#also called shoulders in and haunches in respectively

[saphira-approves]

For @ladyofancienttales, who brought up the story of “a riding mishap and how an honorable man should live” that Murtagh talks about in Inheritance and I’ve been meaning to write about for literal years!

—

Murtagh wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened.

Half a moment ago, he had been drilling travers and renvers with a schooling horse—Mila, a slender and well-bred bay mare, whose asymmetrical white blaze had gotten her donated to Pelsa’s riding school—but between one blink and the next, his whole world went topsy-turvy, and now he was sitting in the dirt with a sore backside and the wind knocked out of him.

Mila, for her part, was on the other side of the riding arena, trotting agitatedly in place, reins loosely askew and threateningly close to being stepped on. Swearing viciously as he got his breath back and his feet underneath him, Murtagh stood and limped to her side.

“What the shit was that about, Mila?” he asked her angrily, snatching at her reins, but Mila snorted and jerked her head back, smacking his face with her nose as she went, setting him off on another explosive bout of swearing.

“Hey, hey!” Tornac reprimanded him sharply, jogging over from where he had been watching by the rail. “Gently, Murtagh; that wasn’t her fault.”

“Of course if was her fault, she threw me off!” Murtagh half-yelled, trying to grab at the reins again.

“Stop that!” Tornac’s voice, in that moment, was the angriest that Murtagh had ever heard it, and he froze on a terrible, half-forgotten (but never gone) instinct as Tornac’s hands closed around his wrists. For an awful moment, neither of them moved. Tornac’s expression flashed between a dozen emotions before landing on resigned determination, and he took a deep breath. “Yes, she bucked,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate, “but she is not at fault.”

“So it was my fault,” Murtagh finished for him, voice hoarse.

“No,” Tornac chided him, with the same earnest ferocity he used when he reminded Murtagh that he was a person, not just a dead man’s son. “No, Murtagh, fault isn’t what matters. What matters is that Mila was frightened, and reacted on instinct—she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help it, alright? You musn’t punish her for something she can’t help; that’s not how an honorable man bears himself.”

Murtagh could understand that. He knew what Tornac was saying, could even make an inkling of an ironic connection to his own experiences. But something tight and hot and awful was churning within his sore bones and welling up behind his eyes. “I’m still angry,” he hissed through gritted teeth, because that was the only name he could give it.

To his surprise, an amused smile tugged at the corners of Tornac’s mouth. “No, you’re not,” Tornac said knowingly. “You’re embarrassed that you fell from a horse you like, in front of… hmm… half a dozen people? And you’re still running on adrenaline from the sudden fright, I can feel you shaking,” he chuckled, loosening his hold on Murtagh’s wrists to run his hands up to Murtagh’s upper arms, rubbing them vigorously, which… surprisingly, was actually very effectively grounding him. “Now, you might be mad at yourself,” Tornac continued, “for not staying in the saddle. But everyone takes a tumble every now and then, Murtagh. It’s the honorable man who gets up, dusts himself off, and moves on.”

The honorable man. A figure from his mother’s stories, something his father never was. Something… maybe he could be. One day.

It took a few tries, but finally, with great effort, Murtagh managed to suck in as large a breath as his still-aching ribs would allow, hold it for a moment, and let it out in a great sigh. With it, the hot, tightly coiled tension in his body suddenly flooded from him, leaving him little other reasonable recourse than stumbling forward into Tornac’s chest so he could hide his still-burning eyes. “M’sorry,” he muttered into Tornac’s jerkin.

He felt more than he heard Tornac’s quiet chuckle. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” Tornac pointed out.

After a moment, Murtagh straightened, and turned to Mila, who seemed to have calmed a little, though her ears were still pricked, and he could clearly see the whites of her eyes.

Making sure to keep his breath steady, Murtagh reached his hands toward her nose, careful to keep his movements slow. “Sorry, Mila,” he told her sincerely. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you.”

Cautiously, the mare pushed her velvety nose into Murtagh’s palms. When he scratched below her chin, she finally relaxed fully, and allowed him to adjust the reins so she wasn’t in danger of stepping in them.

“Getting back on?” Tornac asked Murtagh as he made to pull down the stirrup that had, in the commotion, been flung over the saddle.

“Can I?” Murtagh asked him.

“Only if you think you’re up to it.”

“I want to,” Murtagh said decisively. “I think we both can do better. Right, Mila?” he asked the mare, patting her shoulder with a grin.

Tornac smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Then don’t let me stop you.”

[fanimesenseiwrites]

Kidnapped to Hell (pt. 2)

The prince, his butler, and the Avatar of Wrath all stood at the entrance to the eight circles.

Diavolo inhaled deeply and as he exhaled he changed into his demon form.

Satan and Barbatos followed suit.

Diavolo looked back at the two other demons before opening the gate and walking through to the first circle.

Satan and Barbatos followed him in and the gate closed behind them.

Once they were in the first circle, their forms all transformed into something more sinister and hellish.

Diavolo grew to almost twice his height and his wings grew proportionate to that. His legs resembled lion's legs as he now stood on large paws and haunches covered in black fur. A long, slender tail also covered in black fur grew from the base of his spine. His horns curved up and grew tall above his head and a small crown of fire appeared between them. His fingernails transformed into long black talons as his jaw stretched and grew to accommodate for his now larger and sharper teeth and fangs.

Satan's legs morphed into haunches at the same time the scales and ridges that normally were just on his tail grew all over his body, save for his face. There were now talons at the ends of his fingertips and fire where his hair used to be.

Barbatos grew taller, though not nearly as tall as Diavolo. His legs also became haunches, but everything about him was more reptilian. Iridescent scales now covered anywhere that had been previously covered by clothing and a human ribcage seemed to encase his chest, with metacarpal and phalangic bones creating shoulder guards for him. Long claws grew from his fingertips and his tongue was now forked to match his tail.

Diavolo stretched and rolled his neck, refamiliarizing himself with his form which got so little use.

Diavolo looked down at his two compatriots. "Alright, I believe the best way to search for Hoshiko will be to start at the bottom and-"

"Diavolo..." a deep and loud voice rolled like thunder throughout the entirety of the eight circles, seemingly coming from the deepest,  center most pit.

Diavolo couldn't do anything to stop the shiver that ran down his spine.

"Was that...?" Satan started to ask.

"My father," Diavolo answered.

Satan nodded.

Diavolo sighed. "We best go to him."

"But what about Hoshiko?" Satan protested.

"It would be unwise to deny an audience with the king," Barbatos told him.

"I want to find Hoshiko as well," Diavolo told Satan as he picked him and Barbatos up. "We'll take care of this as quickly as possible."

Satan huffed, but otherwise didn't respond.

Diavolo flew the three of them down to the eighth circle and to the chamber in which his father resided.

Diavolo set Satan and Barbatos down then looked at the stone door separating them from the Demon King.

The door opened before Diavolo could do it himself.

"Enter," the thunderous voice of the Demon King commanded.

Diavolo pulled his shoulders back and straightened his back as much as possible before walking in.

Satan and Barbatos followed him in, also correcting their posture as needed as they walked.

A demon twice as large as even Diavolo's larger demonic form sat on plush carpets and watched them enter.

The three visitors bowed to show their respect.

"Your highness," Diavolo was the only one to address the king.

"My son," the demon king spoke, his voice lowered only slightly now that his guests were directly in front of him.

Diavolo stood up straight to look at him. "Yes sir?"

"Why, pray tell, is there a living, human sorceress within the eight circles?" He asked as he gently stroked a girl's back with a single knuckle.

Diavolo's eyes were drawn to his father's hand moving and his eyebrows shot up as he realized it was Hoshiko who laid fast asleep on his father's furry leg.

"Hoshiko! You found them!" Diavolo exclaimed, immediately relieved.

Satan and Barbatos both whipped their heads towards where Diavolo was looking, and felt immediate relief as well.

"Yes, I found her. But you still haven't answered my question, Diavolo," the king reprimanded.

Diavolo turned his attention back to his father's face, reigning in his composure once again. "Ah, yes... at the present moment I do not know who brought Hoshiko down here, but I will be launching a full investigation. I felt like the priority was to retrieve Hoshiko from the eight circles first."

The king nodded. "You're correct in what was the priority, but you were slow in your execution."

Diavolo resisted frowning and only nodded. "Yes sir, I understand."

Barbatos piped up. "Your highness," he took a step forward and bowed again.

The king looked at him. "You may speak, Barbatos."

Barbatos stood up straight and looked up at the Demon king. "It is my fault that Hoshiko's capture was not prevented. I had not-" Barbatos immediately stopped talking when the king held up his free hand as a motion for him to pause.

"Your humility is always refreshing, Barbatos, but I'm not concerned about preventing a first occurrence. My point was that Diavolo should have searched for her sooner, as soon as he sensed her presence in the Devildom." He looked at his son. "And you did sense her presence, didn't you?"

Diavolo literally had to swallow his pride. "Yes sir, I did."

Diavolo could feel Satan's rage flare up behind him, and he knew he deserved to be the object of it.

The demon king nodded and then looked at Barbatos. "Barbatos, you and Satan take the girl. I'd like to speak to my son alone."

"Of course, your majesty," Barbatos replied before walking over to Hoshiko.

Once he was close to Hoshiko, he could see that their clothing had been ripped in places, revealing all the burns and bruises on their body.

Barbatos frowned as he wrapped Solomon's cloak around Hoshiko, then he picked them up and cradled them close to his chest. He turned and looked at Satan.

"Let's go," Satan told him before leading him out.

Barbatos followed him, taking care to keep Hoshiko's face covered, just in case they woke up.

The demon king watched them leave, only looking at his son once he was sure the others were gone. "We are all incredibly lucky that I rescued Hoshiko from the horrors of the eight circles. Though I'm sure there's still some damage to her psyche, she will be much better off than if she had been waiting for you."

Diavolo nodded. "I understand."

"Do you truly? I need to know that you understand, I don't just want to lecture you."

"I do understand. I feel terrible for how long it took me to just get to the eight circles. I knew Hoshiko was down here but I couldn't tell the difference between the Devildom and the eight circles of hell. I thought that maybe I was just wrong, that maybe my missing them was affecting my senses..." he confessed, unable to look at his father.

The king sighed. "Let this be a lesson to trust your gut, my son."

Diavolo looked up at his father. "Yes sir... May I ask you a question?"

"You may."

"Why did you wake up? How did you know that Hoshiko didn't belong here?"

"Her screams woke me."

Diavolo blinked. "What? But you sleep through the cries of the damned every day."

"Precisely. The dammed belong here. They have committed atrocities worthy of the heinous punishment that we dole out. It's justice in a sense. Hoshiko's innocent and living screams were an immediate wake up call to me."

Diavolo nodded. "Well, I'm glad that they were."

The demon king hummed. "I hope you take today's events to heart. One day I will pass the crown to you and I want you to be a good king."

Diavolo smiled slightly. "Thank you, father."

The demon king nodded and laid down. "For now though, I will go back to sleep."

Diavolo nodded. "Rest well," he told him as he left his chamber.

The stone door closed behind him all on its own.

Diavolo flew to the entrance of the eight circles, looking for Satan and Barbatos as he did. When he didn't see them, he left the eight circles, changing to his lesser demonic form as he did. He immediately texted Barbatos if they had left the circles and waited for a reply before leaving the vicinity of the entrance.

- We just arrived at the House of Lamentation.- Barbatos replied only a minute later.

Diavolo replied with an -I'm on my way- before changing to his human form and heading to the House of Lamentation himself.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

[athenadione]

Prompt #88 with Jayrae, with Raven as the person who got hurt. Pretty please?

Muahaha *cracks knuckles* don’t mind if I do. Thanks for the prompt anon! It fed my angsty soul. (Also, sorry all for the hiatus in updates. Life is... hard).

‘Toxic Vengeance’

Pairing: JayRae Words: 2,296 Rated: M - Warnings for cuss words, graphic scenes of violence, and major angst. 

When the knife slashes her thigh, it instantly feels like it’s on fire. 

With a hiss, she draws back. 

It’s as if someone pressed a red-hot branding iron to her leg, then twisted it deeper into the marred flesh for good measure—but instead of dulling, the burning sensation is growing at an alarming rate, spiraling up her entire leg. 

Another hooded figure dashes from her right, and with a wave of power she forces them back with a glittery black claw. They hit the nearest brick building with a thud. Another jumps from above to replace them, and she throws up a shield with her other hand, halting the strike of their sword in mid-air. More are filling the alley, coming from the shadows. The burning in her leg is now more of an afterthought as her adrenaline spikes.

I need to end this now. “Azarath. Metrion. Zinthos.” 

Her power flares, and strikes through the figure, sending it back, along with the others in one large surge. There’s a series of grunts, followed by the clattering of weapons, before all she can hear is her own harsh breathing and blood from her heartbeat rushing in her ears. 

Amethyst orbs search the alley with skepticism, expecting another cohort to flood the street. Another minute of scouring, then she releases a breath when she’s certain it’s over. 

The attack had happened the second she turned the corner to investigate the stain of dark magic covering the adjacent building. She had been following whispered rumors of a rising national occult for weeks, eventually leading her to Crime Alley of all places.  

A groan escapes one of the men. Her attention shifts to see him lying slumped against the wall, hood fallen. His face is covered in old ancient markings, confirming both the reasons for her suspicion and dread. 

The marks of Scath. It appears her father’s followers are growing in power. Now, she needs to find out why—and who is behind it. They know who I am and purposefully drew me out here. This is more than I anticipated.

Is their leader someone I know? Maybe Blood? 

As the adrenaline begins to flow out of her body, she becomes keenly aware of the burning pain that’s replacing it. When the burning in her thigh flows down to her toes and up the side of her body, she realizes that her heart rate hasn’t slowed and neither has her breathing. 

Glancing down at her leg, she curses at the blood flowing freely from the wound. It’s deep, and is now starting to bubble. A bright red streak grows across her leg—a clear sign of inflammation. 

Poison. It’s not one that she recognizes—nor is it one that her demon-half can expel. 

Not good. 

Once the severity of her situation sets in, so does her panic, and she stumbles when another flare of pain sends her head spinning. She staggers over to the brick wall, laying one arm against her forehead. It’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

It’s too late to call Nightwing or Batman; They wouldn’t be able to make it in time, and she doesn’t know if she has the capacity to transport herself to the cave. 

There’s only a handful of other people she trusts that knows more than just the basics of toxicology. 

Black specks dance along her vision and she tries to blink them back, shaking her head with considerable effort. 

There’s only one other option.

With the last of her failing strength, her eyes blind an iridescent white, and inky black tendrils snake around her, enveloping her into its depths. 

A moment later they release her and she stumbles across the threshold into a musty apartment. It doesn’t help that it’s completely dark, and the pound of her heart now seems louder than before.

Somewhere within the confines someone curses loud.

Her thoughts are becoming more clouded, and it’s getting harder to breathe. There’s a growing fervency to keep walking, and she does, intent to find him. 

A heat sizzles over her skin, heightening at her thigh. 

She whimpers, and her knees buckle—legs no longer able to support her weight. She’s so out of it she doesn’t even brace for the ground. 

He catches her before she hits.

“Jesus Christ, Raven. What happened to you?” His breath tickles her ear, and she shivers—though from his voice or her wound she’s not sure.

“Ambush. Poison.” She gasps through another wave of burning pain that shoots all the way up to her chest. 

Another curse and she’s being lowered against his door as fingers begin to ghost over her body. 

“Where? What kind?” He finds the wound and bright emerald eyes flare as they meet her. They swirl and morph into one before her eyes, and she blinks, swallowing back a sudden wave of nausea. 

“Alley…knife…I don’t know. I’ve never… ” she trails off, barely getting the words out as her shortness of breath increases.

“Fuck. Fuck,” an arm presses her shoulder back when she begins to slump over. “You cannot pass out on me princess. I need you to stay awake.” 

“Sorry,” she says, slurring her words. She’s growing exceedingly dizzy and her vision is blurring faster. She can’t get enough air to breathe. 

Something jars her. “Raven, stay with me.” 

Her heart feels like it’s going to tear and claw its way out of her chest, and for a moment she thinks it is. 

It beats faster, and faster, and faster.

“Rae, open your eyes. Look at me.” 

But then it stops. 

“Raven.” 

And all she knows is darkness. 

.

“Stand by. Preparing to shock.” 

There’s a loud, involuntary gasp, and a charging whine. 

“Shit. I swear to God you better not fucking die on me Rae.” 

.

“Evaluating heart rhythm… no shock advised. Continue CPR.”

The sound of pumping compressions fills the air. Green eyes glow as they glare at her prone figure.

“Breathe Goddammit!”

When he bites his lip, it’s hard enough to draw blood, but at least he managed to blink back the sudden, unbidden tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes.

He tries not to shake his hands when he hears her sternum crack underneath the heel of his palm. 

. 

“What are you doing on this com-line Hood?” The growl in his ear is laced with caution, and he can’t blame him. At least he answered. 

He gets to the point fast. “It’s Raven, she was poisoned. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s systemic,” he pauses as the voice in his ear curses. “She’s coding Nightwing, get someone to my apartment now.” 

There’s another tense pause as Dick listens to Jason’s sharp exhales coinciding with his compressions. 

“Where?” 

“The one closest to the Alley, on 3rd.”

“Z will come teleport us. AED?” 

Jason stops and sits back on his haunches as the defilibrator analyzes again. The machine’s response only heightens his fear. 

“No shock. Continuing CPR, it’s been a few minutes,” he swallows thick as he checks her carotid pulse again. Nothing. “I’m losing her godammit, hurry the fuck up.” 

“On our way.”

He immediately cuts the transmission to focus on his task.

One, two, three, four, five...

.

He doesn’t know how much longer he’s been counting to thirty, just that he’s done it over and over. 

A cacophony of motion behind him almost interrupts his concentration. Someone places a gloved hand on his shoulder with urgency. 

“She needs to be transported to the Watchtower as soon as possible.” 

Lips press together firmly, then he nods. Allowing Zatanna to intervene, she envelopes the empath in her magic. They leave the AED pads attached. 

In seconds, they’re gone. Then the others turn to follow. 

“I’m going with her.” 

Nightwing stills, eyes flicking to Batman.

The resounding silence is near palpable. Nightwing takes a tentative step forward, breaking it. 

“Little wing… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

Fluorescent eyes shine with stone-cold defiance.

“You can’t stop me.”

Batman grunts—the closest thing he’ll ever get to an affirmation. It’s a sizable achievement, but he doesn’t feel victorious at all. 

She’s still in cardiac arrest, but if anyone can help her it’s Zatanna. 

And if there’s anyone that can overcome something like this it’d be her. 

Come on princess, come back to me. 

.

She codes three more times in the medbay. The crash team hovers as everyone else tirelessly searches for the right antidote. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

While he watches her Nightwing briefs him on her mission. He listens. It’s a distraction. Then white hot anger licks and gnashes up his chest to his throat with each word until he’s fisting his hands tight to hide the tremors. 

“... I thought it might be Blood but assassins and poison isn’t really his style. Do you think the League could have something to do with this?” Nightwing asks beside him.

His response is slow and level, revealing no hint of the turbulence of emotion that lies underneath, “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” 

Nightwing gives him a pensive stare, but says nothing. 

Jason narrows his eyes. 

Dead. They’re all fucking dead. 

.

They’re able to create one an hour later. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved to see someone breathe. 

He waits until she’s stable before slipping away. The teleporter still recognizes him as Robin, and he’s not sure what to think about that when he steps onto the platform. 

Batman gives him a look that he acknowledges as both a warning and a threat; But why should he care? He lost respect for that man a long time ago, and doesn’t give two shits what he thinks.

Unlike Bruce, he’s not afraid to avenge those he cares about most through whatever means necessary.

.

A piercing cry follows the crack of snapping bone. Another finger, broken. That leaves seven more, and I’ve got all fucking night. 

“I won’t ask again,” comes a growl, “I want answers.”

The man’s panting is interrupted by a swift kick to the gut. He bends over with a groan, before he glares up at the Red Hood through one eye. The other is swollen shut. 

“Why would I tell you? You’re just going to kill me anyway.” 

Hood hums, cocking his gun. “True, but it’ll hurt wayyy less if you do.” 

The man spits at his boots, a mixture of saliva and blood. “Good luck. I won’t talk.” 

A malicious grin grows from underneath Hood’s mask. 

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t need it.” 

.

The hallway is empty, save for him and Nightwing.

Really it’s just a perfect place for a one-on-one scolding—and his brother clearly decides to take advantage of it.

“You shouldn’t have done that. He will retaliate. This is Ra’s we’re talking about.” 

Jason’s jaw clenches tight. 

“Who knows how many supporters he’s managed to convince that Trigon can fix all of their worldly problems? He could call on all of them at any given moment.” 

He bares his teeth. 

“You’ve made a mess, Hood. It’s going to take months to clean up what you did.” 

He can’t stand it anymore. “Are you shitting me? I did you all a fucking favor,” he points a finger in Richard’s chest. “I found out more information in an hour investigating my way than you all did in weeks. If you’re not happy with my methods then do a better goddamned job covering your teammates.” He nearly chokes on that last word, attention drifting to the unmoving woman in the room across from them. 

Dick’s eyes follow and widen, then narrow just as fast, and he crosses his arms. 

“You love her.” 

He should have known Richard would figure it out. Why even try to fucking deny it anymore?

“Yeah,” he winces when his voice comes out raw. “I do.” 

Dick raises a brow, unapologetic. “She’s not going to like what you did either.”

Jason doesn’t have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I know.”

