that scares me. I’m backing you at the Conclave, Liam, and I intend to throw the Nevrakis name behind a winner. So that means you need to be emotionally ready for this fight over the next couple of months. I can’t have you caught up in some petty bullshit with Drake fucking Walker.”

Her statement was a surprising one. “I would have thought you would have been the one person who might understand my rather complicated point of view on this subject.”

She shook her head. “Drake and I may not see eye to eye on… a lot of things, actually, but I still think you are being absurd here.”

“This critique strikes me as slightly hypocritical, as I am having a hard time picturing you not being at least fairly angry with the mess they have created here. A mess that could have been avoided if they’d stuck to your plan, I might add.”

“Of course I’m angry with them! They put almost zero thought into this, and I’ve been scrambling for more than a day straight to try and prevent this all from spiraling into total disaster. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why they did it. This was all in service of keeping their family together, Liam. You have to know that.”

He did understand that intellectually, but somehow her assessment just didn’t sit right with him. “Yes, Olivia. I can comprehend that their motivations are the safety and security of their daughter, but what I cannot bring myself to do is approve of their decision to commit treason and abandon the citizens of Valtoria they took an oath to serve.”

Olivia took a long sip of her wine before she replied, “Do you want me to pretend that I believe your last statement there, or do you want someone besides Drake to call you on your bullshit? I can do either, you just need to tell me what you want.”

“Of course I want you to be honest with me, Olivia,” he said, completely baffled by her assertion.

She just raised her eyebrows and stared at him, giving him one last chance to ask her to lie, apparently. All he could do was raise his eyebrows right back and take a drink from his own glass, almost daring her to do her worst.

“You aren’t pissed that they are shitty nobles who just abandoned their posts without a second thought. You are pissed that Drake isn’t here to serve as your emotional support.”

Liam opened his mouth to retort, but Olivia shook her head and just kept going.

“It’s understandable, really. He’s been the one you could always turn to, and now it feels like you can’t rely on him at a time when you really fucking need that kind of support. But you need to at least recognize that personal pain as the source of your anger here and not hide behind indignation over the way Drake and Riley fulfill their roles as duke and duchess.

“Those two have always been shitty members of the nobility, and you have never had an issue with it up until this point. In fact, you seemed to tacitly approve of their antics as you granted them power that other dukes and duchesses could only dream of.”

Liam frowned, the blood pounding in his ears as he tried not to let Olivia’s words anger him. “What do you mean?” he breathed out, focusing on not letting this situation escalate. A defensive Olivia was the last thing he was mentally and emotionally equipped to handle tonight.

“Liam, you essentially handed them the reins when it came to the Auvernal negotiations.”

“Those negotiations all centered around their child. It felt wrong to not grant them a certain amount of control given the circumstances.”

She tilted her head back and forth for just a moment. “Sure, I get that. And I’m really not trying to make you defend your decisions here regarding that whole mess. But you have to admit that Drake and Riley have kind of always just done whatever the hell they wanted, and until today, you never had anything to say about it.”

Her assessment echoed through the room as Liam leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of wine. He didn’t want to think he was being solely motivated by his emotions here. He’d worked for years and years, since he was a young boy, to ensure that he kept any feelings in check, guarded and secured for private moments. But Olivia did have a point - Drake and Riley bucking tradition and proper conduct for members of the nobility had never really bothered him before. 

“Liam, I’m not trying to kick you while you’re already hurting. It’s probably natural to feel hurt by Drake’s decision here. I just think you will be able to move past this a little easier if you are honest about why his actions bother you.”

Liam glanced across the desk, meeting Olivia’s gaze. “I sometimes just…” but he couldn’t complete his thought. To vocalize that he just wanted the most important person in his life to care about him on a personal level above all others would be immature and selfish. Drake had a wife and child to think about. Of course they warranted more of his consideration than Liam did. But it was just one more thing he lost in the past day or so, that one person around whom he didn’t need to censor himself, the only individual who gave him honesty without question of motive.

Olivia reached across the desk and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Like I said, being upset is pretty natural here. If it makes you feel any better, I wanted to reach through my phone and stab them both in the gut when Drake told me they had no intention of returning, even if it meant treason charges.”

Liam let out a little chuckle. “How are you so… calm about this now?” Using that word to describe Olivia in any situation felt out of character, but there was literally no other way to describe her at the moment. She looked at ease, sipping thousands of Euros of wine like it was nothing.

“I’m not sure if ‘calm’ is the right word; it’s more like I’m… resigned, I guess. They are both stubborn as hell, and they made this choice because they thought it was best for their kid. Even I can’t fight that.”

“I just wish they would have gone to Lythikos. Then we could be fighting this from all angles together.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? That was your whole plan, and it still seems better thought out than their fugitive act.”

“From our perspective, sure. But we are worried about Cordonia as a whole. They are just worried about keeping their daughter. And given that Rashad already brought up wanting to meet with them to discuss custody, it seems like they were at least a little bit justified in their concerns.”

Liam frowned. Hana must have filled in Olivia of the details of their conversation with Rashad. Liam had gotten the impression that Rashad wanted to find a way to keep Drake and Riley as active participants in Bridget’s life based on the way he requested that meeting, not tear them apart from their child. “Do you really think Rashad has any interest in keeping them from their daughter?”

“No, not exactly. But I also think that coming to live at the palace as Bridget’s nannies or guardians or whatever Rashad plans to throw out there as a way to obey the letter of the law when it comes to the no-confidence vote is a far cry from being recognized as her parents fully. At the end of the day, I just think they aren’t willing to compromise on any aspect when it comes to being a family.” Olivia pursed her lips and glanced into her lap before she continued, “It kind of makes me wish my own parents would have felt that way.”

Her confession was so vulnerable, so honest, it nearly took his breath away. When they were younger, Olivia had sometimes talked about her fears, her pain, her neglect, and Liam had always been willing to lend an ear and supportive shoulder for her to lean on. But as the years marched on, those conversations had dwindled and eventually ceased. Olivia became more defensive, not allowing herself to be perceived as weak by anyone. And in some regards, she thrived. But clearly, that pain from her childhood was still a part of her.

Liam could identify with her in some respects. Father had always devoted more time and energy to Leo. After all, not only had he been the Crown Prince, but he acted out more, drawing more attention nearly every step of the way. But that had largely left Liam to spend time with Mother, who always tried to balance his formal lessons with genuine warmth and affection. And even though she’d been killed and taken from him when he was still quite young, he at least had her guidance and devotion for a while. That was more than Olivia could say about her parents.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Mother might have made the same choice as Drake and Riley, had she been placed in that position. He didn’t recognize it as a child, but looking back on her words now, he saw her concerns, her worries, and her desire to keep him safe. Did she regret her station? Regret raising her son in such an environment? Or did the fact that he’d never known her as an adult mean that he just saw her actions through the rose-tinted glasses of a child?

“Bridget is lucky in that respect,” Liam eventually said, reaching across the desk and refilling both of their wine glasses. “I suppose that’s why royal lineage tends to be emphasized and protected for generation after generation. It’s the only way to battle that instinctual urge to protect one’s children and instead force them to carry massive responsibilities.”

Olivia shook her head. “Or generations of people who strike up primarily political marriages just eliminates all love and empathy from the gene pool.”

“What would you have done, if you were in their position?” Liam asked before taking another sip of wine. The more he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what he would have done if it was his own child. All the options that worked their way into his mind seemed terrible.

Olivia paused to take a drink as well, her free hand tapping a rapid pattern against the surface of the desk. “I don’t know. I’d like to think I would be able to plot things out rationally, but I might have violently lashed out. I don’t think I would have run, but that’s just never been my style. But I don’t know exactly how it would unfold.”

“It’s hard to imagine, acting on that gut emotional response, isn’t it? All our lives, we’ve been taught to negotiate, to employ diplomatic tactics, to foster alliances to protect our titles.”

“You might have been taught that,” interjected Olivia, “but I was taught to fight to protect the family name to the death,”

“Touché,” said Liam, a real smile forming for the first time that day, “but I think my point remains. I don’t think I could let my child be taken by another, but at the same time, it’s as if I cannot imagine myself being guided by my emotions, even if it would make sense to do so.”

“You would protect your kid, Liam. You would figure it out if you were put in that spot.”

“I hope so. I think you would as well, and with minimal bloodshed, I believe.”

She laughed at that, dropping her head back, causing a few strands of red hair to fall loose around her face. “Well, let’s just be grateful we don’t have to find out the truth of that assessment, but it’s getting late, and we still have a lot to do before we need to vacate the palace in the morning. Do you want some privacy to talk to Drake? I can sort through those-” she said, gesturing to the stack of papers left between them on the desk “-while you give him a call.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but…”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said with a shrug, gathering the papers in one arm. “Just meet me in my quarters when you guys are done.”

Liam gave her a little smile as she left his office, pulling out the paper from Hana and staring at it for a few seconds before pulling out his new, prepaid cell phone and calling the number on the top of the page. It was time to talk to Drake.

Permatag:  @walkerswhiskeygirl   @riley--walker  @bebepac @ravenpuff02 @oofchoices @octobereighth @drakewalker04 @kimmiedoo5  @mfackenthal  @thequeenofcronuts  

The Royal Romance/The Royal Heir: @ao719 @mskaneko @katedrakeohd @jovialyouthmusic @marshmallowsandfire @axwalker @kingliam2019 @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @princessleac1 @ladyangel70 @dcbbw @yaushie

Drake x MC: @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria  @iplaydrake @gibbles82 @drakewalkerisreal @notoriouscs  @drakesensworld @drake-colt-lover-99

Fight or Flight: @masterofbluff @burnsoslow @bobasheebaby @shz256 @iaminlovewithtrr​

[phcking-detective]

FOUND

Find Familiar: ch 1

Rating: E

Summary: Nines cast the spell Find Familiar, but instead of an animal, they accidentally summoned a werewolf. Gavin is just happy to have finally found his mate and start pack bonding with the half-elf wizard. His best idea for a fun bonding activity? Touching his dick of course!

***

Gavin wakes up with a warm, breathing body pressed against his own, and it's all he ever wanted.

Then reality seeps in like cold rain and he realizes it's just the one person, not a dog pile, because he doesn't have a pack. Only a wizard who maybe sort of magically owns him now.

So that's a great start to the morning.

He gets a stew started like he promised, once he finds some potatoes and carrots, one lonely haunch of meat in an icebox, and no spices beyond salt. There aren't many places to look, since the whole room is five, maybe six hundred square feet.

Gods. Gavin's a lone wolf living half-feral without a tent or even a fire half the time, and he still thinks this is pathetic.

He knows better than to touch any of the books scattered around—fucking wizards—so he doesn't try to clean anything while he waits for his new … boss? Alpha?? person, to wake up.

(He does risk moving a stack of papers to sit in front of the black leather collar on the desk. Not hidden. Just. Out of sight.)

"No celery?" the wizard asks.

Gavin bites down on a flinch and a few choice swears. Sweet Selûne shift him. Who the fuck goes from asleep to awake completely silent like that?

"No," he growls.

Nines blinks themself more awake. "Is your negative an agreement to my question or simply a negative?"

"Baby, I have no idea what the fuck you mean, but there's not any celery."

"Oh. Thank you."

The conversation ends there when he dishes out a bowl of stew, that Nines eats at their desk, one agonizingly slow bite at a time, almost as an afterthought as they work on creating papers and papers of writing.

Since the wizard is so absorbed in their scribbles they can barely notice food, Gavin strips down and takes a bath. The water runs hot straight out of the faucet, even without any signs of pipes. Sinking into a whole tub of it feels goddamn luxurious.

He's half-shifted before he even realizes, but Nines probably wouldn't notice he got out and swung his dick around like a propeller, so he doesn't force himself back. His hybrid form always feels better anyway, the best of both animals, with human hands and wolf senses, still able to stand and walk upright but with stronger muscles and thicker protective body hair.

He's still sunk down and amusing himself by blowing bubbles in the water with his near-snout when Nines finally surfaces for air on their own side of the tower.

"Gav—oh."

They turn around and blink at him. Gavin hunkers down lower in the water and prepares to force himself back, but even without actively poking the bond, he can tell there isn't any fear or revulsion from the wizard. He still pulls his snout of out the water and scents the air just to check, but … nothing.

"Good. Yes. Feel free to utilize any of the …" Nines pauses, stuck on the words. "Accommodations. Can you read?"

It's probably a fair question—especially since the answer is barely—but Gavin still hauls himself out of the bathtub and onto the sand pit so Nines will have to look at him. All the scars, the body hair almost thick enough to be a pelt, the way his bone structure is clearly halfway between one form and the other right now.

But instead of making the wizard flinch away and stop asking questions, Nines just grabs a different notebook and begins sketching him.

"Why?" Gavin growls out.

He can still speak, but just like his amount of literacy, the amount is barely. With lots of effort.

"Hmm?"

Nines looks up. Sort of. They lift their head at least, but their eyes stay focused down on their notebook, reluctantly dragged up at the very last second.

"Mm? Oh. Yes, here is your contract," they say.

They place the small stack of papers they'd written onto the dining table in the center of the room, then the two of them meet in the middle, each awkwardly taking a seat across from each other at the table, then staring at each other even more awkwardly.

"That is my brother's seat," Nines says.

Gavin raises an eyebrow but doesn't move his ass out of it. At least he put pants on before sitting down.

"I have never had another visitor," the wizard continues. "So. That has always been …"

They trail off, then grab their notebook and begin reading from it.

"My name is Nines. I am a wizard. I am thirty-two year half-elf. I do not have a gender. I use they-them pronouns. Pause for—"

They stop abruptly and look back up at him.

"… Gavin," he says. "I'm a fighter, thirty-six, werewolf. Born, not turned, so we don't really keep track of any races. You're either a wolf or you're not. Probably human though. Uh, he-him."

If they don't bother with human binary genders, maybe they'd understand just … switching genders? He thinks about it while Nines writes down what he'd said, like anything he says is actually important enough to be recorded.

Maybe he should let them get a little more attached to him before he tells them about the other crazy, evil wizard with a claim on him—and all the transformations they'd done on his body.

"Does your entire pack consist of born lycanthropes?" they ask, drawing him back into the conversation.

"Can just say wolves," Gavin grumbles. "And yeah. Haven't taken in a stray for a while."

No one does. That's why he's still—ugh, stop it. Fucking feeling sorry for himself.

"Is there a significant cultural difference between born and turned … wolves?"

Gavin stares at the wizard. Significant cultural difference, Selûne shift and collar him.

"Turned wolves don't have a pack," he finally says. "No one to share the mental load—most of the poor fuckers don't even know what's happening until they're already shifted and scared and starving. They've got just enough instinct to go back home, and then the screaming and running starts …"

He assumes he doesn't have to finish it from there. A hungry wolf sees something run, and they think prey, not child.

"I apologize if I ask simple questions," Nines states while still writing. "But I have never had the opportunity to meet a wolf in person, and so my knowledge is likely biased and incorrect. Is a coastal environment a suitable habitat for you?"

Gavin shrugs. "Sure. You gonna let me run around outside at some point?"

"Yes, of course. You may come and go as you please," Nines says. "How much land will your pack need? I do own the surrounding—"

His pack? Gavin stares at Nines as they ramble on about this land they own and how it's too rocky to support farming but has access to a cove, and the ensuing treaty with the local pod of merfolk, and—

And his pack. He has no idea what game the wizard is playing, but he never imagined it would include letting him "come and go as you please" and providing land for his—

"I don't have a pack," he blurts out.

Nines stops and blinks at him.

"Got kicked out."

He doesn't explain. It's impossible to explain just one thing, because it's all tangled together, in his mind, the words stuck in his throat. Refusing his pack's Alpha, bargaining to have his body changed and transformed, his womb scooped out so he could never be bred, never ever—

And where exactly that got him. They sit together in silence for a long, horrible moment.

"No one has need of a ninth child," Nines finally says.

"You really call yourself that?" Gavin asks in return, for lack of anything less dick-ish to say.

"Yes." Nines looks at him without any self-pity and factually adds, "It states all that most need to know. They do not need me, and I do not need them."

Gavin nods. "Fuck 'em."

"Yes. Well. I—" Nines stops and abruptly pushes the small pile of paperwork closer to his side of the table. "Here is your contract. It details what I … do need. And, expectations. I suppose the fifth clause is no longer necessary, unless you intend to create your own."

"My own … pack?" Gavin asks slowly.

"Yes."

He snorts. "I'm not going to run around and start turning people."

"Yes, that is included in the clause," Nines says. "Subsection A. Not to offend, but I thought it best to lay out a certain number of precautions first. B notes that you will be beholden to all the same laws as any other citizen, and C states you will make adequate arrangements for the full moon with myself or Knight Commander Anderson."

Gavin pulls a face at the rank. That shit's almost definitely a paladin. No sense of humor, holier than thou, and allergic to critical thinking. Just because you pledged allegiance to a deity society deemed "Good" doesn't actually mean literally everything you do is always going to be right or kind or morally just.

"He is also a lycan—" Nines stops and corrects, "A turned wolf, you called it? If expecting the two of you to … have commonalities … is unreasonable, then the subsection can be adjusted accordingly. The point is merely that you arrange for a safe and secure location each month."

"Yeah, we're not going to sniff each other's butts and be best friends," Gavin tells him. "It's probably how you feel about sorcerers and warlocks. Magic just looks like magic to me, but—yeah."

He stops when he sees Nines's face collapse into itself in the purest form of affronted disgust he's ever seen. This time, he can't stop a chuckle before it slips out.

"I can just stay here though?" he asks.

Nines unfurls their face enough to nod. "Yes. My power may be my own, achieved through my own studies, but I was sent to the same monastery as my twin. I acknowledge you have been sent by my patron deity, and I will fulfill my responsibilities to you thusly."

Gavin's eyebrows shoot up. "You're religious?"

"I worship Selûne," Nines answers.

Gavin stares at the wizard.

"Children born under the full moon often have enhanced magical ability," they explain. "She is also the goddess of navigation, quests, and all who work by night. It was the battle with her own twin that caused the formation of Mystral, the goddess of all magic. Many arcane users still worship her as such."

"And werewolves," Gavin says as how this shit all happened clicks into place.

"Your duties outlined in the contract." Nines stops and clears their throat. "Every power has a price, and mine was enacted at my birth. I have always needed certain accommodations. I realize now a mere animal would not be enough to serve as my familiar, yet a person has never been summoned before. A familiar that is both animal and person, however …"

Gavin nods at the stack of papers. "So am I your familiar or your employee?"

"Well, both," Nines answers. "You are magically bound to me, but you obviously are not a simple animal. I have made adjustments due to these extenuating circumstances, but this is a standard contract for all minions, assistants, and others employed by wizards."

He snorts. "Do I have a union?"

"Yes, subsection E, although you will need to opt-in," Nines replies, very sincerely.

Gavin taps the top paper to make a point when he asks his next question, and the paper suddenly yells the word "HEREFORE" at him.

"Oh, my apologies." Nines takes the stack from him and scribbles a few marks in the top corner. "There, the volume should be properly adjusted."

Gavin cautiously slides the papers back over, being careful to only touch the sides of the stack. He takes the first page off the top and pokes his name, one of the few words he recognizes.

"Gavin," the paper announces.

"I have paperwork I must complete to officially register you as both my familiar and my new minion," Nines tells him. "I trust you can be left to your own devices to review our contract?"

"Yeah," Gavin says.

"Very good."

Nines gets up and returns to their desk. Still no collar, only … this contract. Gavin runs his finger along the first line.

"The entity known as Gavin, herefore referred to as THE FAMILIAR, will enter into a magically binding contract with Nines, herefore referred to as THE WIZARD, to serve in the capacities of both a FAMILIAR and a MINION, as outlined by the Wizard Coalition of …"

***

Gavin nuzzles into his bed and groans. Three days of barely stopping to hunt and sleep to get here, and now it's been another three days of slowly figuring each other out.

Which hasn't been bad or anything. He got to run around outside, do a few laps around the borders of Nines's land. Cold, wet, and rocky, but he has to admit, he's kind of digging the melodramatic sea-side vibe. The air smells like salt and storms all the time, crowding out all the memories of soft earth and dense forest.

And he's got a contract. A "boss." That's the word Nines wants to use, so Gavin says that, but they both know he means Alpha.

It's good to have a job, food, and a bed, blah blah blah, he's really grateful and all, it's just—

Maybe not everyone has them or wants to indulge in them, but Gavin does for both.

And it's been nearly a week.

"Nines," he finally says.

He pokes at their bond too for good measure. The wizard won't pay attention to him unless he does. They'll look up and point their face at his face, but somehow their hand will keep writing in the scroll and they won't hear a goddamn word he says.

Even with the mental prodding, Nines barely turns their head. "Hmm?"

"I need to jack off."

Nines keeps writing for half a second before they blink and actually look at him. "… now?"

Gavin half-shrugs, still laying down. "I mean, tonight, yeah."

He's a werewolf using testosterone cream—kept in a jar in his coin purse, which was much more important to enchant to shift with him than shoes—who just formed a mental pack bond again. Full moon already past or no, his hormones are screaming at him that he needs to fuck.

But that's probably not Nines's idea of a fun bonding activity.

"Do you have adequate lubrication?" Nines asks, then continues with narrowed eyes before he can even reply, "Do not use my spell components."

Gavin barks out a laugh. "What—I'm gonna jack it with oblex ooze? That'd melt my fucking dick off!"

"Yes, it would."

He pauses. "Do … you know that for sure?"

Nines sighs. Deeply. "I attended an academy meant to train paladins, clerics, and perhaps the odd druid."

"All the most repressed spellcasters, huh?"

Nines doesn't deny it. Gavin snorts, imagining all the magically-inclined tithe-children being told to keep themselves pure so they can be properly donated to the gods turning into magically-inclined teenagers hit with guilt and libido in equal measure—and all the idiot fuckery they probably got up to without any actual education about their bodies.

"Do you have adequate lubrication?" Nines asks again. "I do not keep supplies for that on hand."

"You don't keep supplies or you don't uh, keep anything on hand?" Gavin wiggles his eyebrows.

Nines flushes and glares like they're still a prefect at that academy. "I—that is not—"

Gavin raises his own hands to prove they're above the sheets. "If that's not any of my business, sure. Figured that, honestly. Which is why I'm telling you that I've got needs, but I can just go downstairs if you want."

"Downstairs?" Nines frowns less furiously.

"That little entranceway at the door is large enou—"

"I'm not going to send you out into the hall," Nines says, like that's what will make them clutch their pearls in shock. "You can stay in your own bed."

"Yeah?" Gavin gives the wizard a once over. "I'm good with that. So good. But what I'm willing to do with pack and what you think is appropriate for a roommate probably isn't the same thing."

Nines's frown turns more calculating, like they're correcting the runes in a spell. "We are discussing you staying in your bed to masturbate while I continue my studies, correct?"

"… yeah?"

"Are you going to call me names, attempt to touch me, or—"

"No, no," Gavin rushes to reassure them. "I can just …"

He moves his hand down and cups himself, just to demonstrate that he's only going to be touching his own body, before he remembers that's not socially acceptable around humans either. Nines only cocks their head to the side though, a mild curiosity leaking through their mental bond.

And fuck, just his hand feels good right now. It's been nearly a goddamn week.

"Do you have adequate lubrication?" Nines asks.

Gavin shivers under the sound of their voice. "Don't need it. Get wet enough myself."

He feels the bond pulse again with that academic sort of curiosity, like Nines is going to start taking notes on him again while he jacks off. He pushes his trousers down, moving slowly enough to give his boss plenty of time to look away. He isn't wearing smalls of course. They'd just be another piece he'd have to pay to get enchanted.

Nines eyes his cock like they might sketch it in exact anatomical detail.

Gavin doesn't mention how he got it—his bargain and the Collar, the collapsed tower, the vows of vengeance—he'll get around to confessing it all eventually. But in the meantime: a fun bonding activity.

Gavin grips his cock and gives it a few strokes. Nines blinks in a way that's more like shutting their eyes repeatedly. He exhales slowly and makes himself stop, although he does still keep his hand held loosely around the base.

"If you don't want echoes, you'll have to wall off your mind on your own end," he advises Nines. "I'm uh … a little too busy here to concentrate."

"Echoes," Nines repeats.

Shit, right. Human. Doesn't seem to specialize in any divination or enchantment magic—so they probably don't have any experience being inside someone else's head.

"Yeah, that's why I offered to," He jerks his chin at the door. "Distance helps, some."

Nines does that tiny little head tilt again. "May I observe?"

Gavin licks his lips. "Yeah."

"May I ignore you?" they ask next.

"Uh, sure?"

He doesn't have any human hangups about nudity, but he's not going to whip his dick out and waggle it at anyone who doesn't want to see it. Jacking off in the same room is probably already pushing it, but then again, the rules seem to be different in boarding schools and barracks and sometimes bars but sometimes not—humans have so many weird fucking rules.

"Then," Nines says. "You do as you please, and I will do the same."

"Works for me."

Gavin gives his cock another squeeze, and Nines turns back to their scroll. Yeah, he's a little disappointed about that, but it's enough just to have his pack in the same room and know he's not alone.

Since the wizard isn't watching anyway, Gavin rolls over and shoves a blanket down around his crotch. He has a whole nest of them, all piled up on top of a mattress Nines insisted he have. They'd tried to bring in an actual bed, but it's just weird, sleeping so high up and away from the ground for no reason.

He gets a soft little mound built up and grips himself again through the blanket. Even if Nines makes him wash it after, this will make his bed smell like him and home and—

Gavin buries his face into his pillow and inhales. It still has Nines's scent on it. All the blankets do too, so now they'll smell like the both of them, like pack.

He feels a fresh jab of interest spike back through their bond and guesses Nines is watching him again. Maybe jacking off right in front of them like that was a little too much, but with everything mostly out of view now, they're back to curious again.

It only takes him a minute to build up a steady rhythm, rutting into the blankets and his own hand. He groans into the pillow and hears Nines breathe in sharply.

Echoes. He grins and keeps going.

He doesn't know what kind of needs Nines has or wants to fulfill, but he likes the thought of making them feel good. Would like it even better if he could crawl over between the wizard's legs and find out what they're working with by licking it.

"Gavin …"

The wolf whines in response to his name in his Alpha's mouth. He squeezes his hand tighter at the base of his cock against the knot trying to plump up there, just in case Nines wants it.

"Yeah, baby?" Gavin manages to growl.

"Oh."

Nines breathes the word, and Gavin can feel a small simmer of arousal bounce back and forth between them—this time from the wizard's end, not his.

"Does it always feel like this?" they ask.

He groans in answer, the only response he has to the soft wonder in their voice. He knows humans' senses are weak and dull, that they don't get hit with lust and frenzy the same way wolves do.

But hearing the awe in his human's voice the first time they feel it too makes him want to show them how good it can really feel.

"Yeah," he bites out. "Better with … you."

His canines get in the way of the words, the partial shift rippling through his body. He's never had particularly good control of it, so there's no stopping the change now when his blood's up.

"Are you wet?"

The question stabs through him. Gavin loses his rhythm with a whimper, nearly overcome with the instinct to crawl over and show his Alpha, present his cock or his mouth or whatever hole they want to use.

And he is wet. He can feel it dripping down the length of his cock, more pooling at the head, smearing into the palm of his hand.

"Uh huh," he pants.

Gavin bites down into the blankets as he ruts harder, but a sharply clicked tongue brings him back to awareness. He turns his head to the side and blearily stares up at Nines as he continues fucking his own hand.

"I would like to hear you," Nines says.

"Baby," Gavin breathes in reply.

Nines closes their eyes and shivers. Well, if they like his voice …

"Wanna lick you," he says. "Suck on you and make you—ahhh, make you feel good."

"I—" Nines stares at him with wide eyes.

"Shh, shhh." Gavin keeps making the noise in a low mumble as he slows down his pace into a dirty grind. "Gotcha baby, get my mouth on your nipples an' your neck, your mouth, make you wet too."

"I don't usually like to be touched," Nines admits.

Gavin's brain snatches onto the word usually, but he doesn't want to push. There's some shit he knows for sure he won't ever do, but then there's a lot more he just doesn't know if he really doesn't want, or maybe only in the right situation, with the right pronouns and body parts, the right person, but then how is he supposed to know if he wants it enough to try it if he won't know if he actually wants it until he's already tried it?

So that's a whole big nest of wyverns, and neither of them need to try to sort it out right this moment.

"Can give you this though, yeah?" Gavin asks.

He twists his wrist on the upstroke against the head, but then stops and holds completely still. Nines tries to strangle a whine in their throat at the lost sensation.

"… yes."

That confession sounds much better. Gavin grins at the wizard and starts thrusting again, still looking at them. Their long eyelashes and shoulder-length hair almost soften their face into pretty, but then thin lips, a straight nose, and strong jaw sharpen the effect back up again. And the ice-blue eyes set against pale skin and black hair just sends it all careening past beautiful or handsome into big words about being scary-haunting-magical that the wolf can't think of right now.

He can feel his orgasm building up, drowning in those eyes staring right back at him, but he squeezes harshly at the base of his cock. The sensation strangles at the root, like the little moans Nines won't let escape their mouth.

He probably shouldn't tempt it, but he sinks into the feeling of tightening and loosening his grip around his knot and the waves of pleasure that sends rolling through them both.

"You," Nines says but can't seem to find anymore words.

"Mmgff." Gavin huffs into the pillow and tries to make his own words work. "Good, feels good. Sorry. Won't knot if—fffuck."

If that scares you. Disgusts you. Bores you, to be stuck listening to him come and come and come while the exasperated wizard is trying to focus on their studies.

He pries his eyes back open when he hears footsteps and stares up at Nines paused in an awkward-half crouch over him, like they're not sure if they're allowed to touch. His tail makes the decision for both of them by immediately wagging in anticipation of pets and attention.

"May I touch you?" Nines still asks.

Gavin nods past a desperate whine. A hand slides up the back of his neck first, while another soothes over his bare flank. Must've kicked off his trousers at some point. All that matters is the hand on the back of his neck, pinning him down, holding him place, exactly where he should be for his Alpha.

His tail wags harder.

"May I see?"

The hands urge him to roll over, and he does, without hesitation, like a dog showing his belly when his master comes home.

Laying on his back like this, he knows the partial shift is even more apparent. Just about everything humans think they know is bullshit, but his hybrid form really does look like those shitty illustrations of big scary wolf men.

And that's without the thick, hairy cock jutting out between his legs.

He's proud of it, wanted it, needed it, but that was for himself. He wasn't trying to impress anyone, and he's not expecting a human to like it.

"Does your phallus typically have this appearance, or is it increasingly engorged due to your partial transformation?" Nines asks.

Gavin stares up at them and tries to impress through their mental bond just how many fucking words that was.

Nines flushes and tries again. "Does it get bigger when you shift?"

"Yeah," he says. "Touch me?"

He holds his cock slightly out toward the wizard in offering. Nines hums in consideration but doesn't make any move toward it. That's fair.

"Do you knot without …" They struggle with the words again. "Sex?"

Gavin strokes himself, tugging upward and pause at the head. It leaves his knot free below, not quite there yet, but noticeably swollen under the attention.

"Can. Sometimes."

"Will you show me?"

Nines stares down at him and meeting their eyes is like looking at the moon. Humans want so badly to sort everything into Good or Bad, even the deities they worship. But some things aren't good or bad, only intense.

Gavin nods, mouth slack and panting. He wraps his left hand around his knot to work it while his right keeps stroking the rest. Nines's eyes sweep up and down him like a search light scanning for a rogue.

"Feel … good?" he asks between pants.

Maybe he's already asked, but it's hard to think right now. He tugs at the bond, trying to pull Nines's mind closer to him, get them to come down out of the sky and feel it with him. The wizard's hands clench into the robes draped over their kneeling legs.

Then they open their eyes again, and Gavin could swear their irises really have turned a silvery-blue.

"Behave."

The order thunders down their bond and into his chest. Gavin groans, the tightness coiled inside him easing another measure. He's not quite ready to unspool, but maybe—maybe just a little?

"I am asking about you."

Nines's voice changes from questioning and a little stilted to informing him of how it is, like casting a spell. Gavin doesn't have any ability himself, but as far as he knows, that's kind of how they do it. Spell casting is just telling reality what to do with enough conviction that reality up and does it.

"Do you want to be mine?"

Gavin thrusts into his hands in answer. It's sloppy and a little pathetic, because there's nothing for him to rut into. But he starts nodding again, just in case that wasn't enough.

"Like this?" Nines touches him for the second time, one hand gently curling around his throat. "To be mine."

He's coming undone. Falling apart. Food and shelter and an Alpha, their own little pack of two, someone touching him and promising to claim him.

"Suh … 'posed to be … yours."

He knows it's true, it's true, true. The call in his mind, their contract, both of them bound by Selûne.

"Yes," Nines confirms. "Show me."

Gavin comes almost before they finish speaking. He tries to hold eye contact as long as he can, but eventually his own squeeze shut as he curls in on himself with a shudder. The first wave passes deceptively quick, with just a few spurts from his cock.

But he's not done.

"Good boy."

Those hands are back again, just like before, this time encouraging him to roll back onto his belly. They stroke through his hair and scritch behind his ears when he obeys, and he thinks life couldn't possibly get any better until there's a warm body sliding onto the mattress behind him.

Then he's being spooned and everything inside him unravels without any warning.

When he's done coming for the second time, he's aware of a few things: the hand wrapped back around his throat, first. That the gangly half-human, half-elf is tall enough to almost envelope him completely. The soft murmur of praise in his ear, shifted halfway up his head now and nearly wolf-like.

Yours.

It's harder to send the thought out when he's only partially shifted. Even with other wolves, they all share best as animals, some basic concepts as hybrids, and only faint echoes when unshifted.

But being the wizard's familiar must be different, since he'd heard the summons in his head from damn near across the country, in all forms, while Nines can't shift at all.

You are mine. I will take care of you, if you allow me to keep you.

Oh yeah, that's definitely different. Wolves share senses and feelings, not full sentences.

Keep me, Gavin manages to think back.

"Yes," Nines murmurs aloud.

The third wave hits him, and he sobs as he comes for his Alpha. His body is just doing the best it can to please, still managing to pump out another two shots of cum. He can finally feel a tinge of mild revulsion from Nines, but it seems to be aimed more at the mess than himself. Bold feelings from a wizard who left a hunk of bread to mold so long they mistook it for a stoneshroom.

"Perhaps I should invest in a toy," they muse. "A sleeve somewhat akin to a bag of holding, so that it can contain all this mess."

Gavin groans in a not-sexy way. "Don't make me fuck a void."

"No, the pocket dimension would only be applied at the tip of the—"

He can't help but start laughing. Pocket dimension applied at the tip—and said completely straight. Goddamn wizards.

Nines expresses their irritation at being laughed at by nipping his ear, and yep, there's wave number four. To their credit, they do continue to hold him until he gets another brief reprieve.

"How many times does this occur?" they ask when he's done.

"Depends," Gavin scrapes together enough brain matter to say. "More with … partner."

"Hmm," Nines says, like the feral scientist they are.

Gavin flips off his pride and goes straight to begging. "Please."

He's not sure what exactly he's begging for though—not to be forced into multiple orgasms while Nines observes or takes notes, or that the wizard will get started on that right away.

"Please, please, baby."

Nines pulls him back to rest half on top of their body, which lets them switch their right hand for their left hand around his throat without him laying on top of their arm. And that in turn frees up their right hand to drop down to his cock.

"Yours, yours," he mumbles. "Alpha."

"What do you need?"

Their hand brushes his own, the one gripping his knot. He lets go for an agonizing second to press their hand against it instead. Nines lets him wrap his hand back around theirs, using both of their hands to squeeze and lightly tug the knot.

"Ah … ahhh …"

"Ask properly," Nines orders.

"Alphaaa!"

He practically wails the word, shaking apart in Nines's arms and beneath their hand, but he can't now, it's not enough on his own anymore, not without permission.

"Hmmm."

Gavin cries freely, but doesn't make Nines grip him tighter or stroke him off. His Alpha will give him what he needs, and he'll take what he's given, like a good boy.

But that doesn't mean he can't ask for more.

"Baby," he groans. "Need it, need it, I—phck, please!"

"Yes."

The final wave sweeps over him so hard he goes blind, or his eyes shut, or he's back on his belly again, face smushed into the pillow, Nines's hand still around him and the blankets beneath his cock to rut into and it's not the last because Nines tells him Again and Again, until he's coming dry, throat hoarse from crying.

And then once more after that.

When he regains consciousness again, his whole body feels sore in the best possible way. There's drool running down his chin, tacky and drying to the pillow. He has his knees tucked up beneath him, but that's OK, because this is how he's supposed to present anyway.