He wonders if she would have done the same.

.

“The antidote stopped any further damage, but she remains comatose. We’ve deduced that her body’s gone into a healing trance to mend herself internally. There’s nothing else we can do but wait and continue to monitor.” 

He stares at her porcelain face, no longer resisting the urge to tuck a stray lock of indigo behind her ear. Even at rest her brows are furrowed—like she knows what’s coming.

He waits until he can no longer hear Zatanna’s echoing steps to draw closer to her, breathing in her familiar scent of incense and old books. It’s a welcome change from the sterile smell of antiseptic. 

“You’re really taking your time huh, sunshine? How rude of you, leaving me with these assholes,” he fingers another strand of hair before releasing it with a sigh. 

“You scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that again.” He gives her a mock glare, half-expecting her to glower back. When she doesn’t he swallows, and takes another breath. 

“There’s one more thing I need to do… and I know you’re going to hate it, but I’m going to do it anyway.” He imagines pools of lavender, ablaze with fire, and a mouth already poised to argue with a vehemence that makes him smile in the present. 

“I won’t be able to come back here after I finish, and I’m sorry I won’t be there when you wake up,” he takes her hand and squeezes. “But I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do.” 

The incessant beeping of the machines she’s hooked up to is his only response. 

He lowers his face, and brushes his lips against the crown of her head. 

“I love you.” 

Walking away from her is hard, and he almost turns back.

But he doesn’t.

[onenerdtwonagas]

Outside Threats

(Warning: contains physical assault and attempted sexual assault.)

Uriah had recovered from his transition into elemental immortality nearly a year before, and he had begun learning how to adjust to his new innate abilities, but he certainly didn’t have a firm control over them. The members of the Council offered their assistance when they could, but even they had warned him it would take time and experience, since he wasn’t born into magic as the rest of them were. He was thankful that he was able to get away from the the human city to the seclusion of the temple belonging to Orpheus’s family to practice. Trying to learn how to master magic amongst humans wasn’t a bright idea, and he wouldn’t entertain it. But, even at the temple, he wasn’t so certain he was ready to be on his own the handful of times Orpheus’s new godly status called him away. Maybe it was just missing him, now that they were married.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, love,” Orpheus would promise him, before giving him a kiss and slipping through a portal. Uriah had said goodbye to him the day before in a similar manner. Something about territory disputes, Orpheus had said; it would hopefully be resolved within two or three days.

Uriah sighed and leaned heavily against a sturdy stone pillar, fiddling with the clothing he’d been gifted from the Council. He wasn’t sure if there was any significance or importance to them, but at least they were comfortable.

A soft chime got his attention, and Uriah looked up to see one of the nightbell sprites that served Orpheus’s family—those who had been night god, respectfully.

“Pollux?”

He held out his palms for the tiny creature to land in, watching it shake its furry body and sit up on its haunches to chime again.

“Sorry, I, uh...don’t speak sprite. Not yet, anyway.”

Pollux’s ears flopped. He waved a paw vaguely towards the entrance of the temple. Uriah quirked up one eyebrow and followed his gesture.

“Is somebody here?”

An affirmative jingle.

“Huh. Not Eden or Atheer, though, right? Aren’t you kind of Atheer’s pet anyway?”

The tiny creature mustered up as best a shrug as his anatomy allowed.

“Well, guess we gotta check it out.”

Uriah set Pollux on his shoulder and made his way through the temple, hesitating only when he heard movement from the receiving chamber towards the entryway. He questioned whether he should make his presence known. He himself wasn’t a god or deity, and all of Orpheus’s relations were away for one reason or another. No one else was with him if this visitor wasn’t the friendly sort...

“Hello? I have a matter to discuss with Night God Orpheus!”

Uriah glanced down at Pollux with an unsure frown. A violent intruder wouldn’t make themselves openly known, would they? And for the most part, the pantheon seemed to respect his position as a spouse of a god. Maybe he could handle this?

Uriah straightened himself and proceeded out. He was Orpheus’s husband. He should be able to handle himself whether his husband was there or not; it would be an insult to Orpheus’s position if he needed to rely on him for everything.

“Hello—“

“This is his temple, but I’m afraid Night God Orpheus is busy with other matters,” Uriah spoke up, descending the stairs that sat on either side of the throne centered at the top of the far side of the chamber. The stranger turned, and seemed to puzzle at him for a moment. Uriah took him in carefully: a naga, and most likely from an old bloodline seeing has he had horns and four arms as Orpheus and his relatives did. His scales were a midnight black, shining like obsidian, but his skin was pale. He had dark, piercing eyes and hair as dark as his scales. He could vaguely identify him as some sort of shadow deity, and he remembered Orpheus had warned about being cautious with them. Uriah kept stopped halfway down the stairs, standing between the throne and the visitor.

“If you’d like, I can deliver a message,” Uriah added. Pollux remained perched on his shoulder, quiet, whiskers flared as he sniffed the air. The naga looked at him quizzically.

“You look like a mortal, and yet...”

Uriah didn’t respond.

“Ah, you must be his husband, then, the one the pantheon keeps gossiping about,” the naga said. His tone seemed...cordial. Uriah wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I am.”

“Well, then, it is a pleasure to finally meet the one that all the fuss is about!”

Pollux gave a small snort. Uriah glanced down at him, making note of the tension in his whiskers.

“And you are supposed to be...?”

“Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Erebos, heir to the Shadow God’s title.”

He slid a few paces forward and extended a clawed hand. Uriah didn’t move from his place, remaining skeptical.

“You were saying you had business with my husband, Erebos?”

The naga slowly retracted his hand. There was a hint of offense noted in his gaze. Pollux’s fur began to rise. Uriah raised a hand and gently stroked a finger beneath his chin, hushing him.

“Yes. A matter of politics. Is he here? I should like to discuss it with him directly.”

Erebos moved slightly to the side, and Uriah stepped over into his path, blocking him.

“I’m sorry, but my husband is busy at this time. You’ll have to come back later, or I can tell him you came by and he can meet you.”

“He’s busy, you said?” Erebos cocked his head slightly, eyeing Uriah. The man tried his best not to waiver in stature. “Then that means he isn’t here.”

He did not like that tone. There was something malicious in it. Dangerous. Pollux bristled, startling Uriah for a moment as he took off with a clear peal of a bell and zipped out of the chamber. When he returned his attention to Erebos, the naga had ascended the stairs, and was nearly eye level with him thanks to his height. Uriah stepped back instinctively.

“I told you that he can’t speak to you now. You need to go.”

“I heard you. But I also heard you offer to deliver a message in my stead. And I have quite the message to give,” Erebos said coolly, one pair of his hands folding behind his back as he slid around Uriah’s side, cutting him off and forcing him between the naga and the rest of his long, scaled body. Uriah frowned up at him and furrowed his brow.

“You need to leave. Now. I won’t tell you again.”

“And what, pray tell, do you intend to do to make me leave, hmm? Rumor has it that you’re still weak, still new. All that power and you have no idea how to use it...”

Erebos smirked down at him, reaching out and grasping his jaw firmly.

“But you are pretty, for a mortal. No wonder he likes you.”

Uriah slapped his hand away and scowled. His fists shook at his sides.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

Erebos chuckled.

“Do you know much about the Shadow deities, mortal? We have a long history, but a great deal of the world has forgotten our importance,” the naga drawled, briefly turning his attention to the throne. He ran a hand along its smooth, polished stone, tracing his claws along the edge of the arms, staring at it longingly. Uriah watched him carefully, all of his nerves burning.

“We used to have a claim to the powers of the night, you see,” Erebos went on, “until the family of that wretched husband of yours caused the split. How can we, beings of hidden secrets and all darkness, compete with those who have power over both the night and the celestial heavens?”

He turned his gaze on Uriah, sharp and cold.

“We’ve tried so hard, for centuries, to get back what we once had, but no. The Night gods always take what we want.”

“Clearly you’re going about it the wrong way,” Uriah retorted acidly. Erebos paused, smirked, and then erupted into laughter. It sent a chill down Uriah’s spine.

“Oh, how right you are!”

Before he could react, one of Erebos’s clawed hands lashed out at him. The back of his hand struck Uriah soundly across the face, sending him down. Uriah sprawled for a moment before catching himself, gasping at the raw, stinging pain that flooded his cheek. He felt something hot on his face, and after moving his hand, he realized one of Erebos’s claws had cut him. Uriah winced up at the naga as he began descending towards him.

“You have no idea how right you are, little mortal,” Erebos growled. “I’ve learned from my predecessors that going for the Night God directly simply isn’t enough. You have to hit them where it hurts.”

Uriah backpedaled from him. He remembered his magic. Maybe it could help him! He rose a hand and tried to feel the force both in him and in the temple grounds, visualizing a vine striking where he wanted it—but all that came was a thin root-like fiber that wilted almost as soon as it appeared. Erebos sneered.

“If there’s one thing I know about your husband, it’s his reputation as a lover. Did you know you managed to snag the most sought-after bachelor in the pantheon, hmm? He’s known to be fiercely loyal and romantic, and he takes heartache oh so heavily. Personally I find it a bit gauche.”

Uriah forced himself to his feet and evaded a strike from the naga, but stumbled and just barely caught himself on the throne. He turned over just as Erebos lunged a second time, cornering him.

“And I think, precious tiny mortal, that perhaps the best way to hurt your doting husband, is with you.”

Uriah threw a fist at his face, but the naga caught him by the wrist. Erebos tutted, and then slammed his own fist into Uriah’s face. He cried out in pain, doubling over as he felt a bruise forming over his left eye; had he been wearing his glasses, there no doubt have been glass in his skin. Erebos dug a hand into his hair and yanked his face upwards, staring down smugly. He seemed to ponder a moment.

“Though I do wonder... Perhaps there’s a better way to do this, hmm? Oh, I could kill you easily enough, but where’s the fun in that? Your husband would moan and grieve, but he’d move on eventually. But to make it last...”

Uriah panted and stared up at him in pain.

“How much would your husband writhe if I took what was his?”

No. No, no, no...

“G-Get off of me!” Uriah spat, squirming as Erebos pinned him down. He could feel his tail weighing on his legs, forcing him flat onto the stone beneath him.

“I wonder how badly it would hurt him, if every time he wanted to touch you, he could only think of me touching you instead?”

“No!”

“The more you struggle, the more painful this will be. Well, for you, anyway,” Erebos taunted, claws teasing at Uriah’s throat.

He didn’t care if Orpheus wasn’t there. He didn’t care if he was thousands of miles away. He needed him. It was instinct.

“ORPHEUS!”

There was a flash in the chamber, and the sound of the air itself tearing open. Uriah wrenched his face towards it even as Erebos’s hand held his jaw. A portal. Orpheus’s portal. The god himself materialized in the room, eyes searching for only a second before comprehending the scene in front of him. Uriah twisted in Erebos’s hold and drove his knee into his middle, causing the naga to falter.

“Orpheus!”

“URIAH!”

Orpheus’s voice was a roar. Before Erebos could recover, he darted up the steps and threw his weight into him, sending the two of them sprawling in a whirl of roars and fangs and scales. They snarled at one another like rabid dogs, teeth flashing at each other’s throats. Orpheus gained the upper hand long enough to throw Erebos off of him, his body tumbling back down the stairs as Orpheus placed himself solidly between Uriah and the offending naga.

“You come to my temple, on my family’s ancestral grounds, and you attack my husband?! I’ll tear you apart!” Orpheus spat, shaking with rage. Erebos didn’t have a chance to retort with more than a violent hiss and bared fangs before Orpheus went for him a second time, catching his claws before sinking his own into Erebos’s shoulder. Uriah weakly pulled himself up onto his knees, using the throne for support. The two nagas were tangled with another in such a blur that he could only tell their upper bodies apart by the contrast of their hair and skin.

Erebos hissed and lashed at Orpheus’s torso with his tail, flicking it sharply like a whip. Orpheus cried out as his skin tore from the contact, recoiling and glaring. Uriah watched with his unbruised eye as Erebos prepared to lash out a second time.

“Orpheus! Watch out!”

“I’ll kill you,” Erebos snarled. “I’ll maim you, make you watch me take your mortal pet, and then I’ll kill you!”

Orpheus swore in his native tongue, hissing so loudly it hurt Uriah’s ears. He’d never seen his husband so enraged. He had to help him, somehow.

“Please work, please,” he pleaded, pressing a hand down to the stones and feeling for the hints of moss between them. He could feel the tie between the greenery and the ancient soil. It was there, right there...!

“Orpheus, move!” Uriah shouted. Orpheus looked back at him, and then back to Erebos, just before the stones between them trembled. Orpheus retreated, and Erebos lunged, and a violent eruption of vines and roots burst up to snare him. The naga roared in fury, writhing before Orpheus took him by the throat.

“You will never touch my husband again,” he snarled. “If you even think of it, I’ll give you a permanent reminder of what’s to come.”

There was a bloodcurdling scream as Orpheus tore his claws down one side of Erebos’s face, blood pouring from his eye before Orpheus threw him back to the mouth of the chamber.

“My eye! You! You wretch, you took my eye!”

“And I’ll take more if you don’t leave! Now!”

Erebos glared at Orpheus with his remaining eye.

“The Council will hear of this—“

“You’re damned right they will! Don’t forget that you came here and attacked my husband! Now get out, or the trial will be about your death!”

Erebos hissed, and Orpheus responded with another roar and a flash of nightfire that ran the entire length of the chamber.

“GET OUT!”

Finally, Erebos slunk off. Uriah exhaled and felt the last of the tension leave his body, leaning heavily against the stone throne next to him. He could fully feel the pain from Erebos’s strikes as the adrenaline wore off, and he whimpered as his blackened eye throbbed. He hadn’t even been aware that he’d started crying. Orpheus slithered to his side, lowering down and reaching out carefully.

“Uriah, look at me. Let me see your face,” he said urgently, cupping Uriah’s face in two of his hands. Uriah winced as Orpheus brushed his hair back.

“He hurt you,” Orpheus growled, brows knotted together in both anger and concern. “Did he touch you? He was on you when I got here, did he—“

“No,” Uriah answered tiredly. “H-He tried, but no. You got here before he could—“

Uriah shivered.

“I-I tried to fight him, I swear I did. I couldn’t stop him, Orpheus...”

“I know,” Orpheus hushed, “I know you did, love.”

He held Uriah’s face gently and began whispering healing spells, brushing his fingertips gingerly along the bruise on his face. Uriah winced and shuddered, still unused to the sensation even after so many years with Orpheus.

“H-How did you know?”

“What?”

“How did you know something was wrong?” Uriah asked. “I-I couldn’t contact you.”

“Pollux found me.”

A faint chime rang in the chamber, and Uriah looked over as the little sprite settled down onto the stone beside both of them.

“Pollux!”

Uriah set a hand down, letting the sprite climb up his arm. Pollux nuzzled him and jingled softy.

“Good boy,” Uriah praised, bending his face into the tiny creature’s nuzzling. “Good boy, Pollux. Atheer trained you well.”

“Yes, he absolutely did,” Orpheus said gratefully, reaching up to stroke a finger down the sprite’s spine. “I’m sure Father will be wanting him back soon, though.”

He sighed suddenly and looked to Uriah, his face softened with worry and remorse. Orpheus brushed a hand through Uriah’s hair, and traced his slowly healing face. He didn’t even care about his own stinging wounds. He leaned forward and pulled him close, holding him so tightly Uriah could feel him shaking. Pollux fluttered down to the floor and watched with a sad whistle.

“I’m so sorry, Uriah.”

“Orpheus...”

“I should have taken more precautions. I was arrogant in thinking my title would protect you when I’m not there. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Uriah said firmly, even surprising himself. He held Orpheus back and squeezed. “That bastard came here wanting to start something. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were here, or if your family was here either. He wanted to hurt you.”

“And he tried to do it by harming you...”

Orpheus pulled his head back and looked into Uriah’s face. He felt so angry and ashamed seeing the bruises there, and knowing how helpless his husband would’ve been if he hadn’t been alerted in time.

“I’m going to ask my father if there’s a way you can reach me when I’m gone. I won’t leave you alone again, not until I have a better way to protect you. I will never let anyone hurt you again, I promise.”

Uriah brushed his hand against Orpheus’s cheek and pressed their foreheads together.

“There will be a trial. The Council will want to know what happened. Will you be alright facing him a second time?”

“As long as you’re there,” Uriah said, nodding. “Wait, my injuries... They’ll need to know. How will they if your magic is healing me?”

“Trauma lingers in beings’ auras. The Council will have someone gifted in such sight to determine if your injuries correlate to your story and mine. Words can lie, but your being’s energy will not. And I won’t stand for you being in pain any longer than you need to be.”

Orpheus kissed his forehead and helped him up, lifting him to avoid any further strain. They’d both need rest in order to recover.

—

The trial came as Orpheus had said it would. Facing Erebos a second time was unnerving, but Uriah carried himself well; his husband couldn’t have been prouder of him. Erebos was swiftly found to be wholly at fault, his rank and title stripped. The shadow deities would need to find a new heir to their leading god, now that he was banned from inheriting it.

As for the protection Orpheus promised, he was grateful to his father for informing him of a talented fortune deity who specialized in charmed items. Orpheus borrowed Uriah’s wedding band for only as long as necessary, returning it to him once a channeling charm had been placed upon it.

“You can call for me whenever you need me,” Orpheus explained, sliding the band back onto his husband’s finger. “I will hear you, and I will know where you are. You will never need to worry about being alone and unprotected. Whatever happens, wherever you are, I will come for you.”

Uriah admired the ring again. He would always be proud of it, of everything it meant. He held out his hand for Orpheus’s and slid his ring back on as well, raising it to his lips to kiss the band.

“We’ll be okay,” Uriah said soothingly, holding Orpheus’s hand close. His husband bent his head down and nuzzled him, squeezing his hands.

“Yes,” Orpheus sighed against him, “we will.”

[yeti-the-infinity]

hanami

matchaloveblossom - founder's trio festival day 1

Kojiro and Kaoru were from respectable families themselves once upon a time, but even back then they had not been permitted to visit Adam’s family estate due to the fact that they were pierced up, loud-mouthed, skateboarding hoodlums that had once landed a teenaged Ainosuke in a holding cell for an hour and twenty-three minutes.

It’s part of the reason they eventually agree to Adam’s invitation. The other parts being that 1.) Adam will not stop asking, 2.) they are trying to give Adam a second chance, and 3.) they want to see what he’s planning.

Adam spends the better part of the first hour of their visit leading Kojiro and Kaoru on a tour of the Shindo estate’s sprawling gardens. He lists off the names and meanings of flora and fauna like poetry before leading them across a stream over a whimsically ivy-hung stone bridge and into a grove of vibrant, sweet-smelling cherry blossom trees.

As Adam steers them both by the arm into a small clearing, they set eyes on a large blanket sprawled across unnaturally healthy grass. A hefty picnic basket weighs the center of the blanket down, with a bottle of a wine poking out of its top, and a cat has settled itself just beside this, snoozing in the warm, breezy afternoon.

“Well, isn’t this fucking adorable,” Kojiro croons, the first to settle on the blanket, kneeling, one leg stuck out as he pops open the basket and peers inside. “Did you do all this yourself, Adam?”

Kaoru recognizes that Kojiro’s gauging how much effort Adam put into this versus Adam’s servants, trying to understand how much this gesture matters.

“Yes.” Adam shoos the cat away with a feign of his boot and a canine snarl and then lowers himself gracefully onto the blanket as if he hadn’t. He sprawls onto his back, not unlike the cat had been sleeping, and crosses his arms. Kojiro catches but ignores the mild glare he receives before lifting small containers of strawberries, cherries, and sliced peaches out of the basket and retrieving three stemless wine glasses.

“Not all of us went to culinary school, sweetheart,” Adam drawls and kicks at Kojiro’s thigh across the blanket. “You could at least pretend to be impressed. Wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings.” He pulls a long face, his hands flutter over his heart, and Kojiro snorts.

Adam turns toward the shadow stretching above him and reaches out both hands, his long fingers callused for an aristocrat’s, but clean. “Sweet, delicate, Cherry Blossom, will you kiss my feelings better? You like it don’t you?”

Kaoru smothers an indulgent smile with the back of his hand and makes a show of surveying the picturesque, sugar-scented, sunny grove, with its swaying pink trees. Petals drift on the wind like fresh, warm snow, and Kaoru’s always been partial to the trees he had been nicknamed after, even if sweet, delicate cherry blossom had once been an ironic title given to a teenager who enjoyed getting into brawls and beefs and generally didn’t lose them.

It’s difficult to argue that the scene is not idyllic.

“It is very beautiful here…” he allows, his eyes gradually drifting back down to Adam and Kojiro, sprawled comfortably on the blanket. They look fairly idyllic themselves, well-dressed, casual, relaxed. Kojiro with his sleeves rolled up, to show off his absurd muscles as he pours out a Riesling, liberally as always, and Adam licking sugar from a strawberry a little too slowly. “And I see you brought wine, so, I’d say I’m content.” Kaoru lifts his sandal delicately onto the edge of the blanket, feeling for rocks underneath. The garden is immaculately manicured and all is smooth as he folds himself neatly by Adam’s legs. “Although, I didn’t expect we’d be roughing it…”

“Hm.” Adam’s hum stretches too long, his smile a little nasty as he rises to sit, the better to hold his wine glass—the better to reach out with his free hand to run his thumb across Kaoru’s cheek, just before pinching it. “You must be misremembering my proclivities.”