Except the hand reaching between his legs doesn't breach him. Something soft and wet swipes over him instead, and he can't even muster up the mental energy to be scared, to explain why that's still there, that he managed to bargain for a working cock and all his insides scooped out, but that's still—

"Hush." Nines soothes him with another hand rubbing his back. "You did very well. All you must do now is rest."

Gavin sinks back down into the delicious ache and doesn't move while Nines cleans the slick from between his thighs, then further up to his cock. The blankets he'd rutted into have already been removed at some point. He knows from experience not even the best wizard on the material plane could wash his scent out though and takes a moment to feel a little smug about it.

"Yes, you came a truly impressive amount," Nines says. "Excessive, actually."

Gavin smacks his mouth before he can speak. "Your fault."

"Hmmm."

Nines stands when he's done and moves away. Gavin manages to flop onto his side and curl up. His boss did say he could sleep now. He just needs a little nap.

He gets a flask of water shoved in his face instead. The hand petting him goes back awkward again, pat-pat-pat instead of real pets. Nines doesn't seem to know exactly what to do now that they're done, but clean up and water was still really nice of them.

Gavin finishes gulping down the flask and heaves in air.

"I have work I need to finish," Nines informs him. "Have your needs been sufficiently met?"

Sufficiently met? Fuck, he's had orgies that didn't wear him out this good.

"Yeah," Gavin answers. "Need to sleep now."

Nines smiles at him. "Excellent. Good boy."

Gavin grins lazily back at them. "And when I wake up, I'm gonna crawl over between your legs and make you feel good too."

Nines flushes and half opens their mouth to protest.

"When you need a break from your scroll-thingy, and only if you let me," he adds.

Nines closes their mouth. They don't say anything else, but that means they also don't say no. Their blush doesn't go away either. They simply stand back up and sit down at their desk, spending far too much concentration fussing over the exact alignment of all their inks and quills instead of looking at Gavin.

Who keeps grinning, even as he yawns and snuggles down in his bed. He just needs a little nap, and then after that … he has all sorts of ideas for fun bonding activities.

***

***

This fic was commissioned by one of my followers to continue the first drabble! Subscribers to my Patreon get early access to all my commissioned fics 2 weeks before they’re posted to AO3 and tumblr ^^

[chaos-caffeinated]

The Illegitimate Son

Rating: T; General Angst

Word Length: 4,265 Words 

Chapter: Chapter 4, Part 2/3; The Intervention

---

          He shyly knocked before poking his head in to see the counselor, and hero, sitting behind his desk, waiting for him. Hound Dog met his gaze and waved him in, taking note of Aaron’s attempt to make himself more presentable -washed face, swept back hair, straightened uniform- as he sat in the plush seat across from his desk.

          "Aaron, right?" He asked. Aaron only nodded politely in response, his body tense.

          Organizing his thoughts and being careful not to intimidate the young redhead, Hound Dog relaxed his shoulders and softened his scrutinizing glare. Aaron kept twiddling his thumbs, nervously glancing back towards the door he entered through. The tension was palpable, and it came from only one person.

          “Aaron, you aren’t in any sort of trouble.”

          The young male relaxed, a heavy sigh escaping his once pursed lips as he leaned back into the chair, but he still seemed on guard.

          It would be a gradual process, but Hound Dog was patient, he had to be. Partially because his Quirk made him incoherent when he got upset, but also because of his background as a counselor. He knew Aaron would answer in his own time, all he had to do was ask the right questions at the right time.

          “I just want to know how you’re doing. It can be difficult adjusting to a new school, let alone a new country. So, are you well?”

          His body retreated into the chair.

          His frame shrunk slightly.

          His eyes glued to the floor.

          "I am." Aaron blatantly lied, biting the inside of his lip, "I'm just...it's hard to get accustomed to... a new culture."

          This is good, he may be lying, but at least he’s talking. And that is all Hound Dog needs.

          "New culture?”

          “Um… well, not really the culture… uh, heroes? They’re seen…differently, I guess.”

          Hound Dog was silent as he thought of his reply, watching himself. “Aaron, does this difference in perspective have anything to do with this?”

          He pulled out two papers, placing them in front of Aaron and patiently waited.

          Hesitant, Aaron glanced at the fine lines of the papers, the words for him blurry but recognizable. Getting a closer look, his attention was focused on the paper that was written on. It was filled out in its entirety, even the margins had scrawling. Finally, he brought himself to look at the blank paper, his paper, beside it.

          "You left yours blank, yet you wrote your name on it and gave it back. Wouldn't it have been easier if you just kept the paper?" His voice was softer, and he leaned forward.

          Aaron clenched his jaw, he didn't want this right now, he wanted to leave. Looking anywhere besides the counselor in front of him, he shrugged his shoulders and sunk back into his seat.

          "I suppose you want to leave, want to talk about anything else, but Aaron,” Hound Dog took a deep breath, “is that really what you need?”

          Aaron flinched again and glanced at his eyes, he wanted him to be cold and critical, intimidating and unable to speak properly like the other day, his eyes boring straight through him but… they were so soft and filled with genuine worry.

          He didn't like that at all.

          "I’m not feeling well, and I'm sorry I brought it to the campus."

          "Why are you apologizing for something you didn’t do?"

          Aaron's lips quivered and he looked down, his eyes beginning to tear up. "Because... Because U.A. is a prestigious school and... I don't deserve to be here… I only applied because I thought I wouldn’t pass, and the only reason I even had to apply was because my mom got a job here and my brother moved here. I’m a skater, not a hero and I have too many problems and god dammit I shouldn’t be feeling sorry!”

          He shut down; anxiety turned to anger. Aaron hated that he felt sorry for himself. More important people had greater issues, so why should he worry about himself? He didn’t matter, and he shouldn’t.

          Should he?

          "So, you think yourself unworthy?"

          Aaron shook his head, "No I... I feel weird, when I know I’m not the only one that's having trouble and I feel bad for... feeling bad about me."

          That… was not what Hound Dog was expecting, but it was progress and that is what he wanted.

          "So, to sum things up,” he began, organizing Aaron’s jumbled thoughts, "you don’t like feeling sorry for yourself when you ‘should’ be helping someone else?"

          Aaron nodded, but the way he said ‘should’ stirred something inside of him.

          "Do you have someone you trust?"

          He nodded again. "My mom and my brother."

          "Do you talk to them about your troubles and feelings?"

          "No, and that’s the last thing I would ever do. At least…” he trailed off, unable to discern what he was thinking.

          "What do you mean, do they pry into your life or…?”

          "No, I just feel pressured and... and yesterday was what drove me over the edge, I guess. … I'm sorry, you probably have more important things to do and I don’t want you to waste your time on me." Aaron shifted forward, about to stand up and exit before Hound Dog could stop him.

          But he had everything he wanted, and knew what Aaron needed. Though, he did have to stop himself from instinctively growling at the kid when he tried to ditch.

          "Aaron, I assure you that you're not wasting my time. I take my job seriously, when a student needs help, I'm there to provide that help -whether they need someone to talk to, career advice, or simply just to vent- that is what I am here for.”

          Aaron sat back in his seat. He felt, well he couldn’t tell how he felt. This was different than when Aria or Faian said he could talk to them. He thought they said that out of obligation, but…

          “Even the top hero students need someone to talk to. It's why I'm here, to help you students out and, right now, I’m helping you. Even if you just want to scream and get it all out… Though, I do ask you warn me so I can cover my ears.”

          Aaron had the slightest hint of a smile, almost impossible to see if one didn’t know what to look for, but Hound Dog did.

          “With that said, would you like to talk about yesterday?”

          That small smile quickly vanished, and he stayed quiet for a moment, pursing his lips and taking a deep breath before releasing it in a heavy sigh. He shifted in his seat some more, finally muttering “Will anyone know?”

          Hound Dog shook his head. "Nothing ever comes out of this office; of that I can promise.

          Aaron nodded slowly, gathering himself for what he would say. A few minutes passed when tears began to stream down his face. "Uhm... yesterday...” He hesitated, worried, but he had to do this. "Yesterday I found out that my dad is alive and ... very well, actually…"

          "Oh?” Hound Dog was surprised, but the lack of a father figure did explain some things. He urged Aaron on, kindly, of course.

          "I had never met my dad, and he doesn’t know I exist."

          Hound Dog was putting the pieces together, but he wanted Aaron to tell it at his own pace, so he continued to listen.

          "My mom..." Aaron placed his hands on his knees, gripping his slacks tightly. "She had a very different mentality back then, before she met my best friend and later adopted him, and before she took therapy, too.”

          Hound Dog nodded, signaling that he was listening. "What happened?"

          Aaron paused for a moment. "She had this thought, this… fear… that the person she cared for most wouldn’t be able to keep doing what they did forever. So, she decided that she would carry this baby, his baby, and train them, train me until I was exactly like that person… like my father.”

          Aaron’s tears wouldn’t stop, and he had to take a moment to collect himself. Hound Dog offered him some tissues and reminded him that they had all the time in the world.

          He could, and will, wait.

          “I honestly don't remember much of it since I was pretty young, or maybe she felt guilty and hid it but..." He pursed his lips again, shaking his head slowly as he rested his intertwined fingers in his lap. He couldn’t bear to look into Hound Dog’s kind eyes, so he kept his focus below at his chest.

          "It's hard to think about it. That I was the product of some delusion and that I was being groomed for some prophecy that never existed…” Aaron’s words became harsh, his anger rising again. “What if I fulfilled it? What if I became a puppet for my own mother because she was afraid?”

          Hound Dog grew wary of the sharper tone in Aaron’s voice. He knew Aaron needed to let it out, but he had to make sure he didn’t hurt himself in the process.

          “Well, did any part of it come true?”

          Aaron was caught off guard, his demeanor softening. "I-I don't know anymore... that's why I wasn’t sure about going to U.A., but I couldn’t leave Faian behind. It’s why I applied to both the hero and general departments, so I could stay with him.”

          "You really trust him, your brother. Your mother must trust him a lot, too.”

          "They want the best for me, but I don't even know what's best for me. So, yesterday with the assignment, I didn't know what to write down. I know I’m not going to be a skater forever, the only career I thought about was coaching but… I don't want to be a coach. I want to help people, like really help them… I want…” Aaron rested his arms on his thighs as he paused, thinking. "I'm not special, but sometimes I think that I can be like Faian…” that last part slipped out, and he stopped talking.

          "I know he is your brother and in the hero course, but what else can you tell me about him?” Hound Dog asked.

          Aaron was honestly surprised to hear that question. Coming from a ‘middle town’ (Faian liked to be deliberate/specific), most everyone knew everyone, and he and Faian were amongst the most well-known. Though, it made sense that all the way in Japan, he would be unknown.

          "He's my best friend… my brother, has been since kindergarten. Our mom adopted him when he was 8 after… After an accident.” Aaron was a little hesitant talking about Faian, concerned he might share something he was entrusted.

          Hound Dog took note of this and thought it may be a good idea to speak to him, too.

          “Yet, despite everything he’s been through, he’s still just so… awesome. He’s compassionate and intelligent and so powerful, but he’s humble and loves helping people better themselves. He even has his moments, his lows, but he always gets right back up, stronger than ever and just…” Aaron had to stop himself, worried he was going too far, but…

          When he was talking about Faian, he realized how much in common he had with him, more than he previously thought. ‘Two sides of the same coin’ came to mind, but he internally scoffed at the idea.

          "Interesting… Does he share his troubles with you or your mom?”

          "Mm, rarely. He’s strong enough to handle some things alone, but he knows when to reach out.” Aaron realized the irony in that statement, but he continued, hoping Hound Dog would ignore it.

          He didn’t.

          “Our mom once told me she noticed the closeness of the three of us. Like, we don't necessarily have to say something, we just know, sorta like a sixth sense. But Faian is really smart, intelligent, and when I'm with him and my mom I just feel... out of my league? I don’t feel stupid, but I feel like I don’t have to talk, or even be there… Like the two can manage without me. I even feel the same with Shinsou, with how reserved and determined he is.”

          He was surprise by how much more willing Aaron was to talk about his loved ones. Admittedly, it sounded like an inferiority complex to Hound Dog at first, but with the way Aaron spoke with genuine respect and love about his family, he began to think otherwise. He thought that Aaron might be fascinated with them, that he wants to prove that he is just as good. Or perhaps he feels like they aren’t letting him flourish, having such influence on his perceptions. Of course, it was too early for Hound Dog to make any conclusion, but he knew one thing:

          Aaron knows what he wants and how to get there, he just needs a little push, so to speak.

          “Perhaps, then, you want a change of pace? It sounds like you’ve spent so long with one type of person that you could use a fresh view. Some new, more extroverted friends.”

          Aaron thought for a while and shrugs indecisively. "I don't know," his confusion evident, "I just know that... that I'm social. At least, I try to be. I’m always moving about, trying to make small talk with new people and even interacting with my… uhm… my fans…” He whispered that last part, his cheeks dusted pink.

          "Oh? Fans? " Hound Dog asked, amused. "I take it they’re fans of your skating?”

          Aaron's eyebrows raised slightly; would this be how people talked with his mom? Like they were talking to a friend? Just sharing more and more as they grew more comfortable. He had watched her go into her psych mode, the almost genuine smiles and laughs, something that would seem incredibly real to anyone but her own children who see her real smile every day.

          Hound Dog watched Aaron's gaze focus on his desk, and he leaned forward a bit. "Aaron...?"

          "It's just... weird that they're so interested in me, either for my skating, or my looks." He had a proud smile for a second, but quickly dropped it as he continued. "I do really appreciate their support, but sometimes I feel like they don’t really care about me as a person. Like I’m just there for their entertainment."

          Hound Dog rested his hand beneath his chin and smiled, chuckling even. "You're a little skeptical about their motives for supporting you, huh? Sounds like a hero thing. Do you mind if I…?” He pointed at his computer and Aaron looked at it for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows and tilting his head slightly, silently asking for clarification.

          "Well, I'm pretty sure there's something I can find that'll make you understand the real reason you have fans.”

          "Like what?" Aaron was lost completely. How did they get from him being a mess to talking about his fans?

          "You’ll see soon enough but let me ask you something else while I do this. Why did you join ice-skating? You said your mom was going to turn you into a legacy for your father, but your life seems to revolve around ice-skating.”

          Aaron hummed softly, smiling faintly at the thought. "Oh… I was 3, maybe 4? At that time my mom was either working or taking night classes and she paid the neighbor to babysit me. She was an old lady ... Lucia? I think that was her name, I don't remember her much, but I do remember this one night when we were both watching TV.”

          Wistfulness spread across Aaron’s face, his eyes staring off into the distance as he imagined the scene in his head. He didn’t remember much from his toddler years, naturally, but he remembered this.

          “She was changing channels to see what interested us until I saw a flash of something bright and shiny. I asked if she could turn it back and..." His smile grew, his eyes held an enchanting gleam as he reminisced about one of his defining moments. "She was so beautiful, her dancing so wonderful with the way she moved her legs and body… like it was easy to skate. She had a snow Quirk, so every move she made there was snow coming from her hands and drifting behind her, catching the light and making her look ethereal..."

          Hound Dog was listening intently, seemingly done with his search. He watched the young male wave his hands about, as if he was mimicking what he was remembering.

          "She captured my attention, and it was like ... like I wanted to be her. She was smiling and having so much fun, like she was made of confidence..." he trailed off and sighed dreamily. "It was a night I never forgot ... and I was so excited to show off to my mom- I was twirling and dancing about the whole time until she finally returned, a huge smile on her face as she congratulated me, but … knowing what I know now, I’m thinking she was hiding how upset she was..." He slouched back, wiping some tears from his face as he looked up at Hound Dog, finally meeting his gaze ... and realizing just how massive he is.

          "Just look where you are now: A skater for almost a decade; numerous awards; fans all over; and now you’re attending one of the best schools in Japan, regardless of whether you want to be a hero or not. And you think your mom is upset with your choices?”

          "Sometimes I think she…” Aaron couldn’t bring himself to finish his thought.

          "What if I told you that smile she had when you first discovered ice skating was genuine?”

          Aaron was confused all over again, cocking his head and asking the counselor what he meant.

          "Your mom clearly loves you dearly, whether she had you only to fulfill a fantasy or not, she didn’t interfere with your choice to become a skater. If it took her adopting Faian to change, then it only shows just how uncommitted she was to that delusion and how much she wanted you to become your own person.” Hound Dog went back to his computer, bringing up his original search, but he wasn’t done sharing with Aaron.

          “U.A. is a school of opportunities; we prepare students for a variety of careers ranging from heroics to business to design. Parents often try to control their children by choosing the choices they present them. Yes, your mom didn’t start off as a regular parent, much less a good one, but she obviously wants to rectify that and let you be you, whatever you may choose to be. She likely abandoned her plan as soon as she saw those bright blue eyes of yours open for the first time. Do you think she would have gone back to school to support you? Or let someone else take care of you when she wanted a very specific outcome?”

          At this point, Aaron was beginning to doubt everything, again, unsure of what to make of his life. On the one hand, his mother did only have him out of a grand delusion, possibly faking all the times she was happy when he wanted to do anything other than heroics, but on the other… She actually loved him and wanted him to write his own story, doing everything she could to fix her mistake and prioritize him.

          He didn’t know which version seemed more real.

          “She probably would've trained you and it is far too common for parents to force their ideals and beliefs onto their children. And what happens then? Maybe the child will be like they wanted, a puppet they alone control and empower to stroke their own egos, or perhaps that child grows up aloof and imbittered, doing all they can to further distance themselves from their heritage. There will always be a point when the child will question the decisions, the abuse, the hate, but whether they do anything about it is impossible to say.”

          Aaron was shocked at what Hound Dog was saying. He had always thought of himself as a burden, and when he learned about his father and the circumstances regarding his birth, he felt as if everyone would be better off without him. But after everything he’d heard, Aaron couldn’t believe just how wrong he had been, and how right Hound Dog is.

          “You, however… We are all given the power to choose, but rarely can we choose our choices. What's stopping you now is doubt, doubt that you’re good enough, doubt that you matter. That doubt is holding you back and eating away at all that you could be. Your mom changed, your brother loves you, and the only reason you think otherwise is because you don’t talk to them. Now, I’ve found what I was looking for, but I want you to reflect on what I said for a few moments.”

          Aaron was speechless, his mouth agape. Was he truly that afraid? Was he so full of self-doubt that he blinded himself to the truth? But … there was still the matter of Faian. He thought he felt jealous… Jealous not just of his powerful Quirk, but of his technique and knowledge and determination and and and…

          Jealous of how he always brought smiles to the faces of those he helped…

          "Hound Dog ... what about ... Faian?"

          He paused for a moment as he was turning his computer screen. "Faian. What about him?"

          “Am I really jealous of him?”

          "Hm, on a counseling level, yes, I do think you are jealous of him.” Aaron frowned but it quickly changed to intrigue as Hound Dog continued, “But on a personal level, I think you’re jealous of what he represents.”

          "So, it’s not that I’m jealous of him and the things he can do, I’m jealous of the fact that he’s a … s-symbol…” Aaron stumbled around that last part, but before it could be questioned, he hastily asked “But isn’t jealousy wrong?”

          "Hm… Well, that's really up to you. It's okay to be jealous, healthy even, in small doses. It can inspire you to better yourself, to reflect on what you have and what you can do to improve yourself and others, but if you let it control you? If all you want to do is be better than him and prove that you are the one who should be getting the attention, then you risk hurting the ones you love as you go to further extremes to do so.”

          "No, I don't ... I don't want to be better than him... I just want to know what I can… I just want to be able to help and know that I am capable of it.”

          "In order to do that, you’ll need to work on your confidence. If you don’t think you can do something, why should someone else think you can? Here, I think now is the time to show you.” He beckoned Aaron to the turned monitor, pulling up a video.

          The thumbnail was of a kid, smiling and holding up a pair of signed ice-skating shoes. It must have been recorded on a computer webcam, since the kid looked like he was in a bedroom with posters on the wall…

          Posters of ice skaters, and the most common ones featured a young male with blond hair, red in the more recent ones.

          "So, I know I'm not supposed to be on here after my bedtime, but I just wanted to thank Aaron Granchester for saying hi to me at the State Championships!!! He was just like ... like ahh..." The young boy struggled to describe his feelings or what he had seen, but he was shouting in excitement, nearly falling out of his seat as he gushed. "So cool!! The way he skated and moved on the ice! The way he just had fun and smiled and and and just- Everything was so awesome!! Here, we even took a picture with him! I'll be back!" And he scurried off camera.

          As the video played, Aaron teared up, one hand over his mouth in surprise as the other pulled at the hem of his uniform. He sobbed softly, staring into the kid's eyes, recognizing the look he had … for it was the same one he had over a decade ago. He looked down, trying to collect himself in the few seconds the child had ran off.

          The boy returned and held up his mother’s tablet, the one Aaron remembered her holding as her son ran up to ask him for a photo. On its screen was a picture of him kneeling next to the boy, a huge grin on both their faces. "Look! Can you guys see? He's so cool and amazing!! Everyone likes him, well, not everyone and they’re wrong but still! He’s just the best and- Ahhh!!!!” He beamed with joy. "So friggin’ awesome!!"

          "Language, Trance!"

          The boy gasped before shouting back "Sorry mom!" as he looked to the side then back at the camera. "But yeah … I wanna be just like him when I grow up!!! He even gave me his skates and signed them for when I fit in them! I can’t wait to start practicing!!!”

          Hound Dog paused the video, the boy’s massive grin and shining eyes frozen on the screen.

          Aaron knew what he was talking about, he remembered that day. It was the State Championships… and he had just won 1st place.

---

Hope you all enjoy part 2/3 this week! One more to go, then we’ll be bringing back Adamance of a Dragon!

[monstersdownthepath]

Spiritual Spotlight: Irez, Lady of Inscribed Wonder

Neutral Good Agathion Empyreal Lord of Cards, Scribes, and Spells

Domains: Good, Luck, Magic, Rune Subdomains: Agathion, Fate, Language, Wards

Chronicles of the Righteous, pg. 15

Obedience: Neatly inscribe six identical pairs of runes on 12 separate cards or squares of paper. Shuffle the cards facedown and draw two. Alternatively, carefully shuffle a Harrow deck for the majority of an hour, then draw two cards. Benefit: If the drawn cards match (or the Harrow cards have matching suits), gain a +4 sacred bonus on saves against spells cast from two schools of magic of your choice. On a mismatch, gain a +4 sacred bonus on saves against spells cast from scrolls.

A single sheet of paper cut to twelve pieces and a bit of ink a day is basically nothing for an adventurer, making this one of the simplest, cheapest, and easiest Obediences to commit to among all of Pathfinder’s myriad deities. If anyone raises an eyebrow (such as if you’re the only Good character among Evil, or if you’re somewhere Evil), you can claim to be practicing your calligraphy. Or, you know, just your memorization skills. A game of chance. Testing your luck. Any number of things!

Having a good old Harrow deck makes this Obedience so easy to do that it’s effectively a non-issue, though it does require the one-time investment of at least 100gp (or a small sidequest) to obtain a full Harrow deck. This Obedience is adorable through and through! And that BENEFIT, though! Having a +4 to resist two entire schools of magic is HUGE, and the ability to pick and choose which ones you gain is INCREDIBLY powerful when compared to benefits which usually give you resistance to a single school you cannot choose. If you have methods of gauging what sorts of spells your enemies will use, all the better! You can also safely call Necromancy, Enchantment, or Transmutation as your schools and have additional protection from most common Save-or-Sucks.

Mmmbut it does have one rather significant downside: There’s a very large chance it will be useless throughout the day. Only your first attempt at a match determines what your benefit is during the day, and mucking that up essentially lands you with a blank feat. Yes, yes, there IS a small chance that your enemy will lash out at you with a scroll, but I’ve personally never experienced an enemy who used scrolls offensively rather than simply gearing all their spell slots for combat and using scrolls to shore up their defense or escape. It’s rare you’ll ever have to make a save against a scroll, making the benefit essentially nonexistent. Hell of a coin flip, if you ask me.

Boons are gained slowly, typically achieved once you reach 12, 16, and 20 Hit Dice. Followers of the Empyreal Lords, however, can enter the Mystery Cultist Prestige Class at level 8, which grants them their Boons much quicker! Entered as early as possible, you gain the Boons at levels 10, 13, and 16 instead. Mystery Cultists MUST take the Celestial Obedience feat, NOT Deific Obedience.

Empyreal Lords do not grant the typical Evangelist/Exalted/Sentinel spread (and cannot enter those classes), instead having only one set of Boons granted to their followers regardless of their class.

Boon 1: Calligrapher's Talent. Gain Divine Favor 3/day, Augury 2/day, or Glyph of Warding 1/day.

If you’re a martial type character, Divine Favor is a spell that’s always nice to have. It lasts only a minute but grants a +3 luck bonus to attack and damage rolls, with luck bonuses being valuable due to their rarity and the fact they stack with everything. Due to their rarity, it’s unlikely enemies will be able to cancel them out, too! The biggest problem, however, is that it still only lasts for 1 minute and takes a standard action to apply, so you’ve got a very small window in which to use it before combat begins.

Which makes Augury and Glyph of Warding good for their own reasons. Augury is... not a very good spell, possessing a 1/5 chance of failing outright and giving only vague answers about events occurring within 30 minutes. However, if you have a minute to spare and you’re in a situation where you need the universe’s (the DM) guidance, it’s a decent way to get an answer to guide you down a path you can take Right Now Immediately, long-term consequences be damned. If you’re stuck and unsure where to go, it’ll point in A direction.

Glyph of Warding as a non-caster is more or less just a quick blast of damage, but without the need for its material components, you can scrawl Glyphs on every surface in your home base to your hearts content... provided you have a home base. While many campaigns nowadays have locations a party can return to, most adventurers are nomadic by nature, and a Glyph is less useful in those cases. Despite this, the Glyph’s ability to sort through creatures by alignment or creature type and even maintain the ability to detect the invisible, means that using it as an especially deadly alarm or ward against infiltrating fiends is but one of its functions.

Boon 2: Divine Inscription. 3/day when using a scroll to cast a spell that deals hit point damage, you can change half the spell’s damage to holy damage. If you lack the ability to cast a particular spell from a scroll, you may attempt a Use Magic Device check with a bonus equal to your HD plus your Charisma modifier (or your regular Use Magic Device bonus, whichever is better).

Unless you find yourself up against misguided Good creatures, this ability allows you to bypass all forms of Resistance and Immunity a creature may have to whatever form of energy you’re blasting them with. Holy damage is not an officially recognized damage type, but unholy damage IS described several times as “dealing no damage to Evil creatures or creatures with the Evil subtype, but dealing double damage to Good creatures or creatures with the Good subtype.” If your DM agrees that holy and unholy damage work in the same way, that means your scroll spells deal 150% damage to Evil creatures, which makes this ability crushing if used on high-damage spells that are already difficult to resist or dodge, such as Fireball, Disintegrate, or Heal/Harm.

Even if your DM rejects the double-damage interpretation, it still means half of the spell becomes impossible to resist, which is still decent and lets you pry just a bit more use out of your scroll-based offense... Which, as I mentioned before, is not what most casters will be doing with their scrolls. Most casters I know (myself included) spend their time on emergency defensive or healing scrolls, with offensive magic left to their spell slots. This ability gears you towards using offensive scrolls, which cost time and money to produce or procure, and thus this power wanes in use if you don’t actively keep creating scrolls (or ask the DM nicely to include more of them in the loot piles), draining party resources.

I do appreciate that because Use Magic Device isn’t a class skill for Mystery Cultist (or Cleric, or most Divine casters for that matter), Irez gives you a way to use scrolls that aren’t in your spell list. The way the ability is written implies that the UMD cheat only applies to the 3/day times you use the ability, which in my opinion is a needless restriction that only makes this ability weaker; I’d say you’re allowed to use the bolstered UMD at any time you use a scroll you’d otherwise be unable to.

Boon 3: Lucky Cards. 1/day as a standard action, you can summon 2d6 shimmering cards that trail in your wake. The cards dart around you during combat, intercepting deadly attacks. At your discretion, each card can absorb a single damage die from either a sneak attack or a critical hit that would normally hit you. For example, if you would be hit by a sneak attack dealing an extra 3d6 points of damage and you had two cards remaining, you could reduce the sneak attack damage to 1d6 (these dice are removed before being rolled). Once a card absorbs a damage die, it disappears. Unused cards disappear at the end of each day.

Having a card cape is cool, but what they do is not. Blocking the damage dice of a critical hit is usually less useful than blocking the flat damage they get from enchantments and modifiers, which is where the real beef is more often than not. It CAN also help against natural attacks--which usually rely on larger dice, rather than larger modifiers--but being critically hit in the first place means you’re in for a world of hurt... And you can’t even block all of it. 2d6 averages out to 6~7, and while blocking 7 dice worth of damage SOUNDS nice, there’s no way to know if the incoming 7d6 Sneak Attack would have done 7 damage or 42 and thus you’ll likely end up blowing all of them on the first critical hit or Sneak Attack you would have taken and leaving you with an empty Boon.

And then there’s the utter disappointment with the possibility you’ll roll 2. Perhaps once in a blue moon you’ll get the lucky 12, but you’re just as likely to roll snake-eyes. The ability may as well read “you gain 10 temporary hitpoints” at that point, below par for the 1st level False Life, let alone a final divine Boon.

Yes, it can potentially block a good portion of an otherwise fatal attack, but it only works once and isn’t even guaranteed to stop all of it. At least the aesthetic is cool!

You can read more about Irez here.

[jaxl-road]

Better Watch Out

Motley Crue and Guns N Roses have a Secret Santa gift exchange. What could go wrong?

Pairings: Nikki/Tommy, Slash/Axl, Duff/Izzy

This beast is over 10,000 words long, just fyi -_-;

(Also on AO3)

~~~~~~~

“WHY are there so many people in our tiny ass apartment?” Nikki groaned, running a hand through his hair.

Axl scoffed, “You guys hold ragers in your ‘tiny ass apartment’ practically every night.”

“Yeah, but I’m usually wasted when that happens. Right now I’m sober.”

“That’s your own fault,” Duff smirked, taking a long sip from his water bottle that everyone was suddenly positive was not filled with water.

Nikki sighed as Tommy skipped over and patted him on the shoulder. Their dilapidated living room was packed full with the members of Motley Crue and Guns N’ Roses. It was late morning, which in Nikki’s opinion was way too early to be dealing with this many rockers in his apartment. Mick and Slash were sitting on the couch, the former looking annoyed and the latter looking calm and content (or in other words, high). Vince sat next to them on the back of the couch, glaring childishly at Axl who was sprawled across the armchair and looking far too at home in the blonde’s opinion. Izzy leaned against the back of the armchair, smirking in the direction of where Duff was standing, the bassist now casually holding his water bottle above his head while Steven tried in vain to snag it. Finally, still standing at the start of the hallway, Tommy threw an arm around Nikki’s shoulder to keep the dark haired man from returning to bed.

“Come on, Nikki, don’t be grumpy!”

“Have you met Nikki?”

“This is gonna be fun!” Tommy grinned, ignoring Slash’s comment, even as Nikki flipped the guitarist off. “Steven had the best idea, so I invited them all over!”

“Ah fuck, the drummers are responsible for this?” Mick leaned his head back dramatically to stare at the ceiling, “This is going to be more annoying than I thought.”

Steven laughed, moving to stand by Tommy and Nikki, “If by ‘annoying’, you mean FUN!”

“I do not.”

“Anyway,” Steven clapped his hands, “We’re gonna do a Secret Santa!”

There was a long pause as all eyes stared at the blonde drummer and processed his words.

Then they all started talking at once.

“What?” Nikki exclaimed.

“Oh Hell no,” Mick muttered.

“Oh Hell YES!” Slash countered.

“Presents? Presents!” Vince’s eyes lit up, “Gimme pretty things! Whoever gets me I have a list for you!”

“This is going to blow up spectacularly, and honestly I’m down for it,” Duff shrugged.

Izzy sighed and leaned his head on his hand, “See I’m torn. I want to watch the chaos, but I don’t want to be involved in the chaos. Dilemmas, dilemmas.”

Axl leaned back, letting his head hang over the arm of his seat. Narrowing his eyes, he pointed at Steven, “I will agree on ONE CONDITION.”

The attention of the room shifted to the red-head. Steven cocked his head curiously, “What?”

“We do this game on hard-mode.”

“I’m going to regret asking,” Mick sighed, “but what’s hard-mode?”

Crossing his arms, Axl answered firmly, “No giving drugs or alcohol as a gift.”

Immediately, there was a riot.

“Oh COME ON!”

“But I WANT drugs and alcohol!”

“These fuckers’ entire personality is based around drugs and alcohol, what the fuck else am I supposed to get them?”

“If I don’t get Vodka, Christmas is cancelled.”

“You can’t just-”

“Izzy, take Christmas away from Axl!”

“It’s cute you think I have any power over him.”

“Hey! HEY!” Tommy shouted, finally getting everyone’s attention and putting a stop to the bickering. “Look, I love drugs as much as the rest of you, but I have to admit, I think it’s a good idea,” he rolled his eyes when several people groaned in response, “It makes it more of a challenge!”

It took a bit of convincing, but eventually the group reluctantly conceded, Axl smirking victoriously. With the rockers appeased, Steven pulled a top hat out of seemingly nowhere.

Slash sat up straight and glared, “Hey! I’ve been looking for that!”

Ignoring him, Steven tossed about the small pieces of paper inside the hat, “Okay, we’ve got everyone’s names written down, so take one and pass it. And no peeking!” As the names got passed around, Steven continued, “So, I don’t think we need a price limit, cause we’re all pretty broke.”

“We know, but hey!” Vince muttered as he took the hat.

“How about we meet up for the exchange one week from today?”

“At your place, next time,” Nikki huffed.

Axl shrugged, “Whatever, fair enough.”

“Cool,” Nikki nodded, “Now get the fuck out of our apartment.”

~~~~~~~

Izzy would be the first to admit that he hadn’t been on board with the whole Secret Santa thing at first. He didn’t dislike Christmas or anything, but he wasn’t a hugely festive person either. So the idea of partaking in a theoretically light-hearted game with a group of hardrockers didn’t exactly appeal to him.

That is, until Duff came home the next day with an armful of Christmas lights.

“Woah,” Slash chuckled as the bassist walked past with strings of lights trailing behind him, “what, did you rob Whoville or something?”

Grinning, Duff opened his arms to let the mass of lights fall onto the ground in the middle of the living room, “I will neither confirm nor deny where I got these.”

“Fuck yeah, I didn’t think we were gonna decorate the place!” Steven smiled excitedly.

Shrugging, Duff looked away, a touch of embarrassment on his face, only noticeable if you were looking (and Izzy was always looking), “I dunno, I wasn’t planning to at first. I never really got into the holidays, even when I was younger. But since we’re doing the Secret Santa thing with the Crue, I figured, why not?”

He smiled so shyly, and Izzy’s heart fluttered.

That was when he realized that he’d been handed the perfect opportunity. Izzy had been crushing on the tall blonde for awhile now, much to Axl’s amusement and Izzy’s torment. But he’d be the first to admit that he wasn’t the best at expressing his feelings, and everytime he had Duff’s full attention he forgot every word he had ever practiced in front of the mirror and ended up chickening out and running away to get high (he’d also tried getting high first, but the results were the same).

So maybe, giving Duff a gift was the perfect way to try to confess his feelings; a way to help take some of the pressure off his words.

And watching Steven and Slash wrap the lights around Duff, seeing him twirl and laugh when they plugged them in, looking at the way the lights reflected in his eyes and illuminated his smile, Izzy knew he was going to need all the help he could get.

~~~~~

If Nikki was going to participate in this Secret Santa bullshit (and not even get any coke out of it) then he was going to fucking give a gift to Tommy and no one else. He had already been trying to psych himself up to do some sort of romantic holiday shit, but the game with the two bands provided a perfect opportunity. The only thing standing in his way was the name scrawled on the scrap of paper in his hand.

Izzy

Leaning heavily on the kitchen table, Nikki steeled himself for the trip he was about to make. It wasn’t like he could judge Guns N’ Roses for their living situation, given the squalor Motley Crue currently called a home, but it always felt weird seeing them by himself. He didn’t like being outnumbered.

But from what he could tell, neither Vince nor Mick had Tommy’s name (if they did, they’d be teasing him incessantly)(he still didn’t understand how his feelings managed to be so blatant to Vince and Mick while still going right over Tommy’s head). So that meant someone in the other band had his drummer’s name, and he was going to get it if it was the last thing he did.

~~~~~

It was weird for anyone to knock on their door when the sun was still out, Slash thought as he cautiously made his way to the entrance. Cracking the door open, wondering if any of the idiots he lived with had done anything worth a house visit from the cops lately, he was instead met with the wild black hair and smudged eyeliner of none other than the very person he was tasked with finding a gift for.