Kaoru snaps teasingly at Adam’s fingers with his teeth—he knows better than to rap at them with his fan—and Adam retracts them with a smug smile, as Kaoru mutters, “I remember them just fine.”

Kojiro pretends to ignore their antics, his eyes shifting from the trees to the picnic arrangement, drawing both of their gazes as he replies to Adam as if he hadn’t paused, “No, he’s right. It’s… nice… Just not exactly your usual fare.”

Adam holds Kojiro’s stare for a moment in recognition of the challenge in it. Kojiro seems to both tease and approve of Adam’s softness at once and it makes Kaoru’s stomach flutter faintly.

Adam breaks the gaze with a downward glance and then sighs. “Mm, yes, well,” he tilts his glass, making the wine swish, “my therapist might have suggested it.” Adam’s gaze shifts to Kaoru, because Kaoru asks more often, “And I do rather like this one. I think I’ll continue courting her a while…”

“You have your therapist giving you dating advice now?” Kaoru bats back, the muscles of his jaw stiffening.

“Not exactly,” Adam dodges and frowns back, fine lines between his brows, and leans forward to smooth Kaoru’s hair and give him his wine glass, since Kojiro had been distracted from pouring a third. “Relax. There you are, pet.”

Kaoru’s lip juts out, eyes narrowing, and he gives Adam’s shoulder the mildest of bats with the back of his hand. “I am not your pet.”

“No, of course not,” Adam sings, fond yet dismissive. He looks perfectly aware he has the upper hand as Kaoru accepts the glass and leans unconsciously into another caress of Adam’s palm, also callused, against Kaoru’s cheek. Kaoru’s skin is faintly pink from the blatant attention, and Adam wonders dimly and not for the first time if that’s why Cherry Blossom really wears a mask.

Kaoru swats Adam’s palm away when he lingers too long, but Kaoru does not flit his golden eyes away from the ruby ones that stare longer.

“You’re our beautiful Cherry Blossom,” Adam sings.

Kaoru can see Adam’s eyes flicker with devilry as his lip curls. “Joe’s our pet.”

Kojiro grunts an objection. “Come say that to my face why don’t you?” he challenges from over Adam’s shoulder, smiling and rising up to his haunches, all rippling muscle.

“You are our tiger,” Adam flirts, pleased with the response, crawling across the blanket on all fours, with more catlike elegance than either of the other two. “Big, strong, fiercely protective. Overly fond of very bold prints.” Adam reaches his target, and Kojiro leans back to let Adam climb into his lap. Adam sportingly tugs open the collar of Kojiro’s loud sky-blue shirt with its pattern of palm leaves, as he straddles Adam’s thighs.

Kojiro laughs, bright and overwhelming as direct sunlight, as Adam rests one hand on his collar bone. The other plucks one of the various blossoms Adam had collected in his coat pocket earlier and tucks it prettily behind Kojiro’s ear, smoothing back green curls with his thumb. “A tiger lily for a tiger man.”

Kojiro bares his teeth at Adam with a sly smirk, and then his eyes shift Kaoru’s way, smile warming, tone mocking, “I’ll take that over gorillaany day.”

Kaoru rolls his eyes, sips at the wine, and watches Kojiro’s brawny arms wrapping Adam’s broad chest as Adam shifts in his lap to watch Kaoru. Heat rises under Kaoru’s skin, and he feels a bit like a steaming up kettle as he exhales slowly.

“And how does your therapist feel about your fascination with pet play?” Kaoru counters, closing his eyes to better appreciate the feeling of the sun with its fuzzy pink cherry blossom glow heating the bare skin of his cheeks, neck, ankles…

All the sun, of course, he tells himself.

“Need I remind you your skateboard calls you Master, darling?” Adam counters quickly enough that he may have had the comment on standby for just such an occasion.

“I…” Kaoru grimaces.

“Yeah, wait a second.”

Kaoru finds himself saved by Kojiro who wraps his hands around Adam’s which have absconded with Kojiro’s wine glass and is lifting it daintily to his lips.

“What exactly are you focusing these sessions on, Adam,” Kojiro echoes, “that led to sappy, romantic picnic?”

“Oh, the usual.” Adam gives an exaggerated eye roll, ruffles his own hair in mild exasperation. “We’ve been talking about healthy outlets: ways to relax, destress, let off some steam without…” Adam swishes his hand in a euphemistic circle, “maiming anybody.”

Kaoru tenses, eyes flickering open and finding Kojiro’s already on him, soft with concern. Adam is oblivious, head leaned back on Kojiro’s shoulder, watching the flowers above shift and shimmer in the breeze like a mirage. Adam’s hand shifts restlessly with his explanation, “Not an entirely fruitless effort, I suppose. Recently, I’ve been experimenting with yoga and the sacred art of meditation, and my therapist suggested hanami.”

Kaoru’s shoulders relax again hearing him sound so comfortable with such formerly foreign concepts.

“Meditating and connecting with nature, huh?” Kojiro’s hands have wandered from Adam’s arms to his chest, roaming with a thoughtless kind of ease. “Well, look who’s turning over a new leaf.”

“Everyone could do with taking a little time to stop and view the cherry blossoms,” Kaoru says, voice unusually soft, shifting closer to the center of the blanket, where the basket had been. Petals polka dot the warm fabric, and Kaoru scoops up a handful, leaning forward to lift them over Adam’s head. “Here, let me help you appreciate them properly.” They flutter down his face and broad chest, catching on his hair, his cheek, his lip.

“Full of yourself, are you?” Kojiro teases, flicking a few petals from Adam’s shoulder.

“I deserve it,” Kaoru counters, eyes still focused solely on Adam’s.

Adam chuckles quietly, as Kaoru touches the petal sticking to his lip, and then Adam kisses his palm and wraps his wrist in his hand.

“Not just view them, Cher,” Adam purrs, “breath them in, admire them, meditate with them, worship them… and I thought…” Adam sets down his glass and reaches for Kojiro’s wrist, drawing Kaoru and Kojiro’s hands together, watching their fingers intertwine.

Kojiro’s grip is firm and Kaoru’s tightens to match it. Their eyes meet, always, Adam observes, with that sharp sizzle of tension and the thick underlying glow of trust.

Adam eases himself off of Kojiro’s lap, squeezes their wrists and releases them. “…Who would know more about viewing Cherry Blossom in all his glory than you, Kojiro?”

“My glory?” Kaoru smirks but his eyes flicker nervously between them, his fingers twitching. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

Kaoru watches Kojiro’s pupils dilate as a smooth, confident smirk slides across his face, his expression beginning to mirror Adam’s.

Kojiro’s knuckles bump Adam’s shoulder. “You know I never pass up a chance to show off.”

Adam reaches to the shoulder and begins to shrug off his suit jacket. “I’m going to have to insist that you do. For my therapy.”

Kaoru’s scoff catches in his throat and his voice comes out a little thin, “Need I remind the two of you,” Kaoru pauses as Kojiro lifts their folded hands and kisses the inside of his wrist, and Adam crawls to kneel at Kaoru’s back, his hands settling possessively on Kaoru’s shoulder blades, “where we are right now…?”

“In a grove of sweet, ripe cherry blossoms…” Adam’s fingers knead hard into Kaoru’s back, and Kaoru can’t help but lean into the warm, certain attention.

Kaoru’s head rests against Adam’s slow, steady heartbeat, his chin tilting up as Adam’s face draws closer. Kaoru can feel Kojiro’s lips pressing and nipping their way up his arm, drawing the flowy fabric of his sleeve up to his shoulder. “Ah…”

“Flowers waiting to be outshone by a more…” Adam whispers, his tongue tracing Kaoru’s lips before Kaoru leans up to close the distance. Adam’s kiss is firm but brief. “… superior specimen…”

Kaoru feels a faint pinch in his bicep and a low pained noise comes from Kojiro’s direction. Kojiro watches a string of saliva pass between their lips, before the distance closes again with a muffled squeak from Kaoru that might have been inspired by Adam’s teeth or Kojiro’s hands dropping to wrap Kaoru’s slender, muscular thighs, effortlessly easing them up onto Kojiro’s thick, stony ones.

“Ko… Kojiro,” Kaoru scolds, voice thin, half-breathless, hand reaching out and grabbing blindly for Kojiro’s arm, as the hands slide slow and hot up his thighs. “You big, thirsty galoot—” The heels of his palms trace the grooves of Kaoru’s hips on their assent toward the belt of his trousers. “We’re out-outside…mm.”

Adam’s fingers press briefly to Kaoru’s lips.

“Hm, so, what?” Kojiro purrs, his massage spurred on by the way Kaoru melts and rises against his hands.

“On private property…” Adam tacks on, sliding his chest down Kaoru’s back and wrapping Kaoru’s hair around his hand. “You said you’d help me appreciate you properly.” Adam’s lips find the back of his neck and Kaoru’s eyes flutter half shut. “Let us appreciate you, Kaoru. All of you.”

“I have not had enough wine,” Kaoru insists smooth and articulate as ever, leaning the back of his neck into Adam’s teeth, sliding his hands along the muscles of Joe’s upper arms, “to take off all my clothes in the middle of your garden, in the middle of the day…” Although the thought of skateboard rough hands on his bare skin makes him sound increasingly less certain with every breath. “Why don’t you ask Six Pack Joe here?”

“I can get you more wine,” Adam muses into the nape of Kaoru’s neck, and gets swatted in the shoulder by Kojiro for his trouble.

“You spend so much time appreciating my muscles,” Kojiro answers, and Kaoru watches Kojiro’s tan arms stretch as he grasps the collar of Kaoru’s shirt. “Maybe I just want to return the favor, Lord Cherry. What, too intimidated?”

“Our tiger’s muscles might be intimidating, but you’re captivating in your own right. I’ve seen you at S and on the news. People line up to see you too.” Adam’s hands wrap Kaoru’s stomach and reach toward the lower buttons of his shirt, as Kojiro’s thumb presses in on the top one. “What are you so afraid of, Master Cherry?”

“I’m not intimidated by you, musclehead,” Kaoru leans forward to butt his forehead against Kojiro’s, the challenge straining his face slipping into a more thoughtful expression as he worries his lip, “I suppose I’m just afraid the three of us, the two of you, are too good to be true. But…”

He realizes Kojiro and Adam have gone still. Their playful expressions hardening with concern, maybe guilt, and it’s contagious.

Kaoru shakes his head, feeling the light delicious pull of his hair against Adam’s immobile hand. “I don’t want to feel that way anymore.” He meets Kojiro’s eyes and burrows further into Adam’s chest, “I want to let you see all of me, touch all of me, have…” “We’ve got you, Kaoru,” Kojiro leans forward to brush their lips together carefully.

“There’s no safer place in the world…” Adam’s tone is half comfort half-threat, as he presses his lips to the back of Kaoru’s neck once more and begins to pluck open the bottom of Kaoru’s shirt. His touch is almost unfamiliar, his palm smoothing over Kaoru’s abs careful as if he’s cradling a flower blossom. “Yes, I know.” Kaoru closes his eyes, giving into the friction of their hands, feeling the warm air on his chest mingle with the damp, mind-dazzling softness of their lips, their kisses falling everywhere like petals. “I trust you.”

[amaru2020]

Hey everyone! So this is a Raya and the Last Dragon fic co-written with my amazing friend @hazellevesque4life! Go check out their blog it’s awesome! It will also be available on their AO3 which I will link right here https://archiveofourown.org/works/30246006/chapters/74537121#workskin

don’t forget to leave plenty of kudos! We’ll try to update as often as possible! Now without further ado, let’s begin.

Chapters written by me, @amaru2020 will be marked like this 🟣

Chapters written by @hazellevesque4life will be marked like this 🔴

Summary: Raya and Namaari have to go on a road trip across kumandra to cure sisu's siblings of a curse

Cursed love

Chapter 1 🔴

“Namaari, I’ve been looking for you,” Virana called.

Namaari turned to face her mom, startled.

“Hi, Mom. I was just looking for Raya,” Namaari said.

Virana sighed. “You can find her later. First, walk with me.”

Namaari began to protest. She had to apologize to Raya for accidentally triggering an apocalypse.

But Virana stopped her before she could say anything. “I’m not saying you can’t talk to her, but this is more pressing.” She began walking.

She slipped her hand in her pocket and squeezed Raya’s golden hairband. It would be weird if she didn’t give it to Raya now. It might seem like she was trying to keep it. But her mom had just been turned to stone. And it would be horrible of her to not be there. Namaari released the hairband from her grasp. Namaari walked at the same pace as her mother.

“What did you need to talk about?” she asked.

“We need to head back to Fang.”

“What? We just got here. And Fang was destroyed by the Druun. Heart is the only place that has enough resources. We can’t go back yet.” Namaari hoped her mother didn’t think she was getting too riled up over this. But she still had things she needed to do here. Things she needed to tell Raya.

“That’s exactly why need to go back. Who do you think everyone is going to blame once the dust settles? We need to get ahead of the fray so that we aren’t reliant on Heart. We don’t know when they’ll turn on us. We need to rebuild so that we are strong when that happens.”

“But, shouldn’t we at least stay for a little while,” Namaari retorted, suddenly feeling anger swell up.

“We have to leave. To protect our people.”

And that was it. Her mother was the chief, and so her word was final.

Or it would’ve been. If Namaari hadn’t seen how the other had looked at her when the Druun cleared. After years of resentment, distrust, malice between everyone, there had finally been trust sent her way by people not from Fang. The last time she had seen that was when she was a child—again with Raya.

And even that hadn’t lasted long. Because of Fang’s need to protect themselves before anything. She wasn’t doing that again.

“No, Mom. We don’t have to leave. If you want to leave, I can’t stop you. But I’m staying here, trying to mend the bridges you burned.”

Virana looked at Namaari, contemplating. “Okay,” she said finally. “I trust you. But I’m not staying. If the other nations turn on us, I’m not having our people be helpless.”

Her mother was many things, but stupid was not one of them. If there was a way for her to make sure that Fang was self-sustaining while also keeping their relationship with the other nations, she would take it. None of them wanted conflict.

That calmed Namaari’s anger a little, but it didn’t completely soothe it. Her mother still expected conflict. She watched, wordlessly, as her mother turned and walked away.

Whatever. She couldn’t dwell on this. This was just more of a reason to go talk to Raya. Now if only she knew how to find Raya. Heart was weird, not like Fang at all. With its spiraling cityscape. Fang was contained on a much smaller piece of land, but Heart didn’t have that restriction. The buildings here were so much harder to navigate. Where would Raya be?

She thought back to the last time she was here. There was a huge central area, she recalled. Maybe Raya would be there, helping the people who had just arrived. Trying to use her foggy memories of the last time she was here, Namaari walked through the streets of Heart.

Finally, after too many confusing turns, Namaari found herself in front of the familiar hall where she and Raya had first bonded. The sounds of chatter echoes through the walls. So Namaari was right.

Taking a deep breath, she shoved the door open revealing people sprawled all over. And just like last time, it was people of all nations. This time, though, she noticed that more people were talking amongst people who weren’t from the same nation as they were. Namaari forced herself to stop thinking of that and to look for Raya.

She scanned the room, looking for Raya’s obnoxiously large hat. Her eye caught immediately: Raya, talking to her Ba.

Namaari stared at her, unsure of how she should talk to her when, mortifyingly, Raya looked up from her Ba. Their eyes met. Shit. Namaari lifted her hand in a small wave, trying to play it off as an accident.

Raya’s expression changed to —ugh— amusement. She motioned for Namaari to come over.

Mentally berating herself, Namaari walked towards Raya. She got a couple of curious glances from the other people of Fang.

“Hi, Raya,” Namaari said when she reached her.

“Hey! Are you okay? You were sort of staring at me from the doorway?” Raya was still looking down at her Ba, as she finished replacing the old bandages on his thigh with new ones where the crossbow bolt had hit him so many years ago. Namaari immediately felt a pang of guilt.

Oh, so she had noticed. “Yes. I’m fine.” Namaari refused to try to meet Raya’s eyes. “I, uh . . .” She what? Wanted to say she was sorry for telling Raya that Sisu’s almost-death had been her fault? Wanted to give back the golden hairband that she had kept like a creep? The words dissolved at her tongue. She and Raya hadn’t talked much since the Druun had been defeated. “Wanted to ask if you knew where Sisu was,” she lied.

“Oh,” Raya looked up. “I haven’t seen her all day actually. I’d check the clearing where her siblings were turned to stone the first time.”

Namaari wanted to shrink down. “I- I don’t know where that is.”

Surprisingly, Raya’s Ba spoke. “You should go with her.”

“But Ba, your leg-” Raya protested.

“Will be fine. It’s important to treat the other nations with respect.”

“. . . Okay,” Raya said, but the concern didn’t leave her face.

They walked together in complete silence. Namaari tried to keep track of the turns that they made so that she didn’t have to be led around like a child again, but Heart was too expansive that it was useless. She’d have to ask for a map or something.

Namaari was knocked out of her thoughts by Sisu’s voice.

“—Raya! I’m so glad you’re here, I was looking for you.” Panic laced Sisu’s voice.

Namaari sent Raya a concerned look. Raya glanced back at her. They spoke at the same time.”

“Sisu? What’s wrong?

“Are you okay?”

Sisu let out a strangled noise. “There’s something wrong with the other dragons!”

Chapter 2 🟣

Sisu gripped her tail with both paws as she began to pace, muttering things under her breath. “ “First Amba, then Pranee, now Jagan and Pengu…”

“The dragons? What do you mean there’s something wrong?” Raya said, finally finding her voice.

Sisu stopped to sit on her haunches. “I was hoping you could tell me! One minute they’re

normal, the next it’s like they didn’t even recognize their own sister!” She buried her head in her paws.

Raya and Namaari shared a worried look. Raya had never seen Sisu this distraught, which was cause for some concern. Raya felt Namaari give her a soft nudge before taking a couple of steps back. Raya raised an eyebrow over her shoulder in question, the only response she got was a gesture and look that could only be interpreted as ‘Not my place.’

Raya let out a small breath before cautiously beginning to approach the dragon. She tried to emulate the calm she had seen her Ba use many times in the past.

“Sisu... it’s ok, why don’t you just calm down and-“

Sisu’s head snapped up. “I’m calm, okay! It’s only my siblings turning into feral monsters, no big deal!”

Before she knew what was happening, Sisu had Raya dangling upside down from her leg, mere inches away from her furry snout. The whole situation gave Raya an intense feeling of déjà vu.

“I mean sure I did almost get attacked by my big brother today, but fine, let’s try it your way and stay, “calm.”” She used her free paw to make air quotes over the last word.

Raya only rolled her eyes. “Hey, at least I got you to speak in complete sentences.”

“That’s not the point!” Sisu said as she gave Raya a firm shake. Raya smirked and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, but you need to still explain what’s going on. Can you do that?”

Sisu nodded.

“Good. Now put me down?” Raya asked as the blood had already rushed to her head.

“Right, Sorry.” Sisu said, chuckling sheepishly. She placed Raya gently on the ground, a nice change of pace from being dropped face first in her opinion.

Sisu frowned and picked up her tail and began to fiddle with it. Raya gave her an encouraging nod and touched the side of her neck, reminding the dragon she was there. This seemed to do the trick as Sisu finally began to open up.

“It all started with Amba, she’s usually so sweet and bubbly, she started to change. we thought it was just her having a hard time adjusting to being back after so long, and the stress of watching over Tail, but then when she attacked Jagan the other day, we knew it wasn’t that simple. then it slowly started happening to the others...” she trailed off, sounding remorseful.

Raya’s heart had dropped down to her stomach by the time Sisu finished her story. She had never heard of anything like this happening before. And for it to happen so soon after the Drunn wasn’t ideal. Raya rubbed her hand up and down were it was placed on Sisu’s neck at an attempt to comfort her.

“Don’t worry, Sisu. We’ll just let my Ba know what’s happening and I’m sure he’ll-”

“No!” Sisu yelped snapping out of her revere. She brought her head down so she could look directly into Raya’s eyes.

“No Ba! No people! No one can know about this!” “I know how tempting it is but we just can’t.” Sisu’s violet eyes bore into her own. Raya frowned. She wasn’t about to keep something this serious from her Ba. Especially not after all the time they had been apart. She tried to not let her annoyance seep through into her voice “Sisu, there’s no way we’re keeping this a secret. People, my Ba included, need to know what’s happening. They can help.”

Sisus' face turned indignant. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would want a repeat of the past six hundred years?”

Now it was Raya’s turn to look indignant. “How can you possibly compare the two when you don’t even know what’s going on?”

“You’re right, we don’t know what’s going on! Which is why we can’t say anything about it. Fear of the unknown is even worse than fear of the known!” Sisu said as she tugged at her mane.

“Sisu, I’m not keeping this from everyone, we’ve-!”

“Raya, doesn’t Heart have an archive or something

that might be able to help?” Namaari, who hadn’t said anything since they had arrived, interrupted..

Raya startled, nearly forgetting the other girl was there. She turned to face her.

“Well, yes but nobody is allowed inside. Sacred texts and all that.” Raya said.

“Except for the princess of Kumandra and her dragon and people friend?” Sisu asked, sounding more than a little hopeful. Raya shook her head. “Only the chief and the archivists are permitted to go inside. And besides, if I’m not allowed in, I doubt they’d let you two in. More so Namaari, no offense.”

Namaari gave a small shrug. “That’s fair.”

“Besides if we get caught, let’s just say I would probably never see either of you again.” Raya said.

“Then we won’t get caught.” Namaari nodded to Sisu. “And she’ll make sure of it.” Raya could practically see the gears turning in her head. They shared a look of understanding before looking back to the dragon, who was now looking a bit wary. And rightfully so.