“Oh,” the guitarist blinked in surprise, opening the door wider, “What’s up Sixx? Wasn’t expecting you.”

“No one ever expects me. My presence is either surprising or disappointing, but never anticipated.”

Rolling his eyes, Slash moved aside to let the other man inside, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you drama queen.”

“I don’t think you can call me a drama queen in good faith when you live with fucking Axl.”

“You got me there,” he chuckled, “But seriously, what brings you to our humble Hell House?”

Sighing heavily, Nikki cut straight to the chase, “Did you get Tommy’s name for the Secret Santa?”

Slash raised an eyebrow, “I thought this thing was supposed to be, you know… secret?”

“Oh fuck off,” Nikki huffed, “No one in Crue has it, which means someone here does, and I fucking want it.”

“Why?”

“…Cause.”

“Ooooooh,” a slow grin spread on the guitarist’s face, “I get it.”

“Don’t-”

“You’ve got a cru~ush~” he sang teasingly.

“Shut up!” Nikki shoved him lightly, his cheeks reddening as he scowled.

Slash laughed, “Okay, okay, jeez! To be honest I assumed you guys were already a thing. Like, sometimes I can’t tell where one of you ends and the other begins. It’s super gross.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Oh please, you and Axl are always fucking hanging off each other.”

Sputtering, Slash gaped, “We do not!”

Blinking, Nikki raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Holy shit. Don’t tell me you two aren’t actually a couple.”

“Keep your voice down, he’s in the other room!”

“Holy shit! And you were fucking with me about Tommy!”

“Shhhhhh!” Slash covered the bassist mouth with his hands, “Okay, alright, we’re both lovesick idiots. I’ll tell you who has Tommy’s name and then we can both never speak of this again, deal?”

Smirking, Nikki pushed his hands away, “Deal.”

Nodding, Slash crossed his arms, “I heard Axl complaining about having to shop for ‘fucking sunshine drummers’.”

“Let’s be real, that could mean Tommy or Steven,” Nikki pointed out.

Slash shrugged, “If it had been Steven he wouldn’t have kept his voice down.”

“You know what? That’s fair.” Nodding decisively, he turned to walk into the next room, “Thanks man.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Turning the corner, Nikki found himself in a small, dingy kitchen, empty save for the red-headed singer sitting on the counter. He was kicking his legs back and forth, a mug in one hand and a book in his lap. He looked so peaceful and innocent, but Nikki knew better than to let his guard down around the little terror.

Point made when the singer’s head snapped up as he entered, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Rose.”

Axl’s only response was to quirk an eyebrow, so Nikki sighed, “Look, I need a favor.”

That made Axl’s eyes light up in interest, “Oh?”

Yeah, Nikki was gonna be fucked. Asking Axl for a favor was like making a deal with the devil. But, well, desperate fucking times and all. “Yeah,” he glanced away, “I heard you got Tommy’s name for the Secret Santa. Is that true?”

“Maybe,” Axl drawled, placing his mug and book to the side so he could lean forward and give Nikki his full attention, “What of it?”

“I want to trade.”

“Hm,” the singer considered for a minute. Finally he jerked his head at the bassist, “Whose name did you get?”

“Izzy,” he replied, “He’s like, your best friend, right? So it’s perfect.”

Axl snorted, “I don’t like him that much.” He tilted his head side to side as he thought. Nikki held his breath, hoping to God that this could just be simple. But when Axl grinned slowly at him, he knew that he’d have no such luck.

“I’ll tell you what,” he offered, “I’ll give you Tommy, if you get me Slash.”

For a long minute, Nikki could only blink. Finally, he deadpanned, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” If he wasn’t certain that one or both of them would murder him on the spot, he’d just drag Slash in here right now and tell them to bang or whatever. But he was, in fact, certain that one or both of them would murder him on the spot. So.

“That’s my offer, take it or leave it,” Axl shrugged.

Goddamn pining idiots. “Ugh, fine!” Nikki threw his arms up in exasperation. He was pretty sure he knew who had Slash’s name, but it was going to be annoying as fuck.

Axl snickered as he stomped out of the house, shoving past Steven without a word. “What was that about?” The drummer questioned.

“Oh, you know,” Axl grinned, “just the holidays, bringing people together.”

~~~~~~

Izzy sighed from his spot outside the liquor store, pulling his jacket tighter around his body as he took a long drag from his cigarette. The slip of paper with Mick written on it weighed heavy in his pocket. He’d been eavesdropping on his bandmates, and as far as he could tell none of them had Duff’s name. The idea of trekking over to Motley Crue and asking one of them to trade made him wince.

Speak of the devil though. As he ground his cigarette under his heel, he saw a tall, curly haired drummer make his way over.

“Oh! Hey Izzy!” Tommy grinned, “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Yeah,” Izzy shrugged, “Just grabbing a couple things. Too lazy to go all the way to the market.”

“I know that feeling,” Tommy laughed.

Eyeing him carefully, Izzy tried to keep his voice casual as he asked impulsively, “So, how’s the Secret Santa shopping going?”

To his surprise, Tommy’s face fell a little, “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t really know what to get them though,” he rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled to himself, “I was kind of hoping to get a different bassist…”

No fucking way.

Izzy gaped for a moment. What were the odds? He never got this lucky! “You got Duff?” He blurted out.

“Ah, fuck, it’s supposed to be a secret,” Tommy floundered.

“No, no, it’s cool!” Izzy was quick to calm him, “You want Nikki’s name, right?”

“Yeah,” the drummer admitted. Then he lit up, “Do you have his name?”

“Well, no…” Izzy confessed, “But, I was hoping to get Duff. So maybe we could…?” He trailed off, looking at the taller man expectantly.

Looking at the drummer though you’d think Izzy just kicked his puppy, “I really want Nikki though. He like, never celebrated Christmas, and sometimes the holidays make him sad, and I don’t want him to be sad, so I just want to get him something special, y’know?”

Yes. Izzy did know, because he was in a very similar situation. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Right. Okay. If I can get Nikki’s name though, you’ll trade with me?”

Perking back up, Tommy nodded enthusiastically, “Absolutely, dude!”

Nodding firmly in response, Izzy agreed, “Alright. It’s a deal.”

~~~~~~~~

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Pleeeeeeease?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mick slammed his magazine down, glaring at the bassist across from him, “Why the fuck do you want to trade so bad?”

“Because,” Nikki whined, “Why do you even care? You’re probably just going to get something generic no matter whose name you get.”

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Mick insisted.

“Come on, do you really want to deal with me annoying you over something that you couldn’t care less about? For that matter, do you really want me to bug you with all the bullshit details of why I need Slash’s name?”

“Fuck,” the guitarist muttered, even as he moved to rummage through his pockets, “I’ve been spending too much time around you crazy fuckers, ‘cause you’re starting to make sense.” He slapped the paper down, snatching the one Nikki offered in exchange, “You still owe me though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll find some way to make it up to you,” Nikki grinned, jumping from his seat and running for the door, “Thanks, man!”

“Fuck you.”

~~~~~~~~

The club was packed, bodies pressing together and jumping to the beat of the loud, angry music. Slash sat at the bar with Duff and Axl, Steven and Izzy running late. Guns N Roses didn’t see Motley Crue perform too often, but apparently Nikki needed to meet up with Axl because of their Secret Santa bullshit, and the others tagged along out of habit. Slash figured it might give him some inspiration for what to get the bassist, anyway. The petty part of him wanted to tell him that directing him to Tommy’s name was his gift, but that felt cheap even for him.

But what the fuck did Nikki Sixx want, other than drugs and to fuck his drummer?

The crowd cheered loudly as the four rockers finished their set, making their way off stage as the next band began to set up. Axl chugged the rest of his drink, nodding at the others as he made his way towards the stage, presumably to meet up with Nikki. He and Duff chatted for a bit until the bassist was distracted by the bartender blatantly flirting. Slash rolled his eyes. He knew without a doubt that the tall blonde only had eyes for one person, but he was also the king of playing it up to get free drinks and, well, no one could fault him for that.

“Hey Slash!”

Turning at the sound of his name, he grinned as Tommy and Vince stumbled over to him, “Hey guys! Great show!”

“Thanks!”

“Hang on, I think I see a challenge,” Vince grinned deviously, abandoning Tommy and Slash in favor of competing with Duff for the bartender’s attention.

Slash snorted, shaking his head in amusement, “That’s not going to end well.”

Tommy laughed, swaying from alcohol or coke or both as he leaned against the bar and pushed sweaty curls out of his face, “Vince will be fine. If this doesn’t work out he’ll find another chick and be right as rain,” he waved his hand dismissively.

“Yeah, and I don’t think Duff will be heartbroken either.”

Sighing heavily, Tommy nodded, “Yeah, Duff’s a cool guy.” Biting his lip, he glanced away almost guiltily, “I feel bad for trying to trade his name away for the Santa thing…”

Slash blinked in surprise, “You got Duff?”

“Oh, Goddamn it!” Tommy exclaimed, “I am so bad at this fucking secret thing…”

Laughing, Slash patted his shoulder consolingly, “Hey man, it’s no biggie. Whose name are you trying to get, anyway?” He had a feeling he already knew.

Sure enough, Tommy sighed dreamily, “Nikki. He’s so great, y’know? And I just want to give him something special and nice so he knows I…. y’know,” he waved his hand vaguely.

Snorting, Slash reached into his pocket, “Oh, I know,” holding a hand out, Slash took pity on the kid. What could he say? The Terror Twins were fucking adorable. No matter how much he teased Nikki, he honestly didn’t mind helping them along.

Tommy blinked in confusion as he took Slash’s offering. When he saw what it was, his whole face lit up, smiling so wide it was practically blinding, “Dude! Seriously?!”

“Yup,” He motioned with his hand, and Tommy scrambled to give him his own paper, “Tidings of joy or whatever bullshit. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Seriously, dude, you’re the best!” Tommy wrapped the guitarist in a bone crushing hug, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“Yeah, it’s cool, really, please, I can’t breath.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Izzy and Steven made it to the club during Motley Crue’s last song. Izzy had stopped by the house to change after working, finding Steven asleep on the couch. After shaking him awake (the drummer had completely forgotten about the group’s evening plans) they both made their way to the venue.

Despite snooping around, Izzy could not figure out who had Nikki’s name. He was starting to think someone from Crue must have it, or worse, Duff, which would make for an awkward affair if the blonde wanted to know why he wanted to trade. So he made up his mind to just grovel to the best of his ability and get Tommy to trade with him anyway.

The crowds, mixed with the loud music and the flashing lights made it hard to find anyone. Izzy and Steven eventually got separated, and he ran into Vince, who was too busy cozying up to a busty brunette to pay him much mind. For the first hour or so, he drifted around the floor, listening to the current band, occasionally snagging freebies from the rare fans who recognized him. Tired, and assuming that the Crue had already made their way back to their apartment for an afterparty, he made his way to the bar. As soon as he arrived, he flagged down the bartender and took two shots in quick succession, impatient to get a pleasant buzz going.

Looking across the bar, he finally found familiar faces. Duff was obviously well on his way to wasted, laughing at something with Axl, Slash, and Steven. Quickly slipping over to them, his bandmates greeted him enthusiastically.

“Izzy! We were wondering where you disappeared to!” Steven exclaimed.

“We missed you, buddy!” Duff grinned and slung an arm around Izzy’s waist and okay, screw Tommy, he wasn’t moving from this spot for the rest of the night. He pointedly ignored Axl’s knowing look and the conversation picked back up, the five friends laughing cheerfully and Duff’s hand warm on his hip.

He’d deal with the Secret Santa thing tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~

This was not supposed to be this hard.

Nikki had been wracking his brains on what to get Tommy. It needed to be something heartfelt, something Tommy would understand was supposed to be special, but still simple enough that he could give it to the drummer in front of the two bands. Ultimately, he decided that something homemade would be perfect- Tommy would lose his shit over Nikki putting actual time and effort into his gift.

That was how Nikki found himself in Motley Crue’s kitchen at 10am trying- and seriously, emphasis on trying- to bake cookies.

He had a limited window where he had the apartment to himself, and immediately took advantage of it. Baking supplies had been hidden in his room for the last day to keep the others from giving him shit or finding out his plan. The bag of chocolate chips had a recipe on the back, and Nikki could fucking read, so he figured it’d be easy.

The problem started when he realized that while he had purchased ingredients, he had forgotten to consider that their apartment was almost completely devoid of actual baking equipment. The biggest ‘bowl’ they had was an old metal pot, and he was forced to stir with a soup spoon.

Measuring was also tricky, since he hadn’t even thought about picking up measuring cups or anything. But hey, how hard could it be to eyeball it? They had cups, he could fill it halfway just fine.

Judging by the smoke coming out of the oven, it was not fine at all.

Sighing in frustration, Nikki scraped the paper thin and charred pastries into the sink. He had his fingers crossed for the next batch, saying a quick prayer to whoever was listening as he scooped them sloppily and slid them into the oven, not bothering to wait for the single sheet pan they owned to cool down.

He was standing impatiently in the middle of the kitchen when someone pounded on the door. Furrowing his brows, he didn’t know who to expect. People usually only knocked if they were there about a noise complaint, but the apartment was currently silent.

Opening the door, he was faced with a tired and hungover looking Izzy Stradlin.

The bassist had barely opened his mouth before Izzy was cutting him off, “I just need to talk to Tommy real quick.”

Raising an eyebrow, Nikki crossed his arms, “Why?”

“Because,” he ran a hand over his face, “Look, can I just-” he stopped suddenly, finally taking in the man in front of him, “Why the fuck are you covered in cocaine?”

Blinking in confusion, Nikki looked down at himself before sighing at the sight of his flour covered shirt, “It’s not cocaine. You know I’d never waste coke like this,” he gestured at himself.

“Then what-” Izzy paused again, this time his eyes widening as he glanced over Nikki’s shoulder, “-the FUCK is going on in your kitchen?!”

Spinning around, Nikki cursed loudly at the sight of black smoke wafting from the other room. Sprinting to the oven, he threw the door open, coughing when a wave of smoke billowed out. He snatched a dish towel and recklessly grabbed the tray of cookies, throwing the whole thing into the sink. Izzy, who had run up behind him, quickly reached over and flipped the faucet on, steam mixing with the smoke until the entire kitchen was in a haze.

Both rockers coughed and sputtered, waving their hands around their faces. “What the actual fuck, dude!” Izzy cried incredulously, “Were you cooking meth or something?”

Groaning, Nikki dropped his head onto the counter roughly, letting his hair hide the tears of frustration that threatened to well over, “I fucking wish.”

Glancing around the disaster zone of the kitchen, Izzy slowly pieced together what had happened, “Were you… baking?”

“Well I was trying!” Nikki shouted, tugging at his hair and still face down on the counter, “But I’m such a fuckup I can’t even do something as simple as make a fucking batch of fucking cookies without it literally going up in fucking flames!”

Okay, so Izzy definitely had not anticipated this when he came over. Hesitantly, he reached out to pat Nikki awkwardly on the back, “Um. There, there?” He glanced around helplessly, “Where the fuck is the rest of your band, maybe one of them could help with…”

“They’re not here right now,” Nikki finally straightened up, looking utterly miserable, “Vince is shacking up with whatever girl of the week he’s got, Mick is dealing with his ex, and Tommy’s at work.”

Izzy took a deep breath through his nose, trying to resist tearing his hair out, “Right. Okay, I’ll… make you a deal,” he grit out. How many fucking deals was he going to have to make this week?

“What?” Nikki mumbled.

“I’ll help you salvage your baking project if you tell me where Tommy works so I can fucking talk to him.”

“Really?” the bassist looked at him wide eyed and hopeful, “You’ll help? And not fucking tell anyone?” he tacked on with a glare.

“Yes, yes, whatever, let’s just do this so I can get out of here,” he looked around, “Where are your measuring cups?”

“Um…”

Izzy pinched the bridge of his nose. Lord have mercy.

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

Steven hummed to himself from his spot laying on the couch in their living room. In his pocket was a scrap of paper with Axl scrawled on it. The drummer wanted so badly to get him something good- the singer was his best friend! Well, okay so maybe he considered all the members of Guns N’ Roses his best friend. And okay, maybe there was room for him and Axl to be better friends, but that was why this Secret Santa gift was important! It was a chance for Steven to build their relationship a little more. The problem was, he had no idea what Axl would want. He’d been wracking his brain all morning, but nothing felt right.

At that moment, laughter rang out from the kitchen, light and carefree, “Hey! Get your own!” Steven could hear the smile in Axl’s voice.

Hopping to his feet, he peeked around the corner into the kitchen. Axl was indeed smiling, no matter how hard he tried to look annoyed. Slash was grinning widely as he held a mug of coffee just out of the red-head’s reach, “Sharing is caring, Sweetheart!”

Axl was pressed against the guitarist’s back, his chin resting on Slash’s shoulder as he stretched his arms out to try to reach the mug Slash held in front of him. When Slash finally broke away, rushing to take two large gulps of the coffee, Axl gasped in exaggerated offense, “You asshole! It’s not sharing if you don’t leave any for me!”

Slash laughed, “I’ll give you more of the next mug.”

“Oh no, you wanted my cup? Fine,” the singer rushed to the coffee maker, grabbing the entire pot and holding it to his chest, “But THIS is mine!”

“What! No way! I can’t survive on one cup of coffee!”

“Serves you right!” Axl ran out of the kitchen, shouting between childlike laughs as Slash chased after him, complaining loudly even as his face showed nothing but joy. Listening to the two musicians as their voices rang through the house, Steven was struck by inspiration, a grin spreading slowly across his face.

He knew what to get Axl for Christmas.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tommy sighed as another stack of plates was placed next to him, grabbing the first one to start scraping off excess food. God, he couldn’t wait until Motley Crue started making enough that they could all quit their shitty jobs. Washing dishes all day wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t how he wanted to spend his day, either. He tossed his head back, trying to get a strand of hair that had come loose from his ponytail out of his face, when he heard some sort of commotion out in the restaurant.

He didn’t think much of it at first, shitty customers weren’t that uncommon. But then the voices started getting closer.

“Sir, you cannot go back there-”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave-”

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute.”

The voices were right outside the door, and just as Tommy turned, Izzy Stradlin burst in, followed closely by one of the managers. The guitarist looked frazzled, his hair a wild mess, dark circles under his eyes, and what looked like some sort of batter smeared on his shirt.

“Tommy! Fucking finally,” Izzy muttered, steadfastly ignoring the manager that was still trying to talk to him.

“Izzy? What the Hell are you-”

“Look, I have no idea who has Nikki’s name. Can you please just switch with me? I’ll owe you one or whatever, just do this one favor for me.”

Blinking slowly, it took Tommy a moment to figure out what Izzy was talking about. When he finally caught up, he winced, “Oooooh fuck.” Izzy stared at him, the manager still standing to the side just watching. “Um,” Tommy shuffled awkwardly, “I actually….”

“What?”

Gulping nervously, Tommy finally spit it out, “I don’t have Duff’s name anymore.“

Silence stretched for a long minute, Izzy staring blankly while Tommy’s manager looked back and forth between them in confusion. Finally, Izzy slowly stalked forward and Tommy was pretty sure he was about to get murdered.

Izzy stopped just inches away from him, “Who does?”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Slash, I need you to make out with Axl.”

Sputtering, Slash practically spit out his water in surprise and dismay, “What? Why??”

Taking a deep breath, Steven explained, “Okay, so I got Axl for the Secret Santa, right?” Slash opened his mouth, but Steven barreled on before he could speak, “And I want to get him something good, cause I love the dude. And I couldn’t figure out what to get him, cause like, what does Axl even want? But then I realized, he wants you!” Grinning widely, Steven didn’t even register the deep shade of red blooming across Slash’s face, “I’m pretty sure he wants you more than anything. So for his gift I figured I’d get you to kiss him! So will you do it? Please?”

Swallowing thickly, Slash brought one hand up, pushing his hair to try to hide his flaming face, “I- Um- …Hang on, I need to process this.”

Thankfully, Steven was happy to stand patiently while Slash’s brain rebooted. Logically, the guitarist knew on some level that his feelings for the red-head were mutual. At least, he hoped. After all, who’s to say their flirtation wasn’t just a friendly joke to Axl? He’d always been too anxious about being rejected to make any sort of blatant move; to do anything that didn’t have some element of plausible deniability.

But… Nikki had thought that they were already a couple. And now Steven was saying Axl wanted him. And, well…

That had to mean something, right?

Inhaling deeply, Slash finally met Steven’s gaze, “Okay. So. I see what you’re saying. But our Secret Santa gifts are going to be exchanged in front of a group, and do you really think Axl would appreciate me kissing him in front of an audience?” Just saying it had Slash’s blush reigniting.

Steven’s face fell, “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yeah. But… why don’t we trade names? And I’ll, uh, kiss Axl after the gift exchanged,” Jesus Christ he felt like a middle schooler. Fucking Axl messing with his fucking emotions.

The drummer hummed in consideration, “… You’ll tell him I helped though? Because I still want you making out with him to be my gift to him.”

“Fucking Hell, yes I’ll let you take credit if everything works out, so just stop talking and give me his damn name!”

Laughing, Steven swapped paper with the guitarist, “My work here is done.”

~~~~~~~~~

Axl glared at nothing as he stalked down the street. He was a fucking idiot. Why had he gone to the trouble of getting Slash’s name for the Secret Santa when he didn’t even know what the fuck to get him? He knew the type of shit the guitarist liked, and so in theory getting him a gift shouldn’t be that hard. But he wanted to give the other man a gift that would say something. Something that would maybe help… push things forward.

Unless Slash didn’t actually like Axl that way. In which case Axl needed to be able to laugh and say he was overthinking it. Plausible deniability and all.

Sighing, he wandered into another shop. This one seemed mostly full of novelties and souvenirs for tourists. He drifted aimlessly, kicking himself for getting into this situation and debating about just trading Slash’s name away to someone. But just as he was turning to leave the store, eyes burning with hopelessness, something caught his eye.

Picking up the item, he considered it carefully. It wasn’t some intimate symbol or heartfelt offering, but that almost made it better. Just something simple that would make Slash laugh and maybe hint at something more. Smiling, he swallowed back the lingering nervousness long enough to place the item on the counter to buy it.

~~~~~~~~~~

Slash kneeled on the floor, rifling through the single drawer of the coffee table in the living room. He was pretty sure he’d seen a spool of thread in there at one point…

There was a bundle of fabric shoved under the guitarist’s mattress in his room which had been there for almost two months now. The pattern had jumped out at him when he had passed a small stand where an older woman had been selling various crafts and knick-knacks on the street. At the time, he’d had no idea what to do with it, even as he shoved some crumpled bills into the woman’s hands and snatched the fabric. But he knew that he would kick himself later if he didn’t get it.

Months later and sure enough, he was so glad he had. He only needed to do a little bit of simple stitching for what he had in mind, nothing he hadn’t helped his mom with a million times. Now if he could just find that thread…

Suddenly, the front door slammed open. Jumping in surprise, Slash turned to see a frazzled looking Izzy. He barely had a chance to even process what was happening before the other man was stalking towards him, his teeth clenched as he practically collapsed onto his knees next to him.

“Slash,” he ground out, “I know Tommy traded you Duff’s name and I need you to give it to me so I can buy that giraffe bastard a fucking Christmas gift, okay?”

Oh boy. “Um…” Slash would love to tease his bandmate for his crush, but the situation felt a bit… volatile. Gulping nervously as he looked into Izzy’s hard eyes, he admitted, “I actually don’t have Duff’s name. I traded it for-”

“WhAT?!”

In the blink of an eye, Izzy was standing, hands fisted in the front of Slash’s shirt. Slash squeaked in surprise as he was dragged off the floor until their faces were inches apart. “What do you mean you traded it??” Izzy shouted.

“Holy shit, man,” Slash stared wide-eyed at his band mate, stumbling to steady himself and gripping Izzy’s wrists uselessly, “I-”

“Who the FUCK did you trade it to?” Izzy actually shook him, his eyes manic as he tried to shake the information out of the other man, “Who has Duff’s name now??”

“Steven! I traded with Steven! Fuck!”

“What’s going on? I heard my name?”

The drummer didn’t know what to expect, especially after walking in on what looked like Izzy threatening Slash. But before he could process what was happening, Izzy’s eyes snapped to look at him. Steven felt like a deer in the headlights, and in mere seconds Izzy had opened his hands, letting Slash drop unceremoniously to the ground with a ‘thud’ and an ‘oof!’, before full on sprinting and tackling Steven to the floor.

Shrieking, the two musicians tumbled to the ground, Izzy grabbing Steven’s shirt as he pinned him down, “Steven I swear to fuck if you tell me you traded Duff’s name-”

“No, no, I have it! I have it!��� Steven blurted out in a panic, scrambling to pull the paper from his pocket.

Snatching the name from his hand, Izzy released him, standing shakily as he looked down at paper, “Fucking finally,” he muttered to himself. He reached into his own pocket and carelessly let it drift down onto Steven’s chest before walking away, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.

Steven and Slash stood shakily, eyeing the closed door warily.

“What… the fuck?” Steven breathed, turning wide eyes to Slash, who only threw his hands up defensively.

“Fuck dude, I have no fucking clue. This Secret Santa thing is driving everyone crazy.”

“Ah man, am I gonna be the only one with no one to make out with after this thing?” the drummer pouted, leaning down to pick up his new name assignment from where it had fallen onto the floor, “I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind kissing Mick.”

Slash snorted, shaking his head in amusement. He froze when he noticed Steven seriously considering the paper in his hand, “Stevie, no. Do NOT kiss Mick. We all love the dude, but we wouldn’t find your body after.”

Rolling his eyes, Steven laughed, “Haha, Dude, I’m just kidding,” he glanced back down at the name, “…unless?”

“Steven NO!”

~~~~~~~

Opening the door quietly, Tommy glanced around the apartment. Seeing that the coast was clear, he quickly entered, cradling his gift carefully in his hand. The door to Nikki’s room was closed, music blasting from within, so Tommy was able to sneak past easily and slip into his own room.

He hoped that Nikki understood his gift. The bassist tried to shrug it off, scoffing whenever the subject came up, but Tommy could tell the holidays were hard for him. It hurt Tommy’s heart to see the other man struggle, and he wouldn’t even really talk about it. The most the drummer got was some drunken muttering on the nights Nikki got really fucked up, but never enough for him to really get it off his chest and feel better, so he always awoke the next morning just as melancholy and frustrated and distant.

Sighing, Tommy placed his gift gently on the table next to his bed. Maybe it was far fetched, but he loved Nikki. He just hoped his present would communicate that.

~~~~~~~

Izzy was collapsed face down on his mattress, the same spot he’d been in for the last hour. When this week had started, he had not anticipated having to go through so much trouble to get his crush’s name. But it would all be worth it when he gave him his gift and-

His eyes snapped open.

Oh fuck.

He hadn’t gotten Duff a fucking gift yet.

~~~~~~~~

Sighing in relief, Duff finally made it home after a hellish double-shift. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and pass out. He had finished his gift for Steven a few days after they all drew names, and he felt confident the drummer would like his gift when he got it the next night. When he walked into the living room, he waved tiredly at Steven, who was smoking lazily on the couch.

“Hey man,” the drummer nodded at him.

“Hey,” Duff sat next to him, leaning his head back, “Any crazy plans for tonight?”

Steven shrugged, “Nah, I need to figure out what to do for the Secret Santa thing.”

Duff snorted, “You’ve had a week and you’re doing this the night before?”

“It’s not my fault!” Steven whined, “I had to switch names last second.” He crossed his arms with a huff, and before Duff could question what he was talking about, the drummer muttered, “Izzy must’ve gotten you something really good, he wanted your name really bad.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

When Steven finally looked up, he immediately straightened in his seat, eyes widening at the sight of Duff’s pale face, “Dude? What’s wrong, are you ok-”

“Izzy got me for the exchange?” the bassist asked weakly.

“Well, I mean, he does now? He pretty much forced me to give it to him and-”

Duff stood abruptly, Steven following after him with his hands out because honestly Duff looked a little like he was going to pass out, “Oh my God. Oh my God, Izzy is going to give me something. I don’t have anything for him!”

“That’s okay, it’s okay!” Steven desperately tried to soothe him, “You’re only supposed to give a gift to your assigned person, so-”

“No!” Duff’s fingers curled into his own hair, eyes wide and panicky, “Izzy is getting me a gift! He- he deliberately got my name and I don’t have anything for him! That is not okay!”

“Fuck, okay, Duff, just breathe, okay? Oh God, please don’t cry! Duff if you start crying then I’m gonna start crying!”

Just then, the front door opened. Axl blinked in surprise, eyes darting between Steven and Duff and immediately rushing forward in concern, “What the Hell is going on? Why do you both look like you’re going to cry? Do I need to punch someone??”

Duff covered his face with his hands, “I fucked up and now Izzy is going to fucking hate me!”

“No, he’s not!” Steven insisted, rubbing Duff’s back as he turned to Axl, “Izzy has Duff’s name for the Secret Santa and now Duff is freaking out because he doesn’t have a gift for Izzy.”

Axl furrowed his brow in confusion, “But if you don’t have Izzy’s name then you weren’t supposed to get him a gift?”

“Fuck that!” Duff cried, “It- it’s Izzy! I can’t take something from him without giving him something back! He’ll think I don’t care!” His chest was heaving, “Oh my God, I can’t breathe, he’s going to think I don’t care, I can’t breathe, I’m dying-”

Scrambling, Steven and Axl gently pushed Duff back onto the couch, sitting on either side of him, “Duff, Duff, don’t think about that right now, just breathe okay? In and out, just copy us,” Axl’s deep voice was soft and comforting, Steven’s hand on his back grounding him as the two musicians beside him took exaggerated breaths.

As air finally started to reach his lungs, Duff wiped at his face roughly, “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Hey, you’re fine dude,” Steven insisted, Axl nodding in agreement. They were both a little shaken- they knew that Duff could get anxious, and he’d told them that he had had panic attacks before, but they’d never witnessed one before. Still, they managed to keep it together while Duff calmed down.

“Okay, so I still say you have nothing to worry about,” Axl began, “but if it will help, I know Nikki had Izzy’s name to start.”

“And I know no one in the house has his name,” Steven added, “So it’s definitely with someone in the Crue!”

Nodding, Duff took another deep breath, “Okay. Okay, so I’ll just go over, and switch, and… and figure out something to give him… tomorrow…” he ran a hand over his face, “Fuck.”

“It’ll be fine, you’ve totally got this!” Steven encouraged.

“Right. Fuck, I’m wasting time, I need to go,” Standing, Duff took a few steps towards the front door before stopping, turning on his heel and rushing into the room he shared with Steven. He emerged moments later with a paper bag clutched in his hand.

“What’s that?” Steven asked.

“Nothing. See ya,” And with that, Duff was running out the door.

Turning slowly towards Axl, Steven bit his lip nervously, “Should we…?”

Sighing, the red-head stood, “Yeah, probably.” The two men quickly ran out the door after the bassist, following after him down the street. Because they were good fucking friends.

~~~~~~~~~

Slash returned home after making a run to the liquor store and found the house dark, empty, and quiet. He glanced around in confusion, raising his hands in dismay.

“Where the fuck is everybody?”

~~~~~~~~~

“Maybe speed it up just a little?”

“I think the issue is more with the key than the speed,” Mick argued. Tommy hummed in consideration while Nikki made a few notes in his notebook. Motley Crue was crammed in their usual corner of the apartment dedicated to their band practice.

“Well, let’s start with a key change and then see how we feel,” Nikki decided. The others nodded in agreement, but before they could start playing, they all jumped as someone started pounding on their door.

“NIKKI!” A voice yelled, “Nikki, let me in!!”

All eyes snapped to the bassist, “What the fuck did you do, Sixx?” Vince questioned accusingly.

“I didn’t do anything!” Nikki replied, huffing defensively.

The pounding at the door suddenly stopped, and the four rockers heard more voices from outside, “Jesus fuck, Duff, will you please calm down?”

“Should we do another breathing exercise?”

“I’m fucking FINE, I just-”

Finally, Nikki hesitantly opened the door, revealing three fifths of Guns N Roses standing on his doorstep. “Uuuuuh… hi?”

“Nikki!” Duff exclaimed with relief, “Do you know who has Izzy’s name for the Secret Santa?”

“Mother fucker.”

Mick’s voice was more resigned than annoyed, and Duff immediately gave him his attention, “Mick do you have it? Can you-”

“Yes, fuck, whatever, I don’t care!” the guitarist threw his arms in the air in exasperation.

Beaming, Duff quickly jogged over, swapping scraps of paper and also handing Mick the paper bag he had brought with him.

Raising an eyebrow, Mick looked at it suspiciously, “What’s this?”

“Oh, I already had a gift, so you can just give it to him instead.”

“Hell yeah, that makes my life easier.”

“It was the least I could do,” Duff shrugged.

“Great, this has been fun,” Vince rolled his eyes, “Now get out, we’re busy being a better band than you guys.”

“Excuse me?!” Axl stepped forward, fists clenched and ready to go, but Duff swiftly wrapped his arms around his waist and lifted him off the floor. “Hey!!” the singer struggled, arms still reaching out as if he could get a hit in from his current position.

Duff nodded at the four men, “Thanks again. See you guys tomorrow!”

Calling out their farewells, Vince snickered as Axl cried out “This isn’t over, asshole!” just as the door closed behind them.