“What? Why...are you two looking at me like that?”

[meadowmood]

ESL - Equestrian Silent Languages and Tools

Okay! So I was mainly thinking about this for an upcoming character I’m designing, so it got me motivated to work out the equestrian equivalent to Sign Language!

Read all of details below the cut!

I went through a lot of iterations but mainly I wanted this mode of communication to meet this criteria: 1. Accessible as possible -rural earth pony families don’t have access to a lot of magic. 2. Practical -Using two of your hooves just to say something means stopping and sitting on your haunches every 2 feet - not very useful to a species that walks everywhere. 3. Expressive -Language needs to be able to have emotion put into it as communication is integral to how we are perceived and perceive others. So after a LOT of thinking and roadblocks I realized I was not going to be able to meet all of these criteria, at least not all at the same time and not in the way I originally thought. So instead I aimed to make the best I could and any shortcomings could be worked around as a unique cultural aspect. #1. Tap Language Tap language was mainly created for mute/nonverbal individuals who are capable of hearing and are communicating with other hearing individuals. It is often used in conjunction with a small drum for ease of use, although it can be done on any hard surface without one. These drums can also be enchanted to “speak” for the user almost like a magical text to speech device. The language is based on a 5x5 grid where the individual specifies the column and row respectively to write out words.

This is obviously time consuming so abbreviations and slang are a major part of communicating this way, often-times individuals who use tap language will develop their own unique abbreviations to use with their close friends and family. The benefits are that you only need one hoof to communicate this way and it allows those in conversation to understand one another without having to break eye contact. On top of that those fluent in the language can walk and tap at the same time. # 2. Tactile Signing Also called “Horeshoe Signing” by some this mode of communication is intended for D(d)eaf/HOH individuals as well as D(d)eaf/blind. This Language is based on touch and utilizes tapping on one’s hooves in a specific pattern to spell out words. This language uses a form of Braille that follows the shape of the hoof wall in 6 distinct locations. Users converse by sitting and spelling out words on one another's hooves.

(yes I did make this myself) Tactile Signing, like Tap Language is a little time consuming so the same rules apply concerning abbreviations and slang. This does require both individuals to sit while they converse most times. But it does only require one hoof and can be done on any part of the body although is a little less easy to read (like on the shoulder of a friend while standing next to them). The caveat for both of these is that expression is mainly confined to the face as limbs are busy tapping. This results in many individuals developing very expressive faces, both as a way to make up for a lack of body language and as a way to add context to what they are saying. # 3. If speaking to a group, sitting at a table and using tap language so everyone can feel the vibrations works well. # 4. There are of course some variations within each pony species. Adult unicorns will often learn basic illusion magic to create words as a way of communicating with those who don’t use ESL. Pegasi also have a form of sign language using wing movements. It’s rudimentary and is often used in conjunction with tactile or tap sign. So that’s what I have so far!! If I have any followers who know more than me about this stuff don’t be afraid to comment! I wanted to create something that would be as believable as possible. Also feel free to use these ideas for your character! Just tag me so I can see!! 

[b0n-chann]

I love your writing!! If you're still doing requests from that prompt list, maybe 200 for mando?

Okay, first of all, I’m so sorry this has been sitting in my inbox for FOREVER. But also, I had moved this over into my drafts before I somehow lost all my asks and I’m so glad this one was saved!!

Also if you’re not following @spookyold-saintjm PLEASE DO IT NOW AND READ THROUGH HER MASTERLIST AND SEND HER THE LOVEEEE. 🥰

“He loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it.”

——————

Cara stares uncomfortably between the couple before her as they argued back and forth. Err....they were still a couple, right?

“If you think you can stop me from going, Mando, you are absolutely out of your mind,” you seethed. You could see Din flinch when you refused to call him by name, knowing he takes it as a sign of agitation at him. But while you know he’s gotten used to you calling him by his real name, you still wanted to respect his privacy with Cara around. Either way, it worked to your favor.

“I’m out of my mind....I’m out of MY mind?!” He scoffs. You were going to be the death of him. “Infuriating woman,” he says under his breath. Unfortunately, you hear him.

“The child is sick. I need to into the city go get supplies for him.” You repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today, tears biting at the edges of your eyes. “And between the three of us, I don’t see a Mandalorian or ex-shock trooper getting in and out of there without causing a scene.”

“You do realize you forgot to mention the part where it’s a city filled with Imps?”

You don’t respond, but give him a look of defiance. Din quickly flexes and unflexes his fist in irritation, a tick that you’ve noticed in your time with him. If Din was completely honest with himself, your fiery spirit is one of the many things that attracts you to him. Your personality complements his in almost the opposite sense but it attracts him like a moth to a flame.

Irritated cries come from the cockpit and the Mandalorian sighs. “We’re not done here,” he says before stepping up on the ladder to check on the child.

“Well, that was explosive. You guys always that...passionate?” Cara says, quirking here eyebrows at you suggestively.

You let out a sound somewhere between and snort and a scoff. Cara puts her hands up in mock defense. “I’m just saying...I can only imagine what you guys are like in the bedroom...”

“CARA!” You exclaim as she breaks down in laughter. You can help but let a smile crack your features. “He’s been getting worse lately,” you trail off thinking about how Din’s demeanor has changed over the last few weeks. “His protectiveness, I mean.” You add hastily before Cara can twist your words as she has been known to do. You drop down into one of the seats at the small table dramatically and sigh, suddenly exhausted.

“Hey,” Cara says, sitting across from you. “You okay? You look kinda pale.”

You hesitate. You didn’t want to say anything until you had some sort of confirmation but Cara has always been a trusted friend. “I, uh...there’s another reason why I need to go into the city. Alone, preferably,” you drop your voice and shift your eyes to the ladder leading to the cockpit. “My cycle. It’s late.”

Cara’s eyes widen and she grabs your hand, giving it a squeeze. “You’re pregnant?” She whispers hastily.

“I can’t be entirely sure, but the evidence is damning,” you say, trying to keep your emotions in check.

“Well that explains the screaming match earlier.” You whimper and put your head to the table. Cara places a comforting hand on your head, stroking your hair in a way that reminds you of how your mother used to comfort you as a child. Your heart clenches when you realize you could be doing the same to your own child soon. “Shh,” she soothes. “I know the tin can is infuriating, but he loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it. He’s never going to let you go though, especially if he finds out what you’re hiding.”

“What is it you’re hiding?” Din asks in a clipped tone, descending the ladder. He sees Cara tending to you and immediately worries. “What’s wrong?”

You squeeze Cara’s hand in worry. She gives yours a light squeeze back, trying to reassure you. “Ahh, your girl here isn’t feeling so hot either. I think she might have caught what the kid has. And stubborn as she always is, she was trying to get out of here to try and keep us from catching it, too.” Din sits down on his haunches in front of you and notices your glassy eyes. You had been crying. He places a hand gently on your knee.

“Tin can, you stay here and take care of your family. I’ll make the run.” You and Din both snap your heads to Cara’s direction and her emphasis on the word family is not lost on you. “I��ll be quick,” she says as she stands and begins to cover her tattoos. “I’ll be discreet too, I promise.”

“You sure?” Din asks her as he stands as well.

“Yeah, I might need to borrow some stuff though.” She says as she quirks her head towards his weapons cases. He nods and walks over to get her what she needs, but not before he gives your shoulder a light squeeze, telling you he’s not too mad.

You both wait for Din to be out of earshot. “Cara, you didn’t need to do that,” you tell her but she just waves you off.

“Don’t worry about it. Gives me a chance to walk around, and gives you guys a chance to talk,” she says pointedly. “Besides, you better remember this when my little niece or nephew is born and in need a godmother.” You both laugh as you make your way over to Din.

Cara picks what she needs before you and Din see her off the Crest. “Shouldn’t be too long,” she says as she walks down the ramp. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“Thanks again, Cara,” Din calls after her. She salutes him in response. Din then looks down at you. “You okay?” He asks as he takes your hand, playing with your fingers.

You look back up at him and smile, realizing just how okay you are.

Tag list:

@momc95 @electricprincess888 @maia-hocane @lamnothome @highonsoundwaves @tedpicklez @renreypoe @mabelleen @cryptkeepersoul @holamor @mando-vibes @lustriix @katialvi @spookyold-saintjm @sarcasm-n-insomnia @awesomefandomsunited @sentimental-ghost @mrsparknuts @oloreaa

[yourdeepestfathoms]

bloodhorse

this was supposed to be a short fic,, i was wrong

the Jockey’s name is Sorrel!

also im sorry if i got the Netherworld wrong. i don’t quite know how it works but i am Trying.

using the concept where the Dead can feel the pain of how they died!

Word count: 6071

TW: Blood, death, implied child abuse

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

Sorrel was eight when she first watched The Lion King, maybe nine. She couldn’t quite remember. But what she could remember was the horror of Mufasa’s death. Her jaw had dropped as the big, fluffy kitty was stepped on by all the weird-looking deer, and she screamed in reaction, floundering over to her smartly-dressed parents in tears to blubber about what she had just witnessed. They had, as they always had with anything she did, looked bothered by her presence around them, and her father tiredly explained what was going on to her, but even then she still couldn’t really understand. She just knew that it was scary and sad. 

But watching someone get trampled and actually being trampled were two entirely different things.

Despite her best efforts to forget, Sorrel remembered That Day clearly. She was sitting in the jockey room, in a far corner, away from all of the other jockeys. She had already dressed out and was patiently waiting for her race of the day. She was clad in black riding boots, white pants, and a checkered ruby red and white jacket that she knew was going to be covered in dust and dirt by the end of the race. Her safety helmet, goggles, and crop were beside her on the bench she was sitting on. She already had her long brown hair done in a braid and then a tight bun so she could tuck it safely out of eyesight when the time came to race.

At first glances, she almost looked like she knew what she was doing.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. She did know what she was doing, she had been training, but the anxiety of racing was getting to her, as it always did. For example, she had woken up that morning mid-panic attack before her eyes even fully opened.

And she knew for a fact that jockeys that knew what they were doing wouldn’t have that happen to them.

It didn’t help that everyone else in the room was a man, meaning she was not only the youngest, but also the only girl. Now she really had to prove herself worthy of being equal to her male counterparts.

Hoping to distract herself from her festering anxiety, Sorrel had looked up to watch the big TV up on the far wall, where the hosts of the racing channel talked about the odds and favorites of the next race today. All That Jazz was the favorite going into the race, with another horse by the name of Knock Your Socks Off right after.

Names Sorrel didn’t recognize at all continued to pop up on the screen, until, finally…

All That Jazz

Knock Your Socks Off

Fly Me To The Moon

Too Close For Comfort

Killer Whale

When Lightning Strikes

Donut Tell Daddy 

Rookie’s Gambling Chance 

Dime-a-Dozen

Blazing Berry

  “Would you look at that,” A biting voice cackled from the side. “Little girl actually made it in the top five.”

Sorrel whipped her head around to glare at the owner of the voice- a young man about nineteen with enough gel in his hair to start a fire. Sorrel did her best to just ignore him, busying herself with her boots instead, making sure they were fastened properly. 

Harassment in the jockey room wasn’t uncommon for Sorrel- in fact, it was weird if she didn’t get picked on at least once. Her young age didn’t deter the men, either. If anything, it made them even more manic in their persecution of her. More…handsy.

Sorrel swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the Other Times. When nobody could see the handprints because of the dirt slathered up and down her sides. When she was accused of trying to slander her opponents because she “couldn’t handle losing.” 

  “Are you ignoring me?” The young man said. He sidled more into view, and Sorrel could see that his uniform was yellow and white. She turned her head away more, saying nothing.

She was sure the man was about to spew out even more misogyny when someone came into the room to tell the jockeys it was time for them to saddle up. The man, quick to straighten himself up, headed out for the place where all the horses were being held at the end of the walk. Sorrel glared at the back of his helmeted head, considering using her whip on him, finally standing up for herself, but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Maybe if she had, she would have been disqualified, and then none of this would have happened in the first place.

They all heard loud voices of the fans as they made their way to the paddocks. As the horses and trainers lined up came into view, each jockey moved towards their respective mount. There, amid the rising dust, Sorrel saw her stallion shifting anxiously on his haunches, looking all around as the sounds grew louder and louder. Her trainer was doing his best to calm the colt.

Her horse was well named. After SeaWorld’s most famous orca, Tilikum, aka Killer Whale while on the track, was a massive beast with sleek roan fur and an ebony black head, legs, mane, and tail, as if he had crawled out of the very shadows themselves. His eyes were pitch dark and wild, and he never seemed to stop moving. He was an aloof, ill-tempered, cranky young colt, and nobody ever seemed to have any idea how his caretaker became the most shy, anxious, and socially awkward girl to possibly ever exist.

That girl was Sorrel.

She and Tilikum just had a connection! She had raised him herself, despite how agitated he always was, and never gave up on him no matter how many times he bit her, bucked her, scratched her, or knocked her down. He was her best friend! Not that the bar was very high, she didn’t have very many friends to begin with, but still! They were a dynamic duo!

  “Come on, Sorrel,” Her trainer said impatiently. “Up you go. You have a race to win. We gotta pull in cash somehow.”

Sorrel nodded, put on her helmet and goggles, then grabbed the saddle and clambered onto Tilikum’s muscular back, which took a few tries because of how big he was and how much muscle she lacked. Surprised, the horse stumbled a little, pawing at the dirt with a front hoof. Then, he settled. Somewhat. He didn’t seem happy.

Tilikum hesitated. He shuffled back and forth. Under Sorrel’s thighs, his muscles tensed, and, for a moment, Sorrel feared he was going to throw her off (he had done that before. before a race like this. she had yet to get over that one). Then, he craned his head around, looking for something. Sorrel laughed softly and gave it to him- a sugar cube.

A watching jockey wrinkled his nose a little at this. Another bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  “He shouldn’t be so fidgety when you get onto him,” Said the first jockey. He was sitting maturely on the back of his dark bay thoroughbred, probably thinking he knew everything about racing. “And you shouldn’t have to tempt him into listening to you with treats… Is he not trained?”

  “He is trained!” Sorrel snapped, causing Tilikum to stir in agitation at the tone of her voice. She quieted herself, hunching her shoulders in, and muttered an apology to her mount. “Tilikum’s just…he has a temper. That’s all.”

The jockey quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn’t say anything else. Sorrel looked away.

  “Remember,” Her trainer spoke back up. “Let him make his own pace coming out of the gate. Don’t push him until the very end. And don’t listen to those PETA pussies. It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason. If he isn’t listening to you, give him a good lashing.”

Sorrel didn’t like the sound of that at all. As someone who had been subjected to the other end of a switch (she lived in the country, after all, it was bound to happen eventually), she knew how badly it could hurt and she didn’t want Tilikum to have to feel that. But still, she nodded, not wanting to anger her trainer. He already always looked frustrated with her as is.

  “Good luck,” The trainer called after her as the horses were led out onto the track by escorts. “Don’t disappoint us this time.”

Passing that threshold, Sorrel realized she and her horse were no longer Sorrel and Tilikum.

They were Sorrel and Killer Whale.

Cheers erupted from the stands as the ten horses in the race were walked out onto the field. Sorrel had told herself to keep her eyes forward, to stay focused, but she found herself looking all around the track stadium to try and find the only people she wanted to see. It was hard to discern the mass of people, but she hoped they were here this time.

The escorts led the horses up to the starting gate as the announcer spoke loudly to the crowd, introducing the racers. One by one, each horse was walked into the stalls in order. Tilikum-- no, Killer Whale had no problem getting into his designated spot, number six, but once the door shut behind him loudly with a clank and squeal, that was when he began to act up.

Killer Whale began nervously neighing and backing up against the gate. Tilikum was starting to slip out of his race facade, which really wasn’t something Sorrel wanted to happen. Not during a race. Not again.

  “Shh, shh,” Sorrel whispered, leaning down to speak into her horse’s ear. “It’s okay. It’s--” She cut herself off with a yelp as the chestnut  stallion to her left rammed against the metal grating separating the two of them, startling Killer Whale further.

The clamor was starting to get to Sorrel, too. The stall was so small and it was so noisy from all the rattling iron and horse cries. She felt like she was suffocating and, without realizing it, she found herself becoming shortened of breath. All the dust was choking her. The smell of metal and horses burned in her nostrils.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out… 

  “Holy shit, kid, are you alright?” The man to her left, the one with the chestnut stallion who hit into her grate (he apologized, at least) asked.

  “She’s fine,” Said the young man to Sorrel’s right- the same young man who had harassed her in the jockey room. “Let her work herself up. Maybe then she’ll realize this isn’t for her.” He laughed cruelly.

His taunting words registered in Sorrel’s ringing ears and she grit her teeth, stamping down her panic attack. It just kept bubbling to the surface, so she finally gave up on calming herself and rather turned to her horse.

  “Come on, boy,” She whispered, almost hissed through her clenched teeth as her anger mounted. “Calm down. It’s okay. I’m with you.”

Just when she thought she had Killer Whale settled, an ear piercing ringing sounded from above and the gates flew open.

The horses jetted from their stalls, and Killer Whale took off.

The sound of the hoofbeats was hypnotizing. And it only got more and more hypnotic the closer and closer Sorrel and Killer Whale inched towards the competition.

Sorrel leaned forward, keeping her balance with ease, her legs an iron band around Killer Whale’s girth. She could feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing, the heat and sweat leaching through her pants, searing her skin.

The herd of professionals was galloping, yet Killer Whale ran just as fast. He twisted to the right, to the left, his body never straight. Sorrel felt like she was riding a wild, plunging river, a torrent that tossed her, battered her, until she hardly knew where she was.

It was incredible.

The first horse they passed was a deep red color, then a chocolate brown one, then one the shade of bloody mud.

  “Easy, Tilly, easy,” Sorrel said to her horse. “You’re doing great, buddy. Steady on.”

Killer Whale snorted and urged himself forward without his rider’s command. Almost sensing his need to speed up, Sorrel obliged and finally lifted herself fully off of the saddle, leaning forward and adjusting her weight so it would be at the front. Practically standing up on this sprinting beast’s back made a strong sense of vertigo wash over her, and she thought she might fall off, but Killer Whale’s increasing speed brushed away her worries.

Sorrel’s grip may have been tight on the reins, but Killer Whale was controlling himself. He weaved through two horses almost perfectly, despite them never training with moving obstacles, only the occasional stock-still ones. He knew to angle to the right to avoid getting his legs tangled up in an opponent’s and banked a hard left at the next turn that was so sharp it cut off the rider in front of him.

They both crossed the finish line for the third time, starting the final lap. Sorrel was still shouting in glee when, suddenly, something slammed into Killer Whale’s side on the last leg of the race, ramming him right against the wall where one side of the stands were situated above. Sorrel yelped as her shoulder and side were grated painfully against the metal as her horse was pushed further against the structure. She turned to see the man from the jockey room glaring at her from his raging red horse, Knock Your Socks Off.

  “You’ll learn one way or another, little girl!” The man spat, “This isn’t for you!”

Sorrel grunted and she heard Killer Whale screech a furious neigh. He whipped his head to the side, baring his teeth and rotating his ears back. His anger was a cold, deep, dark thing that Sorrel knew about well. He once kicked down a barn door just because he was pet in an area he didn’t want to be pet in. That being said, Sorrel has taken a lot of time to learn his mannerisms and techniques to calm the beast.

Now was not one of the times to use those.

  “You don’t belong here!” The man hissed.

Sorrel grit her teeth, feeling the scrapes already tearing open on her shoulder thanks to the wall. Even over the sound of hoofbeats and horses, she could still hear her trainer’s words ringing in her ears.

  “It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason.”

Sorry, buddy, Sorrel thought before yanking on the reins to get away from the man and unholstering her crop. The sound of it cracking against Killer Whale’s side echoed in her head.

That was her biggest mistake.

Killer Whale screeched. He sped up with a burst of speed, then began to have a fit. 

Sorrel helplessly cried for her steed to calm down, but her yelling only seemed to spur his frenzy further. He whipped his head back and forth, turned in every direction, reared and bucked until, finally, Sorrel came loose from his back and was flung to the dirt. 

Sorrel lay dazed on the ground for several long seconds. She was winded, confused, and very disorientated. She struggled to breathe as several other cries of horses sounded around her. They must have gotten spooked by Killer Whale’s tantrum.

And then, a hoof came crashing down onto her stomach.

Now, Sorrel had felt pain before, that in itself wasn’t anything new. Once, when she was ten, she had gotten stung by a hornet while at a birthday party for her younger cousin. At the time, she thought that was the worst pain anyone could ever go through. But now, five years later, with 1100 pounds of pure muscle pressing into her abdominal cavity, she would have much preferred the hornet.

Sorrel couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even wheeze as the horse that had stepped on her charged onwards, the edge of its hoof catching on her uniform and flesh and taking some of it with it. Another hoof came down on her, then another, then another, then another, until it felt like she was caught in a hurricane that had raindrops made of thick keratin. She tried to curl in on herself, tried to protect her organs, but they hooves kept coming and she couldn’t move and she was so fucking scared.

Through the dust and black spots that began to appear all along her vision, she saw Killer Whale, and his eyes were stark white and full of rage.

Pure rage.

She could see it now. That wasn’t Killer Whale looking back at her. It wasn’t even Tilikum. It was a horse she forced into racing because she wanted them to be a duo. And he hated her with every inch of his being.

I’m sorry, dear friend.