Nikki shook his head, “I get the feeling that tomorrow is going to be interesting.”

~~~~~~~~~~

By the time the two bands piled into the living room of the Hell House, every single one of them was some level of buzzed. Slash and Steven had smoked a bit earlier in the evening, Nikki, Tommy, and Vince had done a few lines, and the drinks were flowing early. Duff didn’t even bother with pretense this time, a bottle of Vodka held loosely in his hand.

“Man, we should have decorated the apartment!” Tommy pouted as he admired the Christmas lights that had been tossed around and hung haphazardly in the living room, Duff smiling proudly from his seat. Axl, Izzy, Vince, and Steven were pressed close together on the couch, Mick taking the only chair, while the rest of the group sat on the floor. The coffee table was piled up with their shoddily wrapped gifts in the middle of their circle.

“Alright, who’s starting this thing?” Nikki questioned.

For a moment, everyone was silent, each person looking around and waiting for someone else to volunteer. “Oh for fucks sake,” Axl rolled his eyes, “Steven, this whole thing was your idea, so you get to start.”

“Sure!” Steven grinned widely, reaching into the pile to grab a paper bag with a very familiar shape, “Merry Christmas, Mick!”

“Hey, wait a sec-” Axl protested.

Opening the bag, no one was surprised to see the bottle of vodka inside. There was a chorus of complaints, Nikki slamming his hands on the coffee table, “Dude, we said no alcohol!”

But the drummer only smirked mischievously, “That’s the real gift,” he explained, “My present to Mick is saying ‘fuck it’ to the rules.”

The group went silent, all of them considering his words. “Damn,” Slash muttered, “That’s actually pretty good.”

Even Mick couldn’t hold back a small smirk, nodding in appreciation, “I dig it. Thanks, drummer,” he raised the bottle with a nod of thanks, and Steven pumped his fist in victory. Slash mentally sighed in relief that at least the drummer hadn’t tried to kiss the man.

“Let’s just go clockwise, now,” Tommy suggested, “So Mick, you’re up next!”

“Well, surprise, surprise,” the older man rolled his eyes, “I got Steven. So here,” he grabbed the bag Duff had given him the day before, pushing it into the blonde’s arms.

Opening the bad excitedly, Steven gasped in excitement. He pulled out a pair of drumsticks, the handles covered in dark swirls and designs which, upon closer observation, looked like they had been practically carved on with ballpoint pen. “These are awesome! Thanks, ‘Mick’,” he looked at the guitarist first, before smiling at Duff. Slash and Izzy exchanged silent glances. Neither understood the exchange, shrugging nonchalantly and ultimately deciding not to worry about it.

Slash was next, and he shyly tossed a light package wrapped in tissue paper into Axl lap, “I got Axl. Merry Christmas, dude.”

A subtle pink spread across Axl’s cheeks before he even opened the package, but it got even worse once he did. Folded inside was a bandana. Everyone knew it was one of Axl’s favorite accessories to wear, so it made sense as a gift, but what really made him pause was the pattern on it. The black fabric was covered with designs of golden snakes wrapped around dark red roses.

Swallowing thickly, Axl cleared his throat, doing his best to smile casually, “This is awesome, man,” he looked up to meet Slash’s eyes, “Thank you.”

Mick took a long drink from his vodka.

“Okay! Tommy, you’re next!” Slash slapped at the drummer’s arm, desperate to get the attention away from himself and the singer.

“Oh, yeah, right!” Tommy nervously lunged forward, to grab his gift. His present was in a paper grocery bag, which he held carefully by the handles as he placed it in Nikki’s lap next to him, “Here you go, buddy!”

Nikki blinked in surprise, his heart skipping a few beats as he looked down at the bag. Opening it up, his eyes widened as he saw what it was. Moving carefully to keep it upright, Nikki pulled out a small potted succulent. The bassist couldn’t help but let out a small, breathy laugh.

Tommy gave him roots. The fucking, sappy bastard.

“Thanks, man!” He slung an arm around the drummer’s shoulders, pulling him close to his side, “I fucking love it!” He shook his head a little, letting his bangs cover his eyes that he knew were getting glassy. “And hey, what are the odds, I got your name,” the entire room rolled their eyes, a few of them chuckling at the reality of what they’d all gotten themselves into. Meanwhile, Nikki grabbed a foil wrapped bundle and handed it to Tommy.

Peeling back the foil eagerly, Tommy gasped, “Cookies!!”

While they weren’t exactly prize-winning, with Izzy’s help Nikki managed to make the pastries both edible and at least somewhat visually appealing. As he happily shoved a cookie into his mouth, Tommy almost choked when he saw, near the bottom of the pile where no one else could see, one large cookie shaped like a heart.

“Thnn yu nnk! Ahveum!” Tommy’s words were practically unintelligible as he tried to speak with his mouth full, but Nikki understood, especially when the taller boy pulled him into a tight hug.

“Anytime, dude,” both of them were beaming, and even as Nikki called for Duff to take his turn, the terror twins kept their arms around each other.

Duff took a large gulp of his vodka before shakily reaching for his gift. It was small and flat, wrapped in magazine pages, and he couldn’t quite meet Izzy’s eyes as he held it out to him, “Here you go, Izzy. Um, merry Christmas.”

Taking the gift, Izzy could feel himself gaping. He hadn’t expected Duff to get him for the game. Tearing the paper, he found himself pulling out a loop of bass strings. As he looked at it though, he realized that the four strings had been carefully braided together. The braid was then carefully twisted around before being wrapped tightly with a thin metal wire to hold it together as an intricate bracelet.

Izzy couldn’t stop staring at it, “Dude,” he breathed out, “this is amazing. Did you make this?”

Duff was twisting his fingers together so hard it had to be painful, “Uh, yeah, I…”

Smiling, Izzy slipped the bracelet on, only taking his eyes off it for a moment to look at the bassist, “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

Returning the smile, Duff allowed himself to relax, if only a little, “Anytime. Uh, Axl, you’re up.”

Steeling himself, the singer kept his face neutral as he tossed a small plastic bag across the coffee table, “Merry Christmas, Slasher,” he smirked, putting all his effort into not showing his nervousness.

Slash didn’t know what to expect, but when he opened the bag and saw what was inside, he immediately burst into a grin and started laughing. Axl smiled in relief, while the rest of the group looked on in confusion. Finally, Slash pulled out a pair of heart shaped sunglasses with soft red lenses.

The group laughed along with him, “Oh my gosh, you got him rose-colored glasses? That’s amazing,” Izzy chuckled, bumping his shoulder against Axl’s.

“Heart eyes, motherfucker!” Tommy laughed.

As his laughter trailed off, Slash looked up at Axl, his smile soft and sincere, “Thank you, Axl. They’re perfect.”

Ducking his head, Axl smiled back shyly before clearing his throat and turning to Izzy, “Alright Stradlin, your turn.”

The smile dropped off of Izzy’s face, replaced by anxiety and uncertainty. But there was no going back now. He had to fucking commit to the plan. He picked up a small box and handed it over to the tall blonde bassist, “Right. Merry Christmas, Duff.”

Duff looked almost as nervous as Izzy did (Axl didn’t know whether he wanted to smack them or hug them). Opening the box, he blinked in surprise. Tilting his head curiously, he pulled out one of Izzy’s wristwatches. “Oh, cool. Thank you!” Across from him, Izzy took a deep breath and finally managed to force out what he’d been practicing in his head all day.

“If there’s no time like the present, then there’s no present like the time.”

Everyone’s eyes snapped to the guitarist, and he felt his face grow warm with the attention. Then, Duff snorted, slapping a hand over his mouth at the sound. But it was no use- within seconds he had dissolved into giggles. The rest of the room soon followed.

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD,” Axl laughed loudly, “You got him a fucking dad joke for Christmas!”

Even Mick was chuckling, and Tommy grinned at Steven, “I think Izzy beat you as far as metaphorical gifts go, dude.”

“I’m okay with that,” Steven giggled.

By the time they all calmed down, Duff had fallen back to lay on the floor, clutching the watch to his chest as his laughter finally tapered off, “Oh, Izzy, I love- I love it. Thank you,” he was smiling so wide his face hurt, and Izzy’s cheeks were still bright red, but he didn’t care. It was worth it.

“Wait…” Slash suddenly narrowed his eyes, “Hold on a sec…” Scanning the room, his jaw dropped, “Who the fuck got Vince??”

“I DID, BITCHES!” the Motley Crue font man stood dramatically, flipping his hair as he made his revelation.

“What the fuck?” Steven gaped, “Did you draw your own name?”

“You bet your ass I did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything??”

“Because I deserve nice things and who better to treat me to them than me?” he grinned pretentiously, “For this exchange I got myself an entirely new makeup kit and a new scarf, which is way better than-” suddenly, Vince pouted, “Hey!” he cried, clearly offended, “At least go into another room!”

The rest of the boys followed his gaze, quickly groaning when they found Nikki practically in Tommy’s lap as the two kissed passionately. Axl made fake gagging noises, while Mick just took a long, long drink from his Christmas Vodka.

“Alright, I think we all need some drinks,” Axl rolled his eyes as he stood, “You two better cool it before I get back or I'm pouring ice water over your heads.” Nikki flipped him off without even breaking away from the drummer.

As the red-head rushed out of the room, Slash stood abruptly, “I’ll go help!” He quickly hurried into the kitchen behind him.

“I’m definitely down to get fucked up, but I need a smoke first,” Izzy sighed. Hesitating, he offered almost shyly, “You want one, Duff?” He held his box of cigarettes out in offering.

With a small smile, Duff stood to follow him outside, “Yeah, sure.”

As they left, Steven looked between the door that closed behind them, the entryway to the kitchen, and the terror twins still making out on the floor in front of them. Quietly, he reached out to hold hands with both Mick and Vince.

The guitarist narrowed his eyes, and started to pull away, “Don’t-”

“Shhhhhh, Mick,” Vince grinned as he shushed him, sitting down directly on Steven’s lap, “It’s Christmas.”

“…Jesus Christ,” Mick let out a long sigh, glancing upwards for just a moment. But when Steven and Vince shifted over to make room for him, he moved to sit next to them on the couch, allowing Steven to continue holding his hand as they passed the bottle of vodka between them. And as much as Mick might try to deny it, none of them could keep a smile off their faces.

~~~~~~~~~

“So, there’s a second part to my gift.”

Axl jumped slightly when Slash’s spoke behind him. Turning to face him, he felt his cheeks burning again just thinking about the gifts they had given each other, “Oh?”

Slash nodded, tugging on a strand of hair shyly.

After a long pause, Axl tilted his head questioningly, “…So-” But right as he tried to speak, Slash finally gathered his courage and surged forward, wrapping his arms around Axl’s waist and kissing him deeply.

For a moment, the singer felt frozen in shock, but once his brain catches up and he convinces himself that this isn’t some hyperrealistic fever dream, he can’t help but melt into Slash’s arms, kissing back passionately. They’ve both waited so long for this moment that they can’t help but stay pressed together until they’re forced to break for air, both gasping deeply into each other’s mouths.

“…That was actually Steven’s Christmas gift to you.”

“WhAT??”

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

The night air outside was brisk, but for two men who were raised outside of California it was pleasant. Duff and Izzy smoked quietly next to each other, standing in the dim glow of the only working light outside of the Hell House. With each drag of his cigarette, Izzy mentally worked himself up to just say something to Duff. Something, anything to even remotely explain his feelings.

But before he got a chance, Duff started rambling.

“Thank you again. For the gift, I mean. I mean the- not that the watch isn’t nice! I love it, honestly, but that joke man, I definitely didn’t see that coming. And I know sometimes my jokes are dumb, so I appreciate you… indulging me, or whatever,” he waved his hand vaguely, ducking his face in embarrassment, “It just, meant a lot to me. Which might seem weird, or dumb, but-”

Izzy interrupted him with a soft, gentle kiss that still managed to steal the breath from his lungs.

Pulling back, Izzy weaved a hand through Duff’s hair, cupping the back of his head lightly, “I love your jokes. And I love your smile, and your laugh, and your bass playing, and your singing, and… I fucking love you.”

“Oh,” Duff breathed quietly, his eyes wide with awe, “Thank God. Cause… I love you too.”

Laughing, Izzy didn’t have any more words to say. He simply pulled Duff down to kiss him softly again and again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Both bands got spectacularly wasted that night. They pooled their money and ordered five pizzas, and passed around bottles of nightrain and whiskey and vodka, and played music as loud as their speakers could go. Axl and Nikki started writing song lyrics on the walls, and Tommy and Steven drummed on every surface available including their bandmates. At first every kiss was met with groaning and gagging, but by the end of the night every kiss got a round of applause and drunken cheers. Steven even managed to steal a kiss from Mick without being punched in the face. Motley Crue ended up spending the night, half the group stumbling towards whatever mattresses were open, while the other half passed out on the floor of the living room.

Looking around at the group of rockers, Steven beamed happily.

“God bless us, every-”

Vince shoved a pillow into his face.

[aroworlds]

What Makes Us Human, Part Two

Moll of Sirenne needs prompts in their girdle book to navigate casual conversations, struggles to master facial expressions and feels safest weeding the monastery's vegetable gardens. Following their call to service, however, means offering wanderers in need a priest's support and guidance. A life free of social expectation to court, wed and befriend does outweigh their fear of causing harm—until forgetting the date of a holiday provokes a guest's ire and three cutting words: lifeless and loveless.

A priest must expand a guest's sense of human worth, but what do they do when their own comes under question? Can an autistic, aromantic priest ever expect to serve outside the garden? And what day is it...?

Contains: A middle-aged, agender priest set on defying social norms around love; an alloromantic guest with a journey to undergo in conquering her amatonormativity and ableism; and an elderly aromantic priest providing irascible reassurance.

Content Advisory: Depictions and discussions of ableism, amatonormativity and dehumanisation, particularly with regards to autism and aromanticism. Please expect additional background references to partner abuse and dysfunctional relationships, along with a side mention of magic causing harm to animals. This piece also includes reflections on non-romantic love's being pushed as a second-best "humanising" quality on non-partnerning, aplatonic and neurodiverse aros.

Length: 4, 946 words (part one of two).

Note: This is the newest entry in my tradition of Not Valentine’s Day Aro Stories posted on Valentine’s Day. No familiarity with my other Marchverse stories is needed, although it does obliquely nod at events referenced in Love is the Reckoning.

Will you ignore their need of someone their own to reassure them that they are so wonderfully and deservedly human?

Moll checks that she follows and, wordlessly, heads towards the guest common room. Their heart thrums in their chest; they fight to slow their heaving ribs. What will they do if Gennifer isn’t finished with what caused her to miss breakfast? What if … shades, can’t they send an acolyte to find her or Oki? Waiting with James won’t lack unpleasantness, but Moll needn’t engage her in conversation. They can keep their silence while a brown-robe hunts down a senior priest.

Breathe.

For good or ill, they are both decided to follow a new path.

Gennifer, fortunately, sits in one of several armchairs, frowning down at the ledger in her lap. Two acolytes tidying feel more like shadows than occupants in a vast room of redwood tables and bookshelves, all crammed with books, games, paper, pencils and paints. Pots filled with trailing ferns hang from the high rafters, lending the room a touch of Sirenne’s soil-and-leaflitter scent; the large slate tiles, polished smooth and set close together, feel cool under Moll’s bare feet. Large windows reveal the gardens between wings, permitting light enough that demarcations of “outside” and “inside” lose relevance.

She closes the book and looks up, her thick brows raised. Moll has long learnt better than to voice these observations, but Gennifer resembles her pet chicken—a round, fat woman with nut-brown skin and hair, the latter trimmed to a fine fuzz covering her scalp and neck. The red robes, belted with an advising priest’s green sash, pick up the reddish tinge in the hen’s feathers; the neat way she tucks her arms at her sides, her hands drawn up by her chest, resembles the hen’s wings. No quality will so provoke this comparison if not for Gennifer’s mothering of anyone, guest or priest, she judges in need.

“May we converse in private?” Moll asks, turning their head to ensure that James follows them into the room. “Thank you.”

She stands a few paces off, tucking her hand—the tip of one finger smeared with her lip paint—behind her back.

The acolytes down their books and retreat to the hallway.

“What is it?” Gennifer waves at the chair opposite her table. “Sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea? A biscuit?”

“No. James has the opinion … that I can’t relate to their experiences. She wishes the guidance of another priest.” Only a lifetime of practice allows Moll to keep their voice flat and calm. “I don’t wish to cause her any further distress, so I ask that you assign her to someone of a more … suitable nature.”

Only the slightest shift of brow mars Gennifer’s quiet smile. “I see. Is this the case, James?”

How can Gennifer, as careful and controlled as most of Sirenne’s priests, so evade accusations of lifelessness? What difference exists between her expression and theirs? Why can’t Moll see, recognise and imitate it?

James hesitates for long enough that Moll wonders if she’s beset by a change of heart, but at length she nods and takes the offered chair. “Yes. Please. They don’t even know what day it is! They just ask pointless question after question, all stiff and wooden. How am I supposed to get anywhere with a priest that remembers nothing normal?”

She doesn’t mention, Moll thinks with a nauseating bitterness, that she accused all priests of such ignorance. They may not know what the date means, how better to have approached James’s guiding or why only Gennifer’s questions are worth answering, but they know one thing: their control teeters on collapse’s edge.

They bow, turn and stride to the doorway.

“It’s difficult,” Gennifer says with a non-committal softness, “to feel as though—”

Moll quickens their step, their red robes flapping about their calves. Another pair of acolytes enter the hallway, stop and abruptly reverse direction as though afraid to tangle with a priest in a temper. They fist their hands until their fingers ache, but their shoulders shake and their chest heaves. Why did they entertain the delusion that their thick, autistic body, with its oversized hands and stern face, can ever be anything but threatening?  

How much more damage need they cause before accepting the truth?

The feel of grass beneath their soles and the strengthening of the rich damp-earth smell tells Moll that they’ve left the building for one of the gardens. Rows of mulched corn, peas and beans grow in a sunny section of the monastery, angled away from the greenhouse. The gardens weren’t their intention, at least insofar that they possessed any, but a riot of unwanted seedlings sprout from the pea straw’s seeds, diverting water and nutrients from the vegetables. The acolytes are a few days behind in their weeding. Good enough.  

Moll—ignored by the priest and guests tending the greenhouse’s tomatoes—grabs a bucket and a trowel, kneels by the first pea-festooned trellis and starts pulling up weeds.

There’s no glamour in weeding, no proud presentation of the literal fruits of one’s labour. New weeds poke through the soil and mulch almost as soon as one finishes, and, as in laundry and dishwashing, Moll never finds the satisfaction of conclusion. A garden always provides distraction, however, and nobody stopped to marvel at a quartermaster’s labour. Why expect it now?

Peace, instead, lies in the feel of damp earth clinging to bare feet, the patter of water falling on green leaves, the smell of sun warming soil and straw, the pop as a root pulls free from its earthen cradle. Moll’s trembling fingers fight to gently prise weeds from the bed and shake soil from their roots, but they put their rage into their shoulder as they hurl each into the bucket left at the end of the row.

Pull, shake, throw.

Pop, patter, thwack.

Isn’t this suitable work? If their labour allows Gennifer to guide James by providing the food eaten by priests, acolytes and guests, how aren’t they following their calling?

Pop, patter, smack.

“Do all of those require pulling?”

They jerk, straighten and turn, started to find the Guide sitting in her wheelchair only an arm’s length distant, her attendant idling with a book at the other end of the row. She’s a small woman with white hair gone yellow, sunken cheeks and bony limbs; “elderly” suggests more youth than she shows. Her green robe, belted with red, catches the light through some trickery of weave; a darker green blanket, knit from witched wool, sits over her lap, although the summer warmth permits her to bare both marked shoulders. A ball of yarn, two knitting needles and a toe and heel in progress rests in the valley between her knees. Based on Moll’s infrequent glimpses of her work about the monastery, she too prefers her hands busy, perhaps despite her swollen knuckles.

She looks like a stiff breeze will blow her out of her chair, but she reminds Moll of a century-dead tree, its roots grown so deep that its trunk and limbs survive drought and cyclone.

They drop their plant and, suddenly aware of their aching shoulders and back, bow to Sirenne’s most senior priest.

“Oh, stop. Sit up and stay sit up. Sat up? Whatever.” The Guide sighs and peers down at Moll. “Aren’t your back and knees breaking? I’m hurting just looking at you.”

Moll realises then that they’ve worked down the row and halfway across the bed. Small bits of seed and gravel dig into their knees through the thin linen of their summer robe; their legs, beset with an unnatural stiffness, fight their attempts to sit. “I’m sorry, sir, for my unsupp—”

The Guide raises both hands and claps her fingers to her thumb in the gesture meant to indicate a bird’s opening beak—usually made to mock a person prone to gossip. If she owns something as ordinary as a shroudname, Moll has never heard it mentioned. She’s just the Guide, the leader of her flock on their journey to … well, the Sojourner isn’t the sort of god that provides clarity. No bright heaven or dark hell; just the bewildering grey of somewhere.  

Moll dislikes those vague, unspecific words.

“I’m sorry for abandon—”

She repeats the gesture several times, fingertip smacking against thumb.

“I’m … sorry?”

Moll has heard the monastery’s gossip about the Guide, but they didn’t expect … well, this.

“Stop it with the drivel.” The Guide sighs and shakes her head. “If you apologise again, I’ll send you to shadow with the calling-year acolytes. Don’t think I won’t!”

Just the thought of taking lessons with Ro and Alicia has Moll closing their mouth with a teeth-clacking snap. Moll’s calling-year included a grandparent twice their age, but Ro’s year leans young, and they can’t say that they’ll enjoy being so subjected to the acolytes’ discussions, explosions, giggles, jibes and pranks. Moll endured enough of that in the army, irritated even when they were of the customary age to partake!

Is this the Guide’s way of saying that Moll needs those lessons?

Are their missteps with James so serious that Gennifer went to the Guide?

“Moll?”

They sit up, rolling their shoulders back in a vain attempt to ease their stiffness. “I don’t think I need those lessons refreshed,” they say, hoping that their tone doesn’t convey their stomach’s nervous roiling. A priest shouldn’t be afraid to admit fault. How can one help guide another in open-hearted curiosity while bound to an unfailing sense of correctness? “I think I’ll do better in the gardens or the stables. Wherever you believe my work most needed.”

Not that Moll has done an exemplary job with the garden, given the halo of uprooted-and-thrown plants surrounding the bucket.

“Really?” The Guide sighs, looking down at Moll with raised eyebrows. “Because I came here to tell a guiding priest to pick the gravel from their knees, wash up and hop to the infirmary to be briefed on a guest’s needs from his new priest.”

Moll frowns. The infirmary? A guest’s new priest? “Another guest—”

“No! You want to specialise in the arts of weed pulling and shit shovelling! Far be it from me to stop a priest from following their road—even if that road takes them five clicks backwards.” The Guide shrugs and nestles her hands in her lap. “I’m sure there’s another priest with curiosity, patience and directness to help guide a guest as much harmed by Sirenne as the world—another priest that finds equal confusion in tedious definitions of normality. Gennifer’s unexpectedly busy—what about Oki?”

They stiffen, their eyes resting on the thick, bobbled stockings covering the Guide’s unshod feet. “I don’t understand,” Moll murmurs, beset with too many curiosities to untangle but certain that few priests have referenced Sirenne’s harming a guest. “If I knew what you’re referencing, perhaps I could say…? But … I don’t want to distress another guest, and someone must muck the stables.”

After all, she may as well be referencing Moll’s treatment of James.

The Guide stares at Moll, her brow furrowed, her expression well beyond their conjecture. “I think,” she says at length, “you should explain the source of your newfound enthusiasm for regression.”

By now, narrating a discussion with a guest to a senior priest feels habitual. Moll exhales, hissing their breath over their teeth, before beginning with the dining hall, backtracking to explain their anxiety and James’s prior behaviours, and continuing with the courtyard conversations.

Their voice, steady during all manner of absurd, eldritch and horrifying goings-on in their fifteen years with Seventh, wobbles on the words “loveless” and “lifeless”.

“…so I did the inappropriate thing of leaving without allowing for proper explanation or facilitation of—”

“Nep, nep, nep.” The Guide beaks her fingers thrice; Moll, startled, falls silent. “Drivel. You cluck worse than Gennifer’s chicken. That you can work on—tell Gennifer or your calling-year priests that you want them to help you learn to stop clucking.” She sighs and shakes her head. “You assumed yourself the cause of her mood. James felt distressed by spending Lovers’ Day separated from her partner and took offense to your thinking you’d caused offense. She wanted you to simply offer sympathy, believing her situation abundantly self-evident and unneedful of explanation.”

How many times, over the course of a life, have allistics and alloromantics driven them to aghast speechlessness at their absence of rationality? Lovers’ Day is but a petty holiday borrowed from Astreuch tradition, something about which the Sojourner says nothing. Moll doesn’t care enough to recollect its existence, but neither will they disparage or dismiss her pain—if only she mentioned the holiday when asked!

Sirenne should offer sanctuary, but they’re still caught up in the mess caused by love’s assumption, expectation and conformity.

Even here, they’re still rendered less than human.

“I … asked why…” Moll shakes their head, turns and pulls up another weed. “I don’t understand that. None of it. So I belong out here.”

“I didn’t say it was reasonable. It isn’t any more reasonable than your current occupational decision.” The Guide barks a laugh. “But since when do we expect guests to bring reason with them? They don’t. We help them find it.”

They don’t know what word names the mood that has Moll wrench, twist and fling a seeding somewhere towards the bucket before looking up at the Guide. “How could I have—”

“You should have,” the Guide says, her words soft, “taken her to Gennifer as soon as her judgement turned personal. You didn’t need to tolerate that half as long as you did. Take her to someone who gives her fewer excuses and isn’t bearing bruises the world never lets heal. No garden so needs weeding that you should be breaking your body, afterwards, to survive the punches you thought you had to let her throw.”

They sit up, bunching their robes over their legs. Her words ring of bewildering improbability, an unexpected response—like the giving of their girdle book, the leather cover now speckled with dirt and mulch—wildly contradictory to the world’s usual rules and processes. Ideal, certainly, but not in practice true.

“I’m meant,” Moll says slowly, “to be able to do my work. I can’t give every allistic or alloromantic guest to Gennifer because they don’t make se—”

“We both know you won’t ask that another priest take on a guest’s care because you don’t understand their reasoning, but you should if they don’t respect your humanity!” The Guide waves her hand towards the great hall. “How, if you break yourself dealing with every guest assigned to you, are you going to give your best service to the next agender, aromantic or autistic guest walking up our driveway? What if there’s someone there in need of you? Can you, right now, serve as they need?”

They freeze, open-mouthed.

Never did Moll think to look at their work from that angle.

“There wouldn’t be that many—”

“Drivel. Most of the priests not us can handle James. Gennifer, though, isn’t aromantic. She’s kind, sweet and open-minded, certainly—and that’s better than nothing. But she doesn’t speak from a place of knowing. We do. And now, you can give someone something neither of us had—a guiding priest who knows in the heart. Can’t you imagine what that must feel like?” She sighs, her crow’s voice cracking. “Some guests won’t be suited to your strengths, but they’ll respect your humanity. Some won’t suit you, and you’ll make sure they’re cared for by someone they’re less likely to harm. And others, yet unknowing, need you. Will you, Moll, ignore their need of someone their own to reassure them that they are so wonderfully and deservedly human—no matter what the world says?”

Moll draws a breath, the hairs on their forearms raised, their body alert and quivering. Despite the near-cloudless sky, they look up, searching for lightning; the air crackles with that wild, dangerous energy. They hoped, five years ago, to return this gift Gennifer offered to a discharged quartermaster stripped of home and place. The gift of reframing the world, tossing about all long-held expectations so one can put aside the misunderstandings and follow a new turning. The gift, a chance to see everything anew, they couldn’t offer James.

A gift, perhaps, they can still offer someone else—because she’s right, something Moll didn’t realise until she said the word “us”.

They didn’t know that they’d waited forty-four years to receive that gift from their own—to be affirmed human by their kin’s reckoning.

The garden shouldn’t be the entirety of their service.

“That’s better.” The Guide gives a small, satisfied nod. “You’ve forgotten, I think, that in your first year, we learn how best you work with guests. Knowing that better, now, I need you in the infirmary to work with a guest who also didn’t pair well with his first priest—a guest who needs you, not Oki. Or will you mumble about weeds and manure?”

Moll shakes their head. No, not on their life or name!

“Good. Get up, have a long bath, scrub your fingernails, eat a late lunch and then present yourself to Thanh. Tell hir that I sent you to be Esher’s new guiding priest and ze must explain to you the magic. I doubt he’ll be any kind of conscious today, so you have time to dawdle.”

What happened last night? “Magic? Conscious?”

“Thanh will tell you. Go. I’ve got too many priests yet to talk to.”

Far too curious to surrender to bewilderment, Moll bows their head, grabs their trowel and scrambles upright just as the Guide waves her hand to her attendant. “Thank you. Sir. Thank you.” They turn for their bucket, freeze and spin back to face the Guide. “Sir, can I ask something?”

“Yes, quickly, but it had better not be clucking.”

They don’t know what she means by “clucking”, but they’ll ask Gennifer and Oki. “If you weren’t guiding guests when I came, why…?”

“Why didn’t I guide you, you mean?” The Guide shrugs. “I don’t guide guests or teach the acolytes. I’m perceptive and intelligent, they told me, but disastrously blunt. Now, after years in the kitchens, I guide the priests—once you’re educated enough in yourself that I needn’t dance around my words.” She hesitates. “I think, perhaps, there’s some acolytes I should have taught. But I do know the worth and the necessity in ensuring my own number in the priests that follow me.”

“I think you guide well,” Moll says quietly. “For me, if nobody else.”

Their own expressions aren’t given to smiling, but the Guide’s broadening lips, perhaps, speak for them both.

[thepetulantpen]

(Valentine’s Day fic to match @fancy-kryptonite ‘s art. Little late, but here it is!)

Shuichi is realizing, slower than he should, that this plan is going horribly wrong. 

He saw the signs, even had the feeling before he started that this wouldn’t work, but the stubborn parts of his mind insisted that it would work and that he just has to keep watching. Keep waiting, have faith. 

And yet, his faith does not keep Kaito from walking, very enthusiastically, in the wrong direction. Not just the wrong direction- the opposite direction.  

He’s wandered from his lab to the courtyard and is, astoundingly, heading back again towards… the gym? Shuichi can’t even tell from this angle. He’s supposed to be in the kitchen, with the chocolates and the second clue. 

Shuichi is almost grateful he’s watching from the roof of the main building, out of range to even consider helping. Almost grateful, if it wasn’t for the anxious itch to help that’s developing into a tension headache. He just wants to guide Kaito in the right direction but Kaito is- well, Kaito is Kaito, and Kaito doesn’t want the help. 

Maki is propped up on the rail beside Shuichi- or, really, in front of him. Shuichi is safe behind the rail, thank you very much. She turns back to him, smug and right as ever. 

“I don’t know what you expected. I told you this would happen.”

“I just- I thought he would get a little farther than this. To the second clue, maybe.”

Maki gives him a side eye that could mean anything, from judgment to agreement, and adds on that vaguely dangerous smile of hers. Too sharp to be mischievous. 

“Time for plan B?”

Shuichi sighs, long-suffering. “I guess so.”

Maki hops gracefully off the rail, perching herself carefully on the ledge of a several story drop. “I’ll get him to the finish line. Just make sure you’re in place.”

“Ok,” Shuichi gives her and the ledge a look, then glances back to the stairwell, “I’ll just, uh, take the stairs.”

“Good plan.”

And with that, Maki disappears from sight, descending silently and invisibly down the wall. Shuichi would watch, should watch to make sure she’s safe, but even the thought of looking straight down makes him nervous, so he turns and does his best to stop worrying about it.

It doesn’t work. He worries about Maki and Kaito and, well, everything. 

The best he can do is channel the nervous energy into perfecting- no, surviving the rest of this day. 

…

Kaito is pretty sure he’s killing it at this game. Who’d have thought he’d be so good at riddles, in addition to his many other talents? 

The first clue had been almost too easy, he hadn’t even needed to read it more than once. Less sophisticated than what he expected of Shuichi, honestly. 

Look for your next clue where you’ll find something dark, round, square, big or small, seen on Valentine’s Day and loved by all. 

A window, he thought, the view from which points him directly toward the courtyard. It makes sense that Shuichi would point him here, where they did all their training and spent so much time together. It’s beautiful this time of year, too, the bushes have bloomed with all colors of flowers. 

But mostly shades of orange, a very particular shade of orange that reminds him of gym floors. From the training courtyard, to the gym. Not a difficult to jump. 

Though, now that he’s arrived, he will admit he’s a little stumped. There’re no obvious clues, no pieces of paper holding additional riddles, but he should’ve expected that Shuichi wouldn’t be so straightforward.

He’ll have to think outside the box for this one, which means dismantling the box first, which means… well, he’s resorted to prying things off the walls. It feels vaguely wrong, like it should be against the rules for Shuichi to hide clues behind puzzles that require brute force. 

Although, Shuichi does know how strong he is. Maybe he counted on this, and wanted to provide a test of strength, to complement the test of skill and intellect. 

An entire panel of wall comes off with a satisfying, metallic thud. The sound almost distracts him from another noise, a much softer thump behind him, but nothing gets past Kaito’s superior senses of observation. 

Spinning around, he spots a small bundle sitting on the floor where there wasn’t one before. Or he thinks there wasn’t one, though he can’t be sure, with all the clutter lying around. 

His first impulse is to look up, but a cursory glance into the vast darkness of the rafters doesn’t reveal anything. Looking closer feels, again, like cheating, like he’s looking behind the curtain at a magic show. Maybe there’s a Rube Goldberg machine of some sort hidden up there, triggered by the panel.

That must be it, he decides, and nearly forgets about the bundle in his introspection. 

Wrapped up in heart-printed cloth is a box of chocolates with a note attached. Scrawled in strangely slanted handwriting- Shuichi must have written this in a rush, to make it look so different from his usually neat print- reads a simple message.

Find your next clue in the hallway outside classroom 2-B.

Kaito frowns at the paper, unsure what to make of this clue that’s not really a clue at all. He holds the paper up to the light, checking to see if there’s hidden ink, maybe, or a trick to the material. Nothing reveals itself, though he recalls something about lemon juice, for invisible ink. 

No, that might be the wrong idea. Too far out of his way.

Probably just a code, then. What else could 2-B mean? A police code? Music note? Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure there’s a star named-

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something move. He spins around, expecting to confront an intruder of some sort- maybe a built-in obstacle to the scavenger hunt, wouldn’t that be exciting- but finds only the open doorway and a stuffed bear sitting in the hall. 

It’s very cute, holding a star instead of the traditional heart. Kaito picks it up, then, because it’s already on his way, thinks that it can’t hurt to at least stop by classroom 2-B. On his way to solving the real clue, obviously. 

Maki watches him go from the rafter just above his head. The depths of stupidity these boys manage to explore continue to astound her. Really, there should be a study on the neurological phenomenon of boys in love. 

At this point, she’s worried she’ll run out of Valentine’s Day related items to guide Kaito like a child with a trail of Cheerios. Or, worse, that she’ll lose her balance next time she has to wave to get his attention and make him turn around. 

A concussion will make this scavenger hunt more complicated, though not by much with how much Kaito is overthinking it. It’s almost painful to watch and Maki has no idea how Kaito hasn’t given himself an aneurysm. 

Still, whatever he’s decided on in that mysterious mind of his is leading him confidently, and quickly, through the hallways. If she doesn’t get going soon, she’ll get left behind.

Maki sighs, but doesn’t bother to keep the smile off her face. There’s no one around to hide it from.

… 

Shuichi has been waiting for the better part of an hour, crammed in a locker. It wasn’t technically necessary for him to stay in his hiding place the whole time but he was so worried he wouldn’t hear Kaito coming that he didn’t want to risk ruining the surprise. 

Now, he realizes that was a silly concern. Kaito’s footsteps are heavy, and he runs nearly everywhere; Shuichi knows he’s coming before Kaito even turns into this section of the hall. And, if the footsteps weren’t enough, Shuichi can also hear him loudly talking to himself.

“Could it have anything to do with galaxies? Maybe the Milky Way- could he have meant the kitchen?”

Kaito’s footsteps pause and Shuichi nearly bangs his head against the locker door. Of course, now he wants to go to the kitchen. 

The hesitation does give Maki the opening she needs to sneak past Kaito- though sneak is a generous term. Shuichi can see her even through the narrow slat in the locker as she just walks around Kaito, who’s sufficiently distracted by staring off into space. 

Maki gives him a knowing look- she’s spotted him because of course she has, her sense for hidden things is near supernatural- and slides into a locker across the hall. On her way in, she rattles it dramatically, but gets it shut before Kaito turns his head at the noise.

Luckily, Kaito does decide to investigate the sound- though it’s a close thing, Shuichi can see in his expression the moment he considers ignoring it- and takes enough steps in the right direction to see the large heart drawn in the center of the hallway, in front of 2-B. 

Originally, the heart had been part of a larger riddle a few clues down the line but right now Shuichi will settle with Kaito getting anywhere near the target. He waits with bated breath for Kaito to cautiously approach the heart, circling it as if touching it will trigger a trap or contaminate it in some way. 

Ideally, he’d stand on the heart, but beggars can’t be choosers. Shuichi opens the locker doors when Kaito is approximately in front of him and throws his arms around him before he can think to turn around. It feels less like the warm hug he’d imagined and more like he’s keeping Kaito from escaping down another rabbit hole, but he’ll take it. 

“Shuichi!” Kaito looks at him over his shoulder and forces the surprise off his face, replacing it with smooth confidence. Like he’d expected this, even seen it coming. “Does this mean I did it? Did I win?”

Shuichi laughs against his back and lets him go, giving him enough space to turn around and face him. His smile is as brilliant as it always is, but Shuichi can see the lingering confusion in the crinkle around his eyes, gaze still darting back to the hallway like he’s anticipating there to be a twist ending and another riddle to solve. 

“Yes, you did. Solved everything in record time, actually.”

It’s almost true. Kaito did cut out a significant amount of time by skipping the majority of the scavenger hunt, but there’s no need to damper the mood with semantics. 

Kaito, oblivious, beams. “Of course I did! My brain is bigger than the average astronaut’s, you know?”

“I know, Kaito. I underestimated you, honestly. But,” Shuichi almost laughs at Kaito’s expression, suddenly less confident at the implication there could be more puzzles, “There is one more surprise.” 

Shuichi pushes Kaito toward the classroom door, lagging behind a step to shoot Maki a grateful look. He’ll have to thank her properly later, when she’s not hiding in a locker. Without her, Kaito would still be wandering the school.

2-B has been cleared of anything that might identify it as a classroom. Instead, it’s dressed up to be a mixture of an observatory and a pillow fort- fairy lights in the shape of stars on the walls, star-printed blankets and pillows strewn across the floor- with enough snacks and games for a respectable sleep-over. There’s even a little telescope he had Maki “borrow” from Kaito’s lab. 

The classroom, however, is unique in one way. The huge window has the best view of the night sky in the whole school- Shuichi should know, he spent a week scoping out every classroom- minus Kaito’s own lab. 

Kaito steps up to the window and looks out at the school beneath them, then up the stars slowly coming to life above them. His expression, for once, is unreadable.  

“Did you set all of this up?”

“I had a little help. I thought it’d be nice to have a night in, under the stars but without the cold. Some relaxation, after all the hard work of the scavenger hunt.” Shuichi picks at his hair, tugging at a strand in absence of a hat to pull down. “Do you like it?”

There’s a pause that makes Shuichi more aware of his nerves than he would like to be. Infectious overthinking jumps from Kaito to Shuichi, forcing his thoughts to chase themselves in circles. It works him up to taking a step back, to leave, when Kaito grabs his hand and hauls him forward. 

Using his momentum to drag Shuichi with him, Kaito plops down on the pillows in front of the window and, with his free hand, slings a blanket around them like a cape. Shuichi looks up at him like he would the stars and finds Kaito’s smile, more brilliant than the faded constellations. 

“It’s perfect.”