--

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are up for the fifth race here at Hartford Stadium. Once again, Maxwell Gingham and the incredible All That Jazz bring up the front in a crowd favorite.

And they’re off!

With the gate up, Blazing Berry and Knock Your Socks Off tie for the front, but All That Jazz is not far behind. Donut Tell Daddy right there. Too Close For Comfort a length off the pace. Killer Whale is in front of When Lightning Strikes, but All That Jazz trails the leader by only three lengths. Blazing Berry leads by a head. Dime-a-Dozen hangs tight with jockey Richard Bride aboard. Rookie’s Gambling Chance is challenging the rest of the pack. 

Into the next turn, Blazing Berry still controlling the pace, with All That Jazz close behind. Knock Your Socks Off content with third place at this point. Fly Me To The Moon falling off a bit. Donut Tell Daddy and Too Close For Comfort are in good position in the second group. Killer Whale mounting a challenge, but it could be too much. He’s making a bold move on the outside and looking for a way in around the bend-- Look out! Killer Whale’s rider goes down! Jockeys do their best to avoid a pile-up! All the horses go through, but the rider… Oh dear-- oh god! Stop the cameras! Stop! Someone get help down there! I don’t think she’s--”

--

Sorrel had not been looking forward to dying. Not one bit. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She was supposed to become the world’s best jockey, become famous, finally be loved by her parents… She wasn’t supposed to die, not this soon, not this early.

But she could safely say that she was looking forward to not being in pain anymore. Death, at least, would provide respite from the awful way she went out. She would no longer feel the crunching of her bones, the tearing of her flesh, the ripping of her organs, the spilling of her own blood, the pounding of the hooves of her enraged horse who wanted nothing more than to pummel her into the dirt. It would finally all be gone and she would be at peace.

But she wasn’t. Because when her eyes opened and she found herself lying on the track, sprawled in mud that was mixed with her own blood, she was met with the unbearable agony of invisible hooves smashing her organs and had to roll over to vomit blood all over the dirt.

For a long time, Sorrel cried until it felt like she couldn’t breathe- and then she realized she wasn’t breathing. Not really. But she could still feel pain and her lungs felt like they were being ripped right out of her chest, her rib cage crumpling inwards to pierce her heart and diaphragm. She gurgled on her blood.

It was dark. The track was dead. She was dead. The only people around were a few stragglers who must have worked at the stadium. She tried to get up to run to them, but she couldn’t stand up. When she looked down, she saw that her right femur was sticking out of her thigh. She threw up again, then settled for crawling.

  “Help me,” Sorrel begged, dragging herself to a group of three people speaking in hushed whispers. “Please, please help me-- it hurts-- I want my mom--”

But her pleading went unnoticed. It wasn’t until her hand phased right through one of the men that she truly realized what had happened.

Sorrel curled into a ball again, weeping even more. The pain grew unbearable. She thought death was supposed to be peaceful. 

The group left, eventually. The moon rose high in the sky. Its glow caught on something lying listlessly in the dirt of the track. Sorrel crawled over to it. 

The Handbook For The Recently Deceased. That was what it said, and reading it made Sorrel feel even more sick. She forced herself to not throw up this time, though she could feel the blood slowly filling her lungs like a thick red tar.

Sorrel accidentally stained the dusty pages when she flipped through the book. Her gloves were coated in a fine layer of dust and blood. Her uniform was the same way, she realized, slathered in the muck of her own fluids and dirt from the track. Hoofprints trodded up and down her chest, stomach, and legs, marks to remember what had happened, though she was sure the trauma would never leave her brain, even after death. Her helmet was cracked down the middle, but still firmly strapped to her skull. It did its job, it seemed, because her head hurt the least amount out of every spot on her throbbing body.

She read through the book with cloudy eyes. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to lay down and never wake up. She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted her mom.

Eventually, she managed to find a passage with directions to some place called the “Netherworld,” and she was in little room to question anything at that point, so she followed what it said. 

She didn’t have any chalk to draw a door, so she had to settle for her own blood. She hobbled to one of the stadium walls, which took forever because her small intestines came out at one point and made her have a screaming fit for five minutes straight before she was able to stuff them back into her abdominal cavity and continue her journey. When she finally got there, she slicked her already-filthy hands with the blood from her many, MANY wounds (god, those horses did a number on her, didn’t they?) and sloppily drew a red door on the wall. She added a doorknob, which ended up being too large because she had slammed her hand down in the reaction to the pain of her small intestines trying to slither their way out of her again, then knocked three times while hugging her stomach with one arm, trying to keep her organs in where they belonged. Slowly, the door opened up to her and she was bathed in green light.

It did little to comfort her.

The myriad of dead people through the doorway did even less.

Sorrel spit blood, then let her guts fall out as she sank to her knees.

She was so tired.

--

It was official: Sorrel hated being dead. And it wasn’t simply because she was dead, no, she could have dealt with that if the afterlife was cool like it was in Coco or something, but this-- this fucking sucked.

She was lonely. Even though the Netherworld was built like a regular society- a society that glowed green and sheltered walking corpses, but a society nonetheless- there were no people for her. Nobody ever wanted to talk to her, no matter how hard she tried. And even though she was only a “few dead days old,” she was already thinking about giving up because how the hell were you supposed to make friends in hell? Surely that was what this place was. That was what she got for being born into a family that was above middle-class.

It was also just so confusing. Why was she in debt? Why did she need a job when she was fifteen and, you know, DEAD? Why was there an economic system in the underworld? What was all this paperwork for? WHO WAS BEETLEJUICE???

She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it. And that was saying a lot because her head was the only thing apart of her that was completely intact after The Accident. 

She tried to get help, tried to ask questions, but everyone else looked at her in amusement or disdain whenever she did. It was the same way whenever she expressed any form of pain or didn’t understand something or let her organs fall out on accident. It was like they were expecting her to instantly know everything there was to know about being dead and if she didn’t, she was beneath them and wasn’t worth their time.

Funny. Her parents were the same way.

And then, there was the pain. It always came back to the pain.

Some days, she could deal with it, really. Some days it was only a dull pounding in her stomach or soreness in her chest. Some days it was only her legs, other days her shoulders, and other other days her sternum.

But some days, it was all over. And she couldn’t handle it.

This was how Those Days usually went: Her stomach began to throb and ache an hour after waking up. Joints and muscles started swelling two hours in. At three hours they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her body just to keep moving. Four hours in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the day. After that, her bones would begin splintering, her organs would try to shove their way out of her, and her lungs start to hemorrhage. 

The pressure and pain her death put on her very being was constant. Oh how she wanted to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her second “life”, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip on just about anything for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her spine, heavily trampled and damaged from the hooves, knotted up until it felt wooden. The way her guts sloshed in her stomach like soup on some days, leaking viscous fluid that wasn’t really blood out of any opening they could find, forcing her to hug her middle or be shamed with them spilling out of her already-soiled uniform. The way her limbs screamed when she flew with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in the bed of her lonely Netherworld apartment and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore.

She ached when she was lying down.

She ached when she was standing.

She ached when she was doing her job.

She ached on days she did nothing and she ached on the day that Breather in black came by with her father. 

She ached because she ached.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tried to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

But if that wasn’t bad enough… 

The fact that she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore and a disappointment, though that wasn’t really new. She could feel the scorn and disgust the other dead felt when they saw her. Sometimes, that was worse than the pain itself.

It was just discomfort. All the time. Even things like getting up in the “mornings” (she still had no idea how time worked down here) and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her body.

It rocked to a rhythm that felt like it was being conducted by her very soul, but it did nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wished it was fire. That was what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous- the man who had gone up in flames because he smoked in bed proved that to her because he seemed to be doing just fine. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin was.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed even after your death. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside of your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking Netherworld knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Mama has the switch. Can she get me down here? 

Sorrel would have much preferred fire.

The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her stomach and chest and legs and arms and back until they became a sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Sorrel was so sick of being the fucking punchline.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffered in silence. She strained herself to keep her body functioning so none of the other dead would get annoyed with her. She forced herself to go to work because she was a people-pleaser at heart and didn’t want to disappoint anyone. She tortured herself just to keep people who didn’t even care about her content, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not anymore. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week had been especially brutal. The bruises stamped up and down the front of her body seemed to be at war with the cuts from the hooves, determined to see what could make her hurt more. Her lungs were bleeding extra today, too, and she kept accidentally spitting blood into people’s faces when she talked to them. She ended up spraying the wrong person, a woman with pale blue skin and deep purple brittle fingers and icicles hanging from her frosted hair (hypothermia, Sorrel guessed), because she was shoved backwards with enough force to send her careening into a desk in the office she had been bustling through. The edge of the table stabbed into her lower back, making her entire body tense up. When she tried to sidle to the side, a bloody apology dripping from her lips, her right femur suddenly snapped beneath her weight and she crumpled to the ground. Despite her training herself to not react to any pain she was in, she couldn’t bite back a scream this time.

There was a reason why broken femurs were so severe.

The hypothermic woman leered down at her squirming figure as if she were a worm she found nibbling on her corpse. “You’re a disgrace to the dead.” She spat.

Sorrel gurgled on her blood in response, digging her fingernails into the gash in her thigh where the bone was trying to inch its way out to freedom.

The hypothermic woman sneered in disgust. A cloud of freezing fog puffed out of her nostrils as if she were a terrifying ice dragon. Shaking her head in contempt, she wiped her face, then walked away, leaving Sorrel to reset her femur on her own.

Sorrel looked at the fallen stack of paperwork she had dropped in dismay. Juno wasn’t going to be happy with this one.

--

All things considered, Miss Argentina was quite lucky. Compared to the rest of the Dead, she had a rather simple, easy-to-deal-with death. Not to say that slashing open her own wrists with a razor blade wasn’t painful, but “living” with it in the Netherworld was like living with carpal tunnel syndrome- it was manageable.

Certainly more manageable than whatever the hell was going on with the horse girl in one of the offices.

Miss Argentina knew a lot of people. One of the perks of working in maintenance, she supposed. So she had seen this specific Dead before, quite a few times, actually, the most notable being when the goth Breather and her father stupidly decided to come down for a visit, but she never got around to talk to the child. 

Until now, of course.

When the “work day” finally ended and Miss Argentina was leaving for her apartment, she heard it. The whimpering. It reminded her of something a sick puppy would make or maybe a kitten with an upset stomach. Whatever it was, it was distressing, but also very intriguing, so she followed it deeper into the building. Stepping into one of the offices that was rank with blood, she found where those papers she had been looking for were.

Slightly sticking out from behind a table, Miss Argentina saw the little jockey sprawled on the floor, a fresh staining of blood seeping into her already-bloodied horse racing uniform. She was twisted into an awkward position, similar to how the corpses in those crime shows she used to watch when she was alive would be in- face-down with her arms tucked into her and her legs folded inward and knees pointing sharply to the side. Inching closer, fuelled by morbid curiosity, Miss Argentina realized why she was in such an arrangement.

The femur was sticking out of her right thigh. 

Miss Argentina couldn’t help grimace. When she was alive, she had a friend who broke his femur during a sports accident. He had to go to physical therapy to simply learn how to walk again. Death and the supernatural body, at the very least, saved this child from that, but the pain she had to have been in… No wonder she was lying on the floor.

Miss Argentina had heard about what happened to this little one. Trampled to death by horses. And she would admit that she got a laugh out of it at first, because what kind of death was that? But it quickly became less amusing when she saw the state the girl was in when she first showed up two weeks ago.

Hoofprints stomped all along the front of her body, uniform ripped and bloody, cuts and bruises all over, crunching bones when she moved and spilling organs that constantly tried to escape her abdominal cavity like restless snakes and gushing blood from her mouth. What made it worse was how little she was. A young jockey that died in the middle of a race. She couldn’t imagine what that had been like for her. 

The jockey didn’t stir when she stepped towards her, and Miss Argentina rationalized that she must have fallen asleep. Or blacked out, which seemed way more likely because that exposed bone looked worse and worse the closer and closer she got.

She knelt down to the jockey and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Honey?” Miss Argentina called out. “Wake up.”

The jockey gasped, sharply drawing in a useless breath of air, which quickly thickened with blood and came back out red. Miss Argentina grimaced and wondered if she should pat the girl’s back to help her get the gunk out of her throat (you were supposed to do that, right? or was it just a myth? she never thought to test it when she was alive), but thought against it when she saw the hoofprints on her back. She grimaced again. Did this child have any spot on her body that hadn’t been beaten mercilessly by horses?

The jockey eventually stopped leaking from her mouth and looked up at her dazedly, blood dripping from her chin in a dark waterfall of red. She squinted at her, then turned her head to the accumulating puddle beneath her head.

  “Sorry about the floor,” She croaked, and her voice was hoarse, but high and youthful.

  “It’s alright,” Miss Argentina assured her. “Are you okay?”

The jockey blinked at her slowly, as if confused as to why she was checking up on her. Miss Argentina could understand why, though. There was a reason she had told Lydia that everyone was alone in the Netherworld- nobody liked meddling in the affairs or business of others.

And yet, here she was.

  “Yes…” The jockey said slowly, sounding unsure. She tried to sit up, but froze when she moved her legs and looked back at them nervously. She bit her lip when she saw the state of her femur, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Argentina asked.

  “Yes,” The jockey said again, this time less unsure, but much meeker. She ducked her head to avoid Miss Argentina’s worried gaze and the rim of her helmet fell into her eyes.

Miss Argentina frowned. She watched as the jockey twisted around and managed to sit up, bracing herself against the table she had been laying beside. She pushed her femur back into her thigh with a horrible grinding-crunching sound and was very clearly struggling not to scream.

  “Sorry,” The jockey whispered after a moment. Her hands were still resting on her thigh, and her gloves (Miss Argentina thought they may have been white at some point) were soaking up a new layer of filth as blood drooled agaisnt them.

  “What for?” Miss Argentina tilted her head. “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

  “Y-yeah, but--” The jockey sounded anxious, like she was afraid of being yelled at for simply expressing discomfort. “The Dead-- I don’t wanna be weak, but-- it hurts. Everything hurts. And I--” She caught herself. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Miss Argentina frowned. She reached out and lifted the jockey’s head with one hand. Using the other, she pushed her helmet back and saw that her eyes were a brilliant shade of hazel. There were tears gathering inside of them. The jockey stared up at her in shock, then leaned into her touch like a kitten seeking warmth from its mother.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Miss Argentina murmured to her. “It’s okay. You aren’t going to get in trouble for hurting. Everyone else are just uptight a--” She looked the jockey over, taking in how young she really was. “Jerks.”

That got a giggle out of the jockey, which quickly became wet with blood. She covered her mouth and swallowed, then pulled her hand away. Miss Argentina couldn’t imagine having to deal with a chronic bloody mouth. 

  “Okay,” The jockey whispered. She sniffled. “Sorry. I mean-- I apologize a lot. Sorry. Oh--”

Miss Argentina laughed. She felt endearment grow in her heart for this ragged, bloody child. 

  “It’s quite alright, honey,” Miss Argentina told her. She stood up and extended a hand down to the jockey. “Do you have anywhere to be?” 

The jockey took her hand and was pulled to her feet. She staggered for a moment, then steadied herself, wincing slightly. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Argentina raised an eyebrow. “‘Ma’am’?” She echoed. “That’s new for me.”

The jockey blushed shyly. “Sorry. Raised to be well-manered and all…”

  “No, no,” Miss Argentina was quick to assure her when she began to get nervous. “You’re a very sweet girl. It’s a nice change of pace from everything else. But you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

The jockey gave a light laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I was, like, bred to be the perfect, polite daughter.” She said. “But, ahh-- no. No, I don’t have anywhere to be. Usually I just sit in my bed after work and try to turn out the sound of screeching horses in my head.”

Miss Argentina blinked worriedly. “Why don’t you tag along with me? You look like you could use some good company.”

The jockey perked up. “Really?”

Miss Argentina smiled at her warmly. “Really.”

It could be a start to make the pain go away. 

[featherymalignancy]

Like a Lonely House, Part VII

JFC, I finally did it. PLEASE ENJOY! Also, if you need a refresher because it’s been a GD age since I updated, please check out the PARTS I-VI RECAP. Also please enjoy!

Like a Lonely House: A Nessian Story Of Betrayal and Redemption                                                

                        “so I wait for you like a lonely house

                       till you will see me again and live in me.

                              Till then my windows ache.”                                

                                           -Pablo Neruda

Warning: NSFW for language, mild violence, mentions of sexual assault, and smut. This story is not ACOFAS complaint, but it will borrow elements from the story. oh, also tons of angst. Synopsis: Fifty years after the Hybernian War, Prythian is finally at peace. For Cassian and Nesta, animosity has turned to something more amorous, and they stand on a precipice of something that scares and excites them both. However, it only takes one night of weakness on Cassian’s part to change everything, and with a young Illyrian prince gaining power in the North, Nesta agrees to an marriage alliance, both to protect her family and get her as far away from Cassian as possible. As things unravel between them, Cassian begins to suspect there is something more deliberate seeking to keep them apart, and he struggles to uncover the truth and win Nesta back before it’s too late.

If you’re new to the story, please click HERE for the masterlist.

TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of sexual assault.  Please proceed with caution.

Part VII

The Macaran crowd roared its approval as Adan rose to his feet at the High Lords’ invitation, but Cassian couldn’t hear a single voice.

It was as if all the sound had been sucked from the world, leaving only a roaring silence in its wake.

Cassian had the sensation of falling, of drowning, of he didn’t even know what. All he did know was that he couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe—as he watched the prince turn to offer Nesta his hand. The smile she offered the spoiled little prick in return ran Cassian straight through, and he wondered if the female  from the Corona was somewhere in the crowd smiling too, reveling in all she’d done to steal this moment for her Şehzade.

Blood slicked Cassian’s teeth as he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The muscles in his back screamed at the effort of keeping his wings pinned, his every instinct demanding he find the female—whoever she was—and simply shred her to ribbons, all the rest of this theatre be damned.

His body was so tense it had grown hard to breathe, but he called on the promise he’d made to Rhys to play his part and managed to settle, if only slightly. Gritting his teeth behind pursed lips, he willed the ire which bubbled under his skin to cool, trying to force it out of his scent. He needed to wait until he was alone, until he could speak to Rhys and Az...

He glanced at the latter to find his friend already watching him, hazel eyes glittering as the shadows slithered up to neck towards his ear as if they meant to tell him a secret. Cassian couldn’t speak to Azriel mind-to-mind the way he could with Rhys, but Az knew him well enough by now to read his body posture, even as Cassian fought to keep his face and scent neutral.

Casually as he could manage, he reached up to touch his collarbone with both hands before sweeping his fingers across his chest. To the uninitiated it would have seemed little more than a stretch, but Cassian knew Azriel would recognize the message coded in the gesture, one of many they’d invented to convey information when traditional communication was impossible.

We need to talk.

Azriel rolled his neck as if simply trying to relieve some stiffness in the muscles,  but Cassian knew it was meant as confirmation. It wasn’t enough to settle him, but it was enough to bolster his control as the gates of the Hewn City boomed open and the High Lords, the Macarans, and their respective retinues were all welcomed inside by a seductive string symphony typical of the Night Court.

The temptation to look at Nesta weighed Cassian’s every step, make his feet feel as if they were made of lead. However, he resisted, knowing that seeing her so near the prince would be enough to break the tenuous grip he had on his fury. It had melted from a burning in his blood to a frigid blade he could almost feel pressing against his palm.

Three moves, he told himself.

That would be all it would take to reach the prince and sever his spine. Three moves to rid himself of the threat, and two more to remove her from danger entirely. In less than a minute he could have them both in the sky, up and out of bow range in no more than thirty heartbeats.

He felt a warm hand slide into the crook of his arm as a soft, feminine scent twined around him.

“Peace, Love,” Mor breathed, linking her arm through his as she casually peeled them away from the prince and towards their own side of the grand dais. “We’re not yet unobserved.”

“I need—“ Cassian began, voice quaking with effort as his eyes remained on Nesta. He could feel her hovering near the edge of his consciousness, closer now than she’d been for months.

It was enough to drive him out of his mind.

His heart surged and sputtered in his chest, breaths becoming too shallow as his face began to grow numb from lack of oxygen.

“I can’t—“

“Cassian—”

Cassian brushed off Mor’s hand before she could protest, pealing away from the assembly and down the nearest corridor, not caring where it took him.He burst into the first door he found—which turned out to be a servants’ pantry—slamming it behind him before letting out a scream of undiluted rage.

All the time he’d spent searching, all the time he’d wasted not being at Nesta’s side, and now the female was here as a member of the Macaran court.

He screamed again, shattering the gritted mirror hanging on the wall with a fist.  

It was too much; it was all too much, and Cassian felt it tugging at his every seam, unstitching him one pulled thread at a time. He warred with the violation seeing the female had riled in his gut and the vengeance he felt stirring in his bones.

It was in the Illyrian blood to meet every transgression committed against you blow for blow. It keeps the soul unblemished, his mother had always told him; that which is left to languish will eventually begin to fester and rot.

He could feel that rot now, coursing like venom through his system as he struggled for control.

He’d been right, all this time. The Macarans were behind everything, and still they were here, dining at the High Lord’s table and—

Cassian screamed a third time, picking up a jug of wine and hurling it at the wall with all his might before crumpling to his knees, breaths sawing through him.

“Sorun nedir, arkadaşim?”

Cassian lifted his head at hearing the Dalyanian dialect of his childhood, so different from the Atalyan they’d always spoken in the war camps.

Azriel had appeared out the shadow in the corner of the room, eyes lambert in the dim light.

Cassian bent his head, still fighting savagely from composure. He knew that after all they’d been together he and Azriel were beyond being ashamed in front of one another, but still he felt a gelid wave of it wash over him as his friend knelt at his side.

“What’s wrong, brother?” Azriel repeated, this time in the common tongue.

Cassian let out a shuddering exhale, falling back onto his haunches as he ran hand along the plait in his hair.

“She’s here. The female from the Corona. I saw her in the crowd earlier.”

Azriel’s brows drew together as his hand on Cassian’s shoulder tightened. He clearly needed no clarification on who Cassian meant.

“Are—“

“Please don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Cassian croaked. “You know that I am.”

Azriel bowed his head for a moment.

“I’m sorry. I should have—it shouldn’t have gotten this far.”

Cassian’s throat felt too tight for words, so he only nodded, hauling himself to his feet and cuffing Azriel’s neck to pull him in close until they were brow-to-brow, an old gesture of respect among Illyrians he knew Az would understand.

“It’s not your fault, Az.”

Azriel’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a cold fury his expression would never betray.

“I failed you,” he said, pulling from Cassian’s grip and flexing and unflexing his knife hand. “You and Nesta both.”

Cassian shook his head, unable to bare Azriel’s self-recrimination on top of everything else.

“Then make it up to me. Help me find a way to get her away from the Macarans.”

Azriel nodded, seeming to gather his composure.

“Does Rhys know?” He asked.

“No, I—“ Cassian broke off, running a shaking hand over his lips. “I didn’t want to rouse suspicion.”

He didn’t need to add that he’d also been losing his composure and had to get away to avoid making a scene; one look around the ruined storeroom was proof enough of that.

Azriel nodded again, jaw working as he considered.

“I will send Nuala and Cerridwen to scout the Macarans’ rooms. It’s possible whoever is holding her leash wants to keep her out of sight.”

“The smarter move would be to keep her close,” Cassian pointed out. “I’m sure that’s why they took the risk in bringing her here.”

A muscle worked in Azriel’s jaw.

“Adan knew I would send spies to Macar to search for her while the territory was unmanned.”

“Then he’s not as stupid as he looks,” Cassian said through his teeth.

“If he was really clever he would have killed her,” Azriel pointed on, hand straying to Truth-teller as if he was imagining doing just that.

Cassian had thought the same. The fact that they hadn’t—

“We need to be on our guard; it could be they’ve spared her for a purpose.”

Azriel’s eyes flashed in the semi-dark as he ran a hand over Truth-Teller’s obsidian hilt.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Cassian nodded, feeling his own resolve growing as Az clapped him on the shoulder.

“I promise, brother,” Azriel said, voice cold steel. “Tonight you'll get your answers. Right now we need to get back; we’ve been gone too long already.”

Cassian nodded, scrubbing a hand across his face and straightening his leathers as Azriel disappeared out of the door. Picking up a pewter goblet from one of the shelves, Cassian filled it with a mouthful of wine before he too slipped from the room.

He forced a slight stagger into his stride as he re-entered the grand hall, draining the small measure from his goblet before dropping it with a slightly-drunk chuckle and grabbing another from a passing servant girl. A cluster of Summer Court guards who stood nearby cheered as he drained the new goblet, and he raised his empty cup in salute before taking a third and heading for his place at the head table.

Mor laughed at seeing him, though the merriment didn’t reach her eyes.

“Are you drunk, Lord Commander?” she said, patting his arm as he dropped into his seat before adding in a whisper, “Cas, are you alright?”

He flashed her the lazy, edged grin he knew everyone expected from him.

“It’s a party; we should all be drunk.”

He raised his glass to closest Illyrian dignitaries, who all laughed obligingly as he did. Ellaria—who sat to Mor’s left—seemed to understand the diversion for what it was and turned to engage the Macaran finance minister in small talk to give him and Mor a reprieve from prying ears. Cassian was so grateful that were Ellaria not Mor’s mate, he would have kissed her.

“What is it?” Mor said, flashing Ellaria a smile as well.

“She’s here,” Cassian breathed. “The female. I saw her in the crowd when the Macarans arrived.”

The only indication that Mor had heard was the pallor in her ordinarily-bronze skin. She glanced down at the table in a casual gesture before whispering, “Have you told—“

“Az already knows,” Cassian said into his goblet, still not looking at Mor directly. “He’s going to tell Rhys and Feyre.”

“What are you going to do?”

Cash took another drink of wine, this one not entirely for show.

“We need to find her first. Then—“ he blew out an unsteady breath. “I’m not sure.”

“My gut says she’s here,” Mor murmured, pretending to straighten the skewed collar of his leather doublet with the affectionate fuss of a nursemaid.

“Mine too,” Cassian admitted. “How many of these servants do you recognize? the smart thing to do would be to hide her in plain sight.”

Mor scanned the room over the rim of her gem-studded goblet.

“Not enough,” she murmured. “Especially with all the other courts here as well.”

“Black hair,” he said into his own drink, quiet enough he couldn’t be overheard. “Dark eyes.”

“That’s half the females in the territory, Cas.”

“You’ll know her when you see her.“

Mor nodded her assent before casually turning her attention back to Ellaria to keep the conversation from seeming suspiciously intense.

Maintaining the pretense of drunken content through dinner was almost unbearable, but Cassian managed to hold on until the plates were cleared and Rhys stood, a hush echoing over the crowd as his power swirled around him like a onyx-studded cape. He raised his glass, his smile resplendent even as his gaze remained shrewd.

“Tomorrow,” he began. “We will celebrate the union of two great houses with all the solemnity and pomp such an occasion is due. But tonight, let us simply drink and get to know one another! Every hospitality my house has to offer is open to you all, and I only command you honor the Night by indulging in all its pleasures. May we look back on this evening years from now and celebrate all the friendships forged, memories made, and perhaps even the younglings conceived.”

At this there was a titter of heated laughter, and Rhys raised his goblet.

“Please, begin!”

There was a ripple of shock and applause as all the banquet tables disappeared at once, the soft, honeyed music growing dark and drugging as a haunting waltz began. Rhys offered a hand to Feyre and they descended onto the floor and began moving across it with the ease of two people who’d memorized how the other moved.

Cassian watched as the dance drew more participants from other courts, the space Rhys had cleared quickly refilling with bodies as the wine continued to flow.

Cassian was afraid to look too and see Nesta spinning across the floor in Adan’s arms, though curiosity quickly got the better of him. He glanced to where Nesta had been sited at the center of the grand dais to find her deep in conversation with the prince, Adan’s smile as effortless as the arm which he’d strung behind Nesta’s chair as he listened to her speak.

Red fizzed at the edge of Cassian’s vision at seeing the female he so adored with someone else, especially one as unworthy as the spoiled, treacherous princeling. Though his expression was mild, Adan still looked at Nesta like a target and not the arrow Cassian knew her to be, and it was enough to drive him mad.

Needing to do something productive, Cassian peeled off the wall and started towards Mor. He needed a way to survey the room without seeming suspicious, and the easiest way to do that was to go to the place he was least likely to be observed. Mor obliged him as he slipped a hand around her waist, fingers skimming the soft skin of her bare back as he swung her around and onto the dance floor.  

She didn’t miss a beat. Using one hand to keep her voluminous plum skirts from underfoot, she strung the other around his shoulders, letting him guide her around the room as if the floor were made of glass.


“Anything?” She breathed.

He tried to keep his focus muted as he scanned the faces of the hundreds of servants scattered around the room, as terrified as he was eager to see that face—her face—again.

“Not yet.”

By the third time around the floor he knew they needed to take a break; too long in his arms and gossip would spread in a bleed pattern Cassian didn’t want staining Mor’s reputation so close to her mating ceremony.

Just as he was preparing to release Mor back to Ellaria, who stood patiently waiting, he saw something which caught his eye.

Amidst the beehive of activity, there was one servant who’d remained in the same place the entire time he and Mor had been dancing. He didn’t dare look at the female  head-on, but Cassian couldn’t help the way his fingers tightened on Mor’s waist as he swung her around again, using the diamond comb she wore as a mirror to get a better look.

Cassian couldn’t breathe.

The female stood with a jug of wine in her hand, but she made no move to refill any of the rapidly-drained goblets of the guests surrounding her, her back instead remaining glued to the wall.

“Where?” Mor said as he twisted her again in time to the music.

“Far wall,” he said, leaning in like they were sharing a private joke as he directed Mor to look where he’d indicated. “Standing behind the prince’s cousin.”

Mor’s face didn’t change from its beautific smile as she surveyed Lazar briefly, but disgust limned her eyes.

“We need to get Rhys and Azriel,” she said quietly as they spun a final time. “Meet me at the far refreshment table in two minutes.”

Cassian only forced a grin in reply, giving Mor a slightly drunken bow as he kissed her hand and headed for the table she’d indicated, looking for all the world like a drunken male in search of his next fix.

Indeed, when he arrived the long drought he took from the proffered goblet is was not merely for show. Cassian couldn’t be certain what would happen next, but he knew in his belly it would be painful. Perhaps it made him a coward, but he didn’t want to have to face it entirely sober.

Azriel appeared at his elbow several heartbeats later, and Cassian fought down an almost frantic anticipation as he turned to his friend.

“Where?” Azriel said in greeting, and Cassian indicated with his eyes as he took another heady sip.

“She hasn’t moved from that spot for ten minutes at least,” he explained, forcing his posture to remain languid.

“Lazar,” Azriel surmised, and Cassian nodded.

“We need to draw his attention elsewhere,” Cassian said. “Any ideas?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Azriel admitted. “I suppose I could—“

“I have one.”

Cassian’s heart squeezed almost painfully as he turned to find Elain standing behind him, her expression solemn but more gentle than he’d seen it in weeks.

“You would help me?” He asked.

Her brows knitted as she pressed forward to lightly cup his cheek. He couldn’t help the way his eyes fluttered closed at the touch. It wasn’t just Nesta’s company he’d missed these long weeks alone; it had been Feyre and Elain’s as well.

“Forgive me I didn’t do it sooner,” she said, eyes glassy. “Az told me the female from the tavern is here, traveling with the prince. I was wrong to doubt you, Cassian.”

“You were protecting Nesta,” he said, pulling her hand away to kiss her palm. “I will never fault you for that.”

Elain nodded, clearing her throat as she seemed to collect herself. She turned to her husband, the famed Archeron steel flashing in her eyes.

“When I give the signal, grab the girl and go. Feyre will be in position to take her place should anyone care to look.”

“What is the signal?” Azriel said, eyes scanning the dais to ensure that Adan was still suitably occupied.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Elain replied. “Stay out of sight until then.”

With a final smile tossed in Cassian’s direction she swept off, her sage gown adorned with burgundy rosettes so at odds with the darkness surrounding her. Between her gown and her beauty, the crowd parted easily for her as she made her way across the room to where Céres—Tamlin’s wife—stood beside him lost and somewhat lonely.

Tamlin remained deep in conversation with Tarquin as Céres wistfully studied the couples dancing, her face brightening as Elain came to loop an arm through hers. Elain made the proper greetings to both Tamlin and Tarquin before gently steering Céres away to take a lap about the room. Cassian felt for the girl as he watched her chatting animatedly to Elain, clearly grateful for someone to speak to at last.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what part Elain needed her play. He could tell—even without looking at him—that Azriel was thinking the same, though Elain didn’t leave them wondering for long.

Cassian caught sight of a familiar figure in the crowd as he tracked their progress around the room, and he couldn’t fight a sardonic smile as he watched Elain press a hand to her rounded belly and winced, understanding now what she intended.

Céres paused in just the right spot as Elain doubled over slightly in pain, reaching for Céres’s arm to steady herself as she seemed to recover. A second later Cassian watched, his heart beating nearly out of his chest, as Elain pretended to stumble, sending an unsuspecting Céres sprawling backwards—

And straight into Lazar.

Surprised, he grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling to the floor, his attention fully diverted away from the female who remained glued to the spot when Cassian had first spotted her.

It was enough.

In an instant Azriel had disappeared from Cassian's side, reappearing as nothing more than a long shadow behind where the female stood, watching the exchange between Céres and Lazar with alarm. Cassian's heart thundered as her grabbed her by the wrist and they both vanished.

By now Tamlin was there, an abashed Céres scuttling behind him as he wrapped a protective arm around her and bared his teeth at the younger Illyrian.

"How dare you," Tamlin snarled.

Lazar put his hands up, bronze skin paling at the fangs Tamlin now had mere inches from his throat

"Please, High Lord, this is a misunderstanding!"

He looked somewhat helplessly to Rhys as he approached, hands tucked into the sable pants he wore under his floor-length velvet great coat.

"My Lord, please!" Lazar begged

Rhys clicked his tongue as he surveyed the scene with dispassion, crushed sapphire eyes glittering in the low light.

"Oh Lazar, you do like to make trouble, don't you?"

"I swear, My Lord, she fell into me!"

Tamlin snarled, the sound entirely ursine.

"You had your hands all over her!"

"Lazar, what's going on?"

Adan appeared at his cousin's side, subtly inserting himself between the Tamlin and the younger male. Cassian didn’t dare look to see where Nesta was.

"I'm afraid Lazar's found himself in a bit of trouble," Rhys purred, eyes glittering behind the mask of the cruel High Lord Cassian had seen him wear so many times before. "He seems rather good at that."

Cassian heard Rhys speaking in his mind, voice markedly less amused.

Azriel has her in the dungeon, last door on the left. Be discreet. Make sure you aren't seen, and don't be gone too long. I'll keep the Macarans distracted.

Cassian needed no prompting. Casting a final look to ensure the Illyrians were suitably occupied, he slipped into a shadow and out into the hall, trying to steel himself for what was coming next.

The trek down into the labyrinth of dungeons that coiled beneath the great hall felt like it lasted both an eternity and an instant, and Cassian felt himself—his sanity, his control—unspooling with every step he took.

Azriel had the female, and in mere minutes Cassian would finally know—

Cassian’s heart was in his throat as he pushed open the heavy wood door, making a deliberate show of closing it behind him before turning to face the room’s only two occupants. Azriel stood against the far wall with arms crossed, arctic fury glazing his eyes as he waited for Cassian to speak.

And in the center of the room, seated in a chair with hands and feet bound, was the female Cassian had spent the last three months turning the territory inside out to find.

She looked just as he’d remembered her: a curtain of blue-black hair, eyes dark as pitch and skin the bronze of the Northern climbs. The only thing that had changed was her expression. The morning after their—coupling, she’d first been content and then, seemingly, afraid, and Cassian often wondered what face she’d wear when he finally caught her. He’d expected smugness at what she’d managed to wrought for her Illyrian masters.

What he got instead was...devastation.

She wasn’t making a sound, but there were tears rolling down her cheeks, fresh ones welling in her eyes as she took in his thunderous expression.  Somehow, they made him angrier than if she’d been arrogant, and he bared his teeth.

“Save your tears. I won’t be ensorceled by your treachery a second time.”

“Please,” she began, her voice devoid of the sensual husk she’d used on him before. “You don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Pain lanced through him at those words, the same ones he’d pleaded to Nesta so many times since this nightmare had begun. He’d lost a great deal of conviction as time had worn on and Nesta had drifted further and further out of his reach, but here now was the truth—long sought—sobbing in his face.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

“What’s your name?”

The female’s brows pulled together as if she meant to resist him by remaining silent, but when she caught the flash of True-Teller’s blade from the corner of her eye, she relented.

“Rabia.”

“Who sent you to Velaris, Rabia? Who told you where I’d be that day?”

The female shook her head, tears falling to soak the unadorned servant’s livery she wore.

“Please, it’s not what you think.”

“Speak plainly,” Azriel commanded. “If you cannot use your tongue, we’ll have no further use for it beyond supper for the hounds.”

“Please!” Rabia said a third time,straining at her bonds. “I didn’t have a choice!”

“Why not?” Cassian pressed. “You’re not Macaran; you’re not even Illyrian. Why do this for them?”

“For my son!” she burst.

This stopped Cassian in his tracks, some of the anger bleeding out of him. Even without Mor’s gift, he could tell from the look in Rabia’s eyes that she was telling the truth.

“What would the Illyrians care for one high fae child?” Azriel said.

“He’s half-Illyrian,” Rabia said. “And his father threatened to have him sent to the camp at Kaletaş if I didn’t help. I would never have been allowed to see him! Please, try to understand.”

Cassian and Azriel traded a look over the female’s head. Kaletaş was the Northernmost camp, and one famous for its brutality even among people undaunted by harsh measures.

“Who is his father?” Azriel said, peeling off the wall the circle the female. “He must be well-connected if he has the power to influence the Kaletaşi camp-leaders.”

Rabia winced as if the question had dealt her a physical blow.

“He’ll kill me,” she said, voice growing hoarse from her tears. “If he found out it was me who’d told you. He’ll kill me, and send Safet to Kaletaş. Please, he’s only ten. I’m all he has.”

“If the Macarans succeed in starting a civil war, your boy won’t stand a chance whether you are there to protect him or not,” Azriel snarled quietly. “Tell us who his father—“

“It’s Lazar,” Cassian said, watching as the remaining color drained from the female’s face. “Isn’t it?”

Her sobs began anew, trapped in her throat as she fought to master herself. Cassian wasn’t surprised. It was just the sort of cruel and foolish thing Lazar would do, using the mother of his child to achieve his selfish ends.

“It was a mistake,” Rabia breathed. “A horrible mistake, but by the time I realized it was too late; I was already pregnant. I tried to flee, but someone told Lazar I was with child and he dragged me back. We have been beholden to him ever since.”

“Why did he send you to Velaris? What did he tell you?”

“Nothing!”

Cassian bared his teeth, temperature rising again as she sputtered, fighting her bonds.

“He didn’t tell me why he wanted me to go,” Rabia said. “He just gave me orders and sent me South.”

“And what were your orders?” Azriel prompted.

Color flooded Rabia's cheeks even as she withered under Cassian’s unceasing stare. It was the question he’d dreaded to ask, even as every part of him strained to hear the answer. Rabia shook her head, and Azriel’s hand went to Truth-teller in warning.

“Speak,” he snarled.

The female bit her lip.

“To seduce the General.”

Cassian felt his axis tilting. It was the answer he’d been waiting for, been hoping for since he first began putting the puzzle together weeks ago. Still, the confirmation was a knife in the ribs. He felt sick when he remembered the score marks on his wings the next morning, the realization that Lazar had likely instructed her where to touch him in order to scent-mark him enough to drive him mad with humiliation and grief.

“And Adan? Was he in on this as well?” Azriel said.

Rabid shook her head, brows synched.

“I don’t know.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“I don’t know!” Rabia repeated with more conviction. “I’ve never even met the prince. If he is complicit in Lazar’s scheming, I have no knowledge of it.”

It was exactly what Cassian hadn’t wanted to hear. They still had no evidence Adan was involved, nor any to prove he was innocent either. And if he was innocent, what would it mean for his betrothal to Nesta? The idea was enough  to make Cassian’s tomach roil, and he forced himself to focus on Rabia’s interrogation instead.

“I was sick for weeks after,” he said. “What did you give me?”

“I—“

The door boomed open as Nesta swept in, Mor on her heels. The latter eased the door shut and locked it behind them as Nesta’s blazing eyes took in the scene before her.

She looked every inch the commanding Şezhana in the resplendent ebony gown she wore, the conical gold combs in her hair resembling a corona of spikes. She stood completely motionless, the glimmer off the torchlight against the gems studding her bodice the only indication she was even still breathing.

Cassian’s heart became an exploding star in his chest, its force threatening to tear his soul from its mooring as he watched Nesta. He could see the exact moment Rabia’s scent hit her from the way her back when rigid, as if she could no longer feign indifference or miscomprehension. Finally, she turned her burning gaze on him. It was the first time she’d deigned to look at him full-on since this had all begun, and her beauty made his knees weak even now.

“What is this?” She said, hands forming into such tight fists that her knuckles had gone white.

“You know what this is,” he said.

He could hear her heart as it began to beat faster, her ribcage struggling to expand against the corset she wore. He longedto cut the damn thing off her so she could get a good breath, but he knew he had to stay where he was.

After a moment she looked at Azriel.

“Is it true?”

Azriel in turn faced Rabia, crossing arms across his chest.

“Tell her. Tell her what you told us.”

Rabia swallowed, voice thin when she finally spoke.

“I was sent to Velaris by Lazar to seduce the Lord Commander.”

“And if he couldn’t be swayed?” Azriel prompted.

The female bowed her head.

“I was given a tonic. I was told it would make him—pliant.”

“And was he?”

It was Mor, her voice hammered thin by a fury Cassian rarely saw from her.

Rabia looked around, eyes wide.

“Was he what?”

“Swayed. Were you successful in seducing him?”

Rabia’s throat worked, and that she settled for looking at Cassian and Azriel was a testament to the fear both Nesta and Mor managed to inspire.

“No,” she admitted. “I offered myself to him, but he—“

She broke off, trying to master herself.

“Speak,” Mor snarled.

Rabia swallowed a sob.

“He said he was flattered, but that he was in love with another female. That they were...” she made a sound that was half-sob, half-wretch. “That they were mates.”

Cassian felt dizzy. It was the first time any of them had formally acknowledged the word out loud, and it clanged through him with such violence that he felt for a moment he might be ill. He waited, breathless, for Nesta to deny the claim, but she didn’t, jaw set as Mor pressed, “So you drugged him, and had your way with him while he was too incapacitated to stop you, is that it?”

“No!” Rabia said. “I would never—“

“But you did!” Mor snarled, drawing a dagger from the folds of her gown and advancing on the still-bound Rabia with alarming speed. “Can you deny it? When he rejected your advance, you slipped something into his drink!”

Rabia sobbed.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”

“What did you think was going to happen?” Mor said, teeth bared. “After you rap—“

“Enough, Mor,” Cassian said, not able to hear the next word said aloud. “You’ve made your point.”

“I’m just getting started,” Mor snarled, but then Azriel was there, slitting the bonds on Rabia’s hands and pushing her into Mor’s arms.

“Take her to Rhys,” he said. “Tell him to alter her memory and let her go; we can’t afford to let Lazar know we suspect him yet.”

Mor’s lip curled in disgust, but she took Rabia’s arm without further comment, dragging her from the room.

Cassian hardly noticed. His full attention was on Nesta, who was staring at him almost as if she’d never seen him before.

“I will leave you to talk,” Azriel said with a glance between them.

Before Cassian could think to reply, Az was gone and he and Nesta were alone.

For a minute they merely stood looking at each other, the silence deafening. Finally he couldn’t bear it, and Cassian broke.

“Nesta,” he began, advancing a step. “I’m sorry.”

Her only reply was several steps in the opposite direction. After everything they’d endured—that she’d been forced to endure—he wasn’t sure why it surprised him; he’d been foolish to think of few words from Rabia would undo all the hurt that festered between them. Still, he knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to explain.

“Please, Nes,” he said. “I—“

“Why are you sorry?” Nesta interrupted, voice clipped and cold.

His brows drew together, her sharp tone a freshly-whetted blade he knew she would use to carve out his heart even now, even knowing the truth.

“Because I failed you.”

Her expression grew stormy, and he wondered where things had gone so wrong that even now she still hated him. However, after a moment he watched the thunderhead raging in her grey eyes swell and erupt, her face melting into something sorrowful and stark.

“No,” she said, and he realized the tightness in her voice wasn’t anger—it was tears. ”It’s I who has failed you.”

“No, Nes—“

She held up a hand to ward him off when he chanced another step in her direction, several tears skidding down her cheeks as her lip trembled with the effort of maintaining her composure.

“I should have listened to you,” she whispered. “Why didn’t I listen?”

Cassian’s heart strained to near-bursting.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

Her brows synched as her anguish seemed to gain some ground on her composure. He knew that besides Elain and perhaps Feyre, he was the only one who’d ever seen Nesta Archeron so undone, and it was not a burden he took lightly.

“Of course it does,” she said, voice brittle but no less edged. “How can you stand to look at me knowing how I’ve wronged you?”

Cassian’s throat grew tight, everything he’d learned from Rabia coalescing with his missing Nesta to form a leaden knot in his stomach.

“Because I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she said, tears flowing freely now. “I know that now.”

Cassian’s eyes burned.

“Then please, won’t you let me hold you?”

Nesta let out a choked noise, eyes almost fearful as she looked up at him.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Please Nesta, let me—”


Nesta shook her head, arms wrapped around herself like she was afraid she’d physically fall apart.

“If I let myself near you, I will never find the strength to do what I have to.”

The words were a knife to the gut.

“You can’t mean to go through with the betrothal.”

Nesta bit her lip.

“What choice do I have?”

“We have proof—“

She shook her head, seeming somewhat resigned now.

“It’s not enough, and we both know it. If we truly mean to expose Lazar’s treachery, we must have hard evidence of his crimes.”

“And Adan?”

She flinched a bit at thename, though her back remained straight as she said through her tears, “perhaps Adan is my penance, for what I’ve put you through.”

Cassian couldn’t fight the tear that slipped out at that, at the blade Nesta had turned inward upon the realization she’d been wrong.

“You haven’t put me through anything I wouldn’t have gladly endured for your sake,” he said. “Please, don’t do this.”

She shook her head, jaw set despite the tears shining in her eyes.

“Our problem remains the same, Cassian. Unless we can prove the Macarans have ill intent, we risk civil war. I can’t put my sisters through that, not again. I have to—-“

Nesta covered her hand with her hand and began to sob, and it was a sound so stark in its grief and Cassian felt it tremble through every cell in his body.

Damning the consequences he dropped his shield, his consciousness racing down the bridge towards hers as he surged for her, just in time to catch her as she sagged to the floor.

He gathered her into his arms as she unraveled, her face buried in his neck as her whole body shook with the force of her tears.

“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Please, say that you forgive me.”

Cassian coaxed her head from his shoulder, brushing the loose hair from her face as he gazed into her eyes.

“There is nothing to forgive, minu südame süda. None of this is your fault.”

Nesta’s eyes fell closed as she rested her cheek against his palm, even as her long nails dug into his arm.

“I will kill her for what she’s done to you. I will spike her head to the gates of this foul city, and Lazar’s alongside it. You have my word.”

He brushed away a tear skidding down the apple of her cheek.

“I would rather have your promise that you will not go back to Macar. Please, Nes. I’ve only just gotten you back. Do not ask me to send you away.”

She pulled his hand away from her face.

“You would go, if our places were reversed.”

“Not if you asked me to stay.”

Her gaze was steady but unyielding as she studied him.

“I know what beats in your heart; you cannot lie to me.”

He felt the pressure building behind his eyes at the realization she was right. He fended off a choked exhale as she reached forward to press a hand to his heart, gentle in a way he rarely imagined Nesta being.

“I must go, and you must let me.”

“And if it turns out to be only Lazar? If Adan is innocent in all this?”

A muscle feathered in her jaw.

“I don’t know.”

“You would be honor-bound by the kilhamine to marry him. He would steal you away to Macar, and we would never—“

Nesta shook her head, fingers brushing his lips in a silent command.

“Our path has never been easy, but still it’s always found a way to lead us back to one another. For now that must be enough.”

“Nes...”

“Te cакам,” she breathed.

Had Cassian not already been on the ground, his knees would have given out to hear her say it. He’d all but given up hope that he ever would.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I can’t lose you.”

“No,” she said, eyes fluttering closed. “You cannot, because I am already yours.”

There was a long pause in which neither of them spoke, and despite everything Cassian had longed to say to Nesta all these weeks alone, in that moment he knew there was nothing he needed to say that she didn’t already know.

He would have assumed it was the bond, but he realized it was nothing so complicated as any of that; it was simply the ease of two people who’d known and loved one another long enough not to need to speak to be mutually understood.

Instead Cassian reveled in her light, elegant scent and the softness of her skin as he breezed his thumb across her cheekbone. When she didn’t pull away from his touch he leaned a fraction closer, lips brushing the remaining tears from her cheeks before gravitating towards her mouth and hovering.

“Nesta,” he breathed, free hand tangling in the mass of curls coming unspooled from the heavy gold pins.

At her name she seemed to snap from her trance, pressing her fingers to his lips as she shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said. “We can’t.”

Mastering herself she pulled away, wiping her eyes as she struggled to her feet amidst the obsidian sea of her gown.

“I have to go. Adan will be suspicious.”

Cassian would be surprised at her composure but for the fact that Nesta seemed to possess strength beyond what the Mother had given other, lesser creatures. Even now with her gown rumpled and her eyes slightly red-rimmed, she was a pillar of steel.

“Go,” he said. “I will wait before following.”

Nesta nodded, though her lips tightened as she studied him with increased scrutiny.

“Promise me you’ll do nothing rash until we can speak with the others and formulate a plan for dealing with Lazar.”

Despite everything he found himself smiling weakly. He’d missed hearing his Nesta giving orders. However, the mirth faded at seeing her grave expression and the spectre of fear still shading her bright eyes.

“You have my word,” he said.

She nodded again, and he bowed his head as she turned to slip through the door. Even knowing why she had to leave, he didn’t think he could bear to watch her physically go, especially knowing who she was going back to.

“Cassian?”

Surprised, Cassian glanced up to see her still standing in the arched doorway, the torchlight dancing off the gems in her gown making her appear as if she were tongued in dark flame. Her brows drew together as they studied one another for a moment in silence. Finally, she continued, voice soft but resolute.

“I’m sorry for what she did to you. I understand you may need time to process or to grieve, but when you’re ready to speak, I will be here to listen.”

Cassian’s throat was instantly, unbearably tight, and all he could manage was a croaked, “I love you.”

She didn’t repeat the sentiment, but Cassian could feel echoes of it drifting down the bond between them as she gave him a final look and disappeared.

Cassian didn’t know how long he remained there in the dark after that, knowing there were a million things that needed tending to without being able to make himself do a single one. All he could think about was Rabia admitting she’d slipped a tonic in his drink, and Nesta saying ‘I love you’. Pain and joy coalesced, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or sob in weighing what he’d both lost and gained that evening.

In the end he found himself too fragile to do either, and he pushed them down instead, rising to his feet as he transformed from a heartbroken male to the General of the Night Court legions.

If he had to be patient to get his hands on Lazar, so be it; the wait would make his death all the sweeter. And if he had to wait for Nesta—he sighed, expelling a shaky breath before steeling himself and exiting the dungeon cell. If he had to wait a thousand years for Nesta, he would do it. For now he could only do his part and pray it wouldn’t come to that.

xx

The morning after the welcome feast, Nesta found herself once again in her dressing room, though this time she wasn’t alone. She tried to ignore the faint echo of her pulse which buzzed in her ears, a symptom of stress she’d suffered from on and off since childhood. It had largely subsided the last fifty years, though it had begun to occur with more frequency since things had gone to pieces with Cassian. After what she’d learned the night before, it had been pounding non-stop, the ringing enough to nearly drive her mad.

It had been so loud and persistent when she’d first torn herself away from Cassian’s side and rejoined the feast that it had been difficult to hear anything being said as she fought to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

It had grown from a buzzing to a roar when she’d felt the slide of a warm, calloused hand at her elbow.

“There you are,” Adan had breathed in her ear, close enough that his lips nearly brushed the pointed tip. “I thought I’d lost you.”

It took a lifetime of unassailable self-restraint not to stiffen at the proprietary touch, especially as Adan continued, “come, dance with me.”

With that he’d slipped a hand around her waist, the other tucking behind his back as she brought her hand to his shoulder, the other going to keep her sea of skirts from underfoot. She wondered if he could hear her heart as they turned across the floor, other guests stepping out of their path as Adan maneuvered her with ease.

Adan had watched Nesta with curious scrutiny as they danced, but Nesta hadn’t been able to bring herself to smile at him as she perhaps should have. The female’s confession had still been ringing in her ears, fraying her sanity.

Cassian had been right; all this time he’d been telling her the truth, and she’d been too guarded and selfish to see the truth. And when she thought of what had been done to him in order to sow discord between them...

“Are you alright, prensesim?”

Nesta had forced herself to look at Adan, trying to mimic the guileless expression Elain used when she wished to feign sweet ignorance.

“Fine,” she’d said. “Only fatigued from the day’s festivities.”

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to your chambers, then.”

Nesta had glanced around for someone who might spare her from this fate, but finding no one she’d merely nodded. They ascended into the royal apartments in silence, and when they’d reached Nesta’s rooms she’d attempted a hasty kiss on the cheek as she bid Adan goodnight.

However, he’d gently caught at her hands, pressing her into the door as his soft lips found hers. Nesta had contemplated shoving him off considering everything she’d heard that evening.  After all, this was a male who’d possibly been responsible for abusing Cassian, and that was enough to make Nesta want to gut him like a fish.

However, it was just as possible he was innocent, and they would need his support in punishing Lazar and breaking the engagement given that it had been made under false pretenses. With no proof of the former, she’d let him kiss her, even as she searched for a way to end it. If he was innocent, she didn’t want to be accused of fallaciously leading him on.

She’d been relieved when he’d pulled back, though the feeling was short-lived as he whispered, “I know I promised I would not force you, but may I come to you tonight after the city sleeps? I feel I will go mad if I cannot—”

“Nesta.”

The stricture in Nesta’s throat had loosened at seeing Elain, her smile benign but her doe-brown eyes flashing with a fire Nesta had been sure only she could see.

“Forgive me, I am interrupting?”

Adan had flushed at that, stepping back from Nesta and giving Elain a courtier’s bow. He’d then turned back to Nesta a final time, eyes full of yearning as he said, “Until tomorrow then, my princess.”

With that he’d disappeared, and Elain had pressed into Nesta’s arms, grip fierce.

“Azriel told me what happened,” Elain had said, touching Nesta’s cheek. “Are you alright?”

“I feel a monster,” Nesta had admitted. “I was wrong to doubt him.”

“No one blames you,” Elain had assured her. “Least of all Cassian.”

“I don’t believe you would have treated Azriel in such a manner, were our places reversed.”

“Don’t torture yourself, please. The good news is that you know the truth now, and we have a chance to stop all this before Lazar succeeds in whatever it is he’s planning. The others are waiting to discuss strategy. Would you—”

“I can’t,” Nesta had interrupted. “It’s all too raw.”

Elain had only nodded.

“We’ll speak before the ceremony tomorrow. Try to rest, my love.”

Nesta had nodded, Elain squeezing her hand a final time before turning to go.

“Elain? Please, tell Cassian…”

When she’d trailed off, Elain smiled.

“He already knows,” Elain had said. “But I will.”

Nesta had no further energy after that, and she’d slipped inside her room, staying only long enough to change into a more comfortable shift and slippers before summoning Nuala and asking she wake the tailor.

There was something Nesta needed done.

Now, sitting in her dressing room in the moonstone palace surrounded by the rest of her court, she felt more composed, though admittedly no less anxious inside.

Cassian had yet to arrive, but Rhysand, the Shadowsinger, the Morrigan, and both of her sisters were discussing their next move.

“We ought to use the girl to expose Lazar’s lies and be done with the whole affair,” Mor snarled from where she lounged on a nearby chaise. “This has gone on long enough.”

Azriel gave a dismissive sound from where he stood near the window, monitoring for unfriendly eyes and ears on the balcony beyond.

“Lazar will dismiss Rabia as a liar, and it will be her word against his.”

“So we force the truth out of him,” Mor said. “Between Rhys’s gift and mine, it would be over fairly quickly.”

“I tested them last night,” Rhysand said. “The Macarans mental defenses are impressive. Tunneling through would take more time than we have.”

“Besides,” Feyre added. “How will it look if the High Lord is caught trying to break into the minds of his vassals? We’d be facing the exact war we’ve been trying so hard to avoid.”

“Where does that leave us, then?” Elain asked.

“In the same place,” Nesta said tightly. “I must go forward with the kilhamine. I will use the time I have in Illyria between now and the wedding to discover proof of Lazar’s betrayal and determine whether Adan is involved as well.”

“If you fail, you’ll have no choice but to go through with the marriage,” Feyre pointed out in a soft voice. “You will be bound to Adan for the rest of your life, whether he is guilty or not.”

Nesta stiffened at the idea, even as she forced her shoulders back.

“It’s a risk we have to take. Cassian agrees.”

“This will be agony for him,” Mor said, tone edged with frost. “For you the bond will be easier to ignore, but for him it will be a physical and emotional torment now that you’ve acknowledged the claim.”

“There is no claim. He’s not some beast ruled only by primal instinct. He knows why I’m doing this, and that it does not change what lies between us, bond or no,” Nesta clipped.

“Does he?” Mor challenged.

“Yes. And I do not remember inviting you into our affairs, now or ever.”

“This decision doesn’t affect just you—”

“Mor, enough,” Rhysand cut in. “Nesta is right; this decision is between her and Cassian, and it is also the best one available to us right now.”

At this he turned to Nesta.

“Az and I will work on Lieutenant Na’ahmah while you are away. She seems an honorable female, and she’s in the prince’s confidence. It is possible she may know some of his secrets. At the very least, she’ll know where his skeletons are buried; it could be useful in scaring up proof.”

Nesta nodded, not wanting to discuss this any further. She knew in her gut that she was making the right choice in forging ahead with the kilhamine, but it didn’t make the idea of binding herself to a male other than Cassian—even temporarily—any easier.

“I need to get dressed,” she said in dismissal. “We can speak more after the ceremony; I don’t leave for Illyria until nightfall.”

The males and Morrigan—still looking displeased—nodded their understanding and filed out, leaving only the Archeron sisters.

“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now,” Feyre again. “But for what it’s worth, Nes, I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be. I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“Who among us hasn’t?” Elain said. “That you would acknowledge them at all is a testament to your character.”

Nesta’s throat tightened at this, and not wanting to delve further she instead asked, “Have you seen him yet today? How—” she swallowed, fighting to keep her voice even. “How is he?”

“He went on patrol early this morning,” Feyre said. “I think he needed something to distract him from—” Feyre broke off to squeeze Nesta’s hand. “He promised he’d return before the ceremony began. I’m sure this will be his first stop.”

Nesta merely nodded at this, grateful for Nuala and Cerridwen as they appeared, the latter bearing a garmented wrapped in soft linen.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Elain said, smiling.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Feyre added with a kiss to Nesta’s cheek. “We will send Cassian to you the minute he returns.”

With that her sisters disappeared as well, and Nesta half-collapsed into the small divan in front of her vanity, taking a deep breath. It all seemed so much more dire now that she was alone.

She hadn’t had the courage to ask her sisters to stay. Despite the fact she knew they loved her, it was difficult to let herself be vulnerable with them. She was the eldest, and yet she’d failed to protect them in so many ways whether they were growing up. The least she could do for them now was remain composed, at least when they were around.

“Are you ready to begin, My Lady?” Nuala said, a hand resting on Nesta’s shoulder.

Her touch was cool even through the silk of Nesta’s dressing gown, and she found it oddly reassuring.

She nodded, and the twins began on her hair. For the ceremony it would remain unbound in the Illyrian custom, save for a portion at the top. Nuala and Cerridwen brushed out the conker mass of Nesta’s hair before coaxing curls into the ends and teasing volume into a section at the crown.

When it was finished they helped her into her restrictive undergarments and tightened her corset before unwrapping the package which lay on the bed.

“Straight from the dressmaker, My Lady,” Cerridwen said, pulling the gown from it’s bed of linen. “And just as you instructed.”

Nesta exhaled a shaking breath, coming forward to brush the silken skirt. Originally the gown had been white and studded with diamonds. An unusual choice for a kilhamine gown, or so she’d been told, though in the end it acceptable for the occasion. However, after what Nesta had learned of Cassian the night before, she’d been desperate for some way to show him what he still meant to her.

So she’d gone to Rhysand’s famed tailor, waking the ancient female to ask her that the gown be dyed cardinal and that the diamonds be replaced with rubies. The gnarled faerie had grumbled at the inconvenience at first, but something in Nesta’s expression must have convinced her because eventually she’d agreed, informing Nesta it would be ready in the morning before all but slamming the door in her face. Nesta had listened to the soft purr of the female’s magic as she began coaxing color into the gems one by one before retreating to her own room again.

Cardinal was the color most closely related to glory in Illyria and as such it would make an obvious choice for a kilhamine gown. However, Nesta had been sure to explain the exact shade she’d wanted, and seeing it now, she was not disappointed.

It was somehow richer than an ordinary red, and the color perfectly matched the slumberous flame of Cassian’s siphons. It was an ode Nesta was positive would not go unnoticed by those who knew where to look.

Nesta accepted a hand from Nuala as she stepped into the gown, fitted through the low-cut bust before billowing out at the hips. She tried not to fidget as the twins trussed up the army of satin buttons which formed an orderly line down the back.

She could hardly breathe by the time Cerridwen ushered her to sit at the vanity again, easing an elaborate headdress out of a box and placing it atop Nesta’s head before beginning to secure it in place.

A coronet of blood-red roses formed the base, each in perfect bloom. On top of the roses sat a complicated gold crown of sorts, a ruby set into the center, and jutting above it all was a halo of iridescent blue-black macaw feathers which glimmered in the soft light.

It was magnificent beyond measure, offering a beautiful counterpoint to her gown and ruby painted lips. Mutely she accepted a pair of plain good earrings which hung to her bare shoulders from Nuala before meeting her own gaze in the mirror.

She looked no less fierce than she had the day before, but she could acknowledge that she looked less sad. The road ahead still reached farther than she cared to admit, but somehow it felt a little less dark now that she knew the truth: that she was not as weak nor as unlovable as she’d feared.

There was a knock at the door as Nesta rose to her feet, a glance out the window telling her the sun was nearly set. Her heart was in her throat as she reached for the knob, though it sank as she opened it to find Rhysand waiting for her.

He opened his mouth to speak and she merely held up a hand.

“Spare me; I’m not in the mood for your games, Rhysand.”

Rhysand gave a sardonic smile, though she could see something more sincere lurking below it.

“I was merely going to tell you that you look beautiful.”

“I always look beautiful,” she snapped, needing the vitriol to provide her some sense of normalcy.

Rhysand chuckled.

“You look particularly beautiful then.”

When she sniffed, he added, “That color suits you greatly.”

She turned to glare at him for the jibe only to find the mirth had evaporated from his face.

“When did you decide to change it?”

“Last night. After I heard—”

He nodded, offering her his arm as they began the long descent to the great hall of the Hewn City.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been forced to endure, Nesta. I know this must be difficult for you.”

“It’s Cassian who deserves your sympathy, not me.”

“And he has it,” Rhysand said, tugging her arm to halt her as he gently touched her chin. “But you were also deceived, and made to suffer for it. I know you don’t care for being fussed over, but know that you are allowed to grieve as well.”

Nesta gently brushed his hand away.

“When did you become so tolerable?” She said, beginning to walk again.

Rhysand laughed.

“I knew I would wear you down eventually, Nesta Archeron.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned.

Still, something warm had kindled in her chest, helping to fight off the darkness as they moved farther and farther into the belly of the beast. Soon enough they could hear the primal heartbeat of the bone drums, and Nesta felt her own heart’s rhythm falling into step, hammering so hard she was afraid her ribs would be bruised. The gown and her nerves made it difficult to breathe as they halted outside the large wrought-iron gates, the twisting metal meant to represent the scale body of some serpentine beast.

“Azriel will escort you down the aisle,” Rhysand explained, drawing her from her reverie. “But we have time, would you like me to wait—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I wish to be alone for a moment.”

“Alone” wasn’t what she meant and they both knew it, but it was clear from his expression Rhysand had decided against making a comment about it.

“As you wish,” he said, nodding. “Azriel will let you know when it’s time.”

She nodded, warring with the urge to ask where Cassian was. Still, she bit her tongue. If he needed time to gain his composure, she owed it to him without complaint; it was the least she could do.

Instead she found herself pacing back in front of the gates as the drums continued, accompanied now by Night Court strings meant to celebrate the High Lord’s mixed heritage. She couldn’t have said how much time had passed before she heard the rustle of wings and turned to face the Shadowsinger.

Except it wasn’t Azriel. It was Cassian, dressed in the same ornamental armor as the previous day, the same silver hoops strung through his ears.

She watched his throat work as he struggled to speak, and she waited, breathless.

“Nesta,” he said finally.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she admitted. “I would not have blamed you for wanting to stay away.”

“I could never stay away from you,” he said, though she noted he’d yet to come any closer. “Never.”

She nodded, glancing down at her velvet slippers.

“You changed your gown,” he said after a beat. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s for you,” she admitted.

Only with him had she ever felt safe enough to be so vulnerable, and it was a relief to know she still knew how after what they’d been through.

His syphons pulsed dully in response, as if the admission had awoken something in his very power. When he didn’t respond beyond that, Nesta forced herself a step forward.

“How are you?”

He exhaled a shaky breath.

“I would be better were this our kilhamine, and I were waiting for you at the end of that aisle instead of Adan.”

It was a thought she’d spent all day trying to avoid, and hearing him say it out loud made her heart ache.

“I may say the words to Adan, but my vows will be to you.”

Inside the hall the drums seemed to intensify, and Nesta felt the time between them slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

“I’m sorry I did not believe you when I had the chance. Perhaps if I had—” she could hear the tears in her own voice, even knowing she couldn’t let them escape.

Cassian only shook his head.

“I would forgive you anything,” he said. “And in this case there is nothing to forgive. I only ask now that you don’t give up on me.”

“I could never,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Even in my darkest rage I could not hate you the way I longed to.”

The drums changed again, growing more rhythmic. Nesta and Cassian seemed to realize at the same moment they’d run out of time, and in an instant he was there, crushing Nesta against the wall as he kissed her. She strung an arm around his neck to pull him closer and he lifted her nearly off her feet, his tongue brushing hers as he slid his leg between her thighs to keep her upright. Even that slight touch was enough to set her body on fire, and she moaned softly into his mouth.

“Nes,” he groaned, winging flaring slightly as she pressed closer, her breast flush against his chest. “Nesta.”

Her fingers dug into leathers as he moved to her neck, lips brushing the first spot on her body he’d ever touched. She forgot everything but him as he grazed her pulse point with his teeth. A primal fae part of her wanted him to sink them into her flesh in a claiming mark, even knowing such a thing would be damning giveaway—

“Cassian.”

The muscles in Cassian’s back stiffened at hearing Azriel’s voice, but after a breath he gently extricated himself from her embrace, easing her back to the floor and smoothing her rumpled gown.

“You’re needed in the great hall,” Azriel said. “People have begun to take note of your absence.”

Cassian nodded before turning back to Nesta, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“Cassian, now,” Azriel prompted, and as Cassian made to leave, the Shadowsinger caught his arm. “And take more care the next time. Anyone could have seen you two just now.”

Cassian didn’t offer a retort, just gave Nesta a last lingering look before disappearing down the hall towards the ball door into the great hall.

She felt hollowed out in his absence, her legs wobbling like a fawn’s as she fought to keep herself composed after his touch had threatened to undo her.

She was grateful at least that Azriel didn’t seem inclined to comment, and after several steadying breaths she accepted his proffered arm. As with the day before, her gown was heavy and unwieldy, and her corset tight enough that every step was an effort.

She found her breaths growing shorter and shorter as the gates groaned open, and she began to fear she might faint if her corset wasn’t loosened.

However, after a moment she felt an invisible shield of air forming around her nose and mouth, allowing her to take in her own oxygen.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Azriel whispered from her side. “I know it’s difficult, but take deep breaths and try to relax.”

Nesta might have snapped back at him where she not under such duress, but instead she simply did as he instructed, taking in great lungfuls of the cool, cedar-tinted air and blowing it out of her mouth as the gates yawned open and they started up the aisle under the watchful eyes of several hundred guests. At first Nesta tried to focus her attention on Adan, but she quickly found it only had the panic rising in her chest. After struggling once again to regain control, she let her eyes settle on Cassian instead.

It was like a dagger to the heart seeing him there, standing up and to the left of where he should have been, at the middle of the dais waiting for her. However, it was a pain Nesta welcomed, because it at least served as a reminder that this was real and not some fever dream born of loneliness and despair.

Cassian’s expression remained impassive as she made her way to the dais, but when his lips moved almost imperceptibly she knew what he was saying.

Te cакам. I love you.

She didn’t dare acknowledge the sentiment with even a nod, reaching instead to smooth the cardinal silk of her gown. His eyes glittered at the gesture, and though it wasn’t enough to fill Nesta’s aching heart, for now she let it be enough.

She was close enough to the dais now that she let her gaze drift to Adan. He looked as beautiful as she’d even seen him, the livery collar of syphons draped across his broad chest glittering the same color as his dark eyes. She studied him—his posture and the pair of ornamental curved blades hanging at either hip—and wondered for the hundredth time if she could trust him. Perhaps he was innocent in all this, and she could trust him to break the engagement without scandal or conflict once proof of his cousin’s treachery was unveiled. Or perhaps he’d orchestrated the whole affair, and they would end up with a civil war before the decade was out. Nesta hated herself for her selfishness, but what she feared more than war was marrying Adan, whether he was guilty or not.

Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of Adan’s gaze as he watched her make her way up the aisle towards him, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent as it dragged on the stone floor. He was smiling, his gaze still soft with reverence , but she could see the eagerness as well—the desire to possess that ran deep in the Illyrian male blood.

She would be his.

Perhaps not forever, if things went according to plan, but at least while they were bound by this betrothal, some part of her—of her freedom—would belong to Adan. The thought was enough to make her mouth water with impending bile as she made her way closer.

She could feel Rhysand eying her as she stepped onto the dais, Azriel melting from her side and taking his rightful place at the High Lord’s left. Unable to help herself, she glanced up at Rhysand .He was as resplendent as ever, having donned his crown of ravens’ wings whose glinting gems matched the sparkling in his mesmerizing blue eyes. There was a knowing in his gaze as he studied her, expression neutral but gaze keen.

I am different because I know what you’d be sacrificing,, he’d said to her in Illyria. I know what it is to cede your power, to bed and obey someone who you don’t love.

Is that what this was, a concession? It was hard to let herself believe so, especially if arrangement turned out to be temporary. Still, some part of her couldn’t deny what she stood to lose.

You’re mine, Adan had told her in the nightmare she’d once had about him. Unless proof of his complicity could be unearthed, he’d been right: she would be his, and it wouldn’t just be for a few months.

It would be for eternity.

Nesta’s pulse had begun to buzz in her ears again as she accepted Adan’s hand, so loud now that she couldn’t hear Rhysand’s words as he addressed the assembly and offered his blessing to the union.

She could do this, Nesta reminded herself as Rhysand wrapped the customary silk around her and Adan’s wrists.

For Feyre, and Elain, and the baby. For peace in the realm and a respite from war and death.

It was the same refrain she’d played for herself the previous day, though it had begun to wear thin as her courage waned at the silk being tightened to signify the bond of the kilhamine.

So she added a final name, one she hadn’t dared to include before, even as it had haunted her every thought.

For Cassian.

For the life they may yet share. Despite the pain the truth had brought, Nesta felt hope—long dormant—swelling in her chest. Cassian was hers and she is, and she would find the truth and set them both free.

Her gaze slid to Lazar over Adan’s shoulder, his smile overripe with self-satisfaction.

Forcing all her remaining steel into her expression, Nesta met his eyes.

You will not win, she vowed to herself. You may be winning now, but I will see you laid low before the end.

She felt an echo of what felt like agreement resonate through her with surprising warmth, and she knew it must have been the bond. She was not alone, she reminded herself as she focused on Adan again. No matter the road she had to travel going forward, no matter how narrow or how steep, Nesta was not alone.

And neither was she powerless.

She was the heir of the dreaded Cauldron and the mate of one of the most powerful Illyrians ever born, and she’d come at last to see justice done. And not Adan, nor Lazar, nor the Mother herself would be able to stop her.

She was Nesta Archeron, acolyte of Death, and she was about to be unleashed.

Next Time on Like a Lonely House…

Lieutenant Na’ahmah stiffened.

“You wish me  to betray my prince’s confidence, is that it?”

Rhys shifted in his seat, gaze steady.

“I wish to know where there is cancer in Illyria so that I may cut it out before it spreads. I am not accusing your prince of anything, merely asking the question.”

“You speak of Illyrians as if you are not one of us.”

Rhys shrugged.

“I am only half-Illyrian, and I have faced my fair share of prejudice for that fact. You will forgive me if I lack your ardent patriotism, admirable though it may be.”

A muscle feathered in the lieutenant’s jaw, but she otherwise remained silent.

“Have you something to add, Na’ahmah?’

She shifted on her feet, wings rustling.

“May I speak freely, My Lord?”

Rhys’s eyebrows rose.

“Of course. Always.”

Na’ahmah nodded, glancing down at her polished boots as if to compose herself before looking Rhys straight in the eyes.

“Also long as you consider Illyria to be brutal and backwards, it will be. And every time you treat us like savages, you support those who seek to uphold the old ways and silence those who would see things change. Adan is a bright light after centuries of darkness, and he would sooner destroy himself than see Illyria harmed.”

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

If you’d like to be tagged, please comment below. As always, I look forward to hearing what you think! Love you all, and stay safe 💗 

POST SCRIPT: I don’t often include links to the clothing or character references I use because I think it undercuts my story-telling ability if I simply post links to the things I describe. HOWEVER, the reference for the headdress Nesta wears is SO divine you simply have to see it, so click the link to see this gorgeous kinaree headdress with macaw feathers  from a vendor called SerpentFeathers. You will not be disappointed.

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[thevirtualcanvas]

Tin Man

Mando x Reader [GN]

No real pairings? Just friendship 

Suitable for all. 

2.3K

After escaping Nevarro - Mando gets into a dog fight and ends up crash landing on a small planet in the outer-rim. Where he meets you. A little snippet about Mando learning to trust. 

Enjoy! 

He's a man with three names. A faceless figure, a lonely entity travelling across the galaxy to pay a debt of life until he draws his last. Those who fear him call him The Mandalorian. It's a title and a mantle. A creed on the brink but courageous and unwavering none the less. They whisper it, as they cower on a remote rock at the edge of the outer rim. Yell, as they notice the glimmer of the unmistakable helm walking towards them with silent determination. His title trembles from their terrified mouths, battered and bruised as his quarries offer tithes and bribes, promises of a life of riches if only he –  Just. Let. Them. Go. An indistinguishable grunt is all he offers, we all pay our dues. This is the way.

Some call him Mando. It's spoken with familiarity, contempt. They think they know him well enough to accost him with a nickname. They believe because they require his services, that makes them safe from his ire. Some laugh, call him friend, or partner, slapping him fondly on the back of the shoulder, all the while watching cautiously as he leaves, a nervous tick in the corner of their eyes wondering if they'll become his next bounty. They imagine themselves serving time, petrified and stuck in their own minds in his terrifying carbonite jail. He keeps quiet, indiscriminate, that fear serves him well.  

His third name is a treasure, known by few. It travels with him through the galaxy like star dust, dying silently as it travels unspoken in the lonely void of space. Only to spark and shimmer in a warm explosion of light as it dances across your lips. Din... He chokes back a barrage of feelings when you repeat back to him. The last people to speak that name, who gave him that identity are gone, another casualty of a war that claimed the lives of millions. He's not sure why he told you. You were a stranger, an unknown – but you and yours took them in, kept them fed, gave them a room and fixed the Razor Crest. He felt like this was a way to repay that debt.

The Mandalorian protested at first – his stay is unnecessary, dangerous. Him and the child were being hunted and you disarm him with a smile and a soft laugh, the planets sun bouncing light of your cheeks through a deep set canopy.

The real danger is on the idiots that venture into my home with the intent to harm. Relax, Bounty Hunter. Your clan is safe here.

The Child lets out a high pitched giggle from his silver cradle and it seems as though it's decided this is their hiding place – for the time being.

You're from a small planetoid, it has no name, but locally known as Arbor. It's made up of dense forests and rocky crags with one port and a few sparse holdings across it's terrain. You and your father live like hermits, in a small dome like homestead covered in moss and flora and surrounded by a few cattle of some variety. You saw the Razor Crest bombing through the atmosphere, pieces of metal flaking off and burning as it flew through the sky. As you reached the smoking, charred hull you saw him – covered in metal dints, soot and the fabric of his cloak drenched from the monsoon rains. The Mandalorian is reluctant, he's stoic, guarded, and wary of your intent.

We can help you repair your ship.

A grunt. No thanks. He smacks a panel with a silent rage.

What about a dry roof over your head until the monsoon stops?

No.

You shrug, as you rest against your walking stick, the light attached glowing softly. Your eye catches something small at the opening of the ship. Then how about you come with me and we can feed your kid?

With a sense of exasperation, The Mandalorian follows you in the rain. You lead him through the valley to your home, and the small guest house, watching him assess and postulate dangers like wild animal on it's haunches. Your father greets the new guests and finds extra plates and spoons for dinner.

Get settled, do your perimeter walk if needs be, I'll be back in a little while with dinner. I'll also bring some extra blankets and some logs for the fire. My dad can help you get your ship fixed tomorrow.

The man is surprised at your lack of fear – it's new to him and you're either cocky or stupid. Wait. He calls as you leave. Don't you know what I am?

You lean against the door frame, watching his tilted helmet with a matter of fact Yeah? And?

The man's huff is broadcasted in a tinny warble. Doesn't that bother you? Or why I'm here?

Your laugh quickly warms the inside of his helmet. It was pure fluke, I saw you crashing through the atmosphere and landing in our neighbours backyard. I'm helping – it's what we do. You're not so scary, Tin Man.

The man is affronted, almost embarrassed. He tries to assert some that fear that he's expects of the people around him. The modulator cracks as he speaks. A warning. You have no idea what I'm capable of.

You take a step closer, watching your own reflection in the visor. Likewise. Besides, if your kid isn't scared. I see no reason to be. You point at the small green bundle with oversized ears, twitching as he sleeps soundly by the bed. Tiny squeaks escaping his mouth as he dreams.

He watches you through the night, observing as you and your old man take shifts in a crows nest, practically hidden in the canopy if it weren't for the embedded tech in his helmet. He hears one blaster shot, muffled, in the distance and then sleeps soundly with his blaster resting against his chest.

Your father leaves for the port on a small personal speeder, leaving you with the Bounty Hunter and his charge. He spends the week watching over his shoulder and being agitated at your ability to get under his Beskar, being respectful of his creed and down-right disrespectful at the same time. You never forced him to eat with you, gave him his space to look after his boy and check his surroundings. Never questioned his appearance, the arsenal of weapons at his disposal or the reason he was on the run.

We all have things we're running from, Tin Man.

It's steel, and, thank you – for not prying.

You shrug with nonchalance and throw him a pail. C'mon if we want milk we'd better get milking, Tin Man.

There are things the Mandalorian notices. Like the crows nest, or the ship in the barn, the EMP disruptors on the edge of the farm's perimeter. Or the fact there is some form of clone-war era blaster or pulse rifle in every concealed place he can see. Your words rumble in his skull. We all have things we're running from. Then he shakes them, it's not his place to pry.

Soon your Father returns, with a bundle of parts and a worried look on his tired face. Imps, in town – a lot them. He doesn't think he was followed but then again you can never be too sure. You spend the night in the crows nest, scope to your eye, scouting the trees for danger. The Mandalorian hears three shots that night, and he doesn't sleep.

In the morning, just as you're preparing breakfast he confronts you. Last night...

It's sorted. Don't worry. But he can see the fatigue and hear the way you draw the words out.

Din doesn't know how to be soft. He doesn't really know how to react to kindness beyond absolute loyalty and due diligence – but he tries. I appreciate the help from you and your Father but it's time for us to move on. I want you to have this. He places a coin pouch on the table. To cover your losses. Don't worry – it's new Republic.

You make a face at the money.

Is it not suitable?

No...it's not the money. I've just enjoyed the company. I'll miss it.

You can hear a rumble through the vocoder It has been an unexpected... but a welcome break for the kid.

Just the kid?

An explosion erupts through the canopy and can be seen through the kitchen window, a violent collusion of orange and red against the plush green of the forest.. His training kicks in and he reaches for his blaster as he tears through the house to rush the guest house for the kid and his gear. You're right behind him, resolute with a blaster held high scouting the edge of brush for that tell tale glint of white.

The Mandalorian puts the kid in the crib and seals it tight, promising him it'll be alright. When turns with pulse blaster in arms you can see the coiled tenseness in his stance, the adrenaline pumping, he'd done this dance before.

I'll get you back to your ship. My dad down is in the valley, air-tightening the shell.

The Mandalorian simply nods.

There is an unease to forest. Silence. You move quickly through the rivulets and, natural bridleways, An Imperial speeder dashes at the edge of your eye-line, headed in the same direction as the Razor Crest. Pulling the scope to your eye, you line a little ahead, take a deep breath, and squeeze. The rider slumps, and the speeder pelts into a tree exploding on impact. The silence is replaced by confusion and you tell the Mandalorian to run as you offer a diversion. He's conflicted, he's not a coward – that is not the way of the creed, but he has the little one to worry about. There is a troupe of Stormtroopers headed back to where their comrade fell, guns held high and squawking like chickens as they scour the treeline for the shooter.

Go. I'll follow. Make sure my Dad is okay.

He reluctantly agrees and flanks the Stormtroopers, watching as you drop them like flies. Not giving them the chance to return fire.

He makes it to the Razor Crest, taking out the stragglers from another one-sided gun fight. Blaster held high, your Father emerges from the inside of the hull. Dazed and bloody, but alive. He asks for you, grabbing on the Mandalorian by the armour and demanding why he left you.

That is what they asked. I was to find you and ensure your safety.

You stupid boy! I'm the son of a clone trooper – war is in my blood! That is not the life I wanted for my child!

The pieces click for the Mandalorian. The Imperials weren't just here for him. No, they were still hunting down the remnants of a time long gone. They must have seen the old man at the port and scanned him. Capturing both a Mandalorian and a failed experiment at the same time would mean a big reward for the solider brave enough to take them on.

Move out of my way, I'll find them myself.

But before he takes the step, you emerge into the crash – made clearing. Sweat on your brow, huffing like you'd just a marathon.

Calm down old man, I'm fine. I told the Tin Man to find you. Good thing too, looks like you were struggling.

Your father huffs. You cheeky pup, I took out more than you.

The Mandalorian looks to the trees, the thermals in his helmet detect more on their way. More are coming. I need to get the kid out of here. He taps on the bracer and the crib floats into the hull.

Then get out of here. Your father chides as he tries to straighten himself, readying for a second wave. But do me one favour, Mandalorian. Take my child too. Save them from this. Take them from this rock and find them somewhere safe.

Dad...no... I can't leave you.

He looks at you, placing a comforting arm against your shoulder, relishing the memory of this final touch. I always knew they would find me. It was just a matter of time. I even look like them. He points to the angular, rich features; unmistakably that of a clone. But you don't have to have this life. Do I have your word, Mandalorian?

The Mandalorian thought money would be payment enough, but the man behind it knew this was the way. Yes. You have my word. I'll keep them safe.

Your Dad sags slightly in relief. Good. Now go. You press your brow to his as the Mandalorian grabs you by the wrist, pulling you away from your life and your family.

You don't speak another word as the pressurised door closes and as the final image of the man who raised you imprints on your memory. The ship rattles as it's thrusters come online and you leave the atmosphere. Your eyes tear as the implications hit you – raw emotion boils over and you collapse to the deck, crying out in grief. Once you hit hyper-space, the man stands nearby waiting patiently until you can process what happened.

What now Tin Man? You say after a while, watching as tiny clawed hands pull at your tunic in sympathy. You don't turn to him, just focus on the soft, mewls of the little green alien who is desperate to be held. Picking him up with one arm and rubbing at your puffy eyes with the other.

He says something. You didn't quite pick it up. You turn and he repeats himself with a tinny clearing of his throat.

It's Din. My name is Din.

He folds his arms and you give him something resembling a smile.

Well, Din. You say as you get to your feet, his child in your arms. I guess that's a start. But I think I'll stick with Tin Man, for now.

He was a man with three names. The Mandalorian, Mando, and Din. They brought fear, respect and pain. In his arsenal he now carries a fourth, it speaks of friendship and kinship. It speaks of unpredictability and the ever-changing pace of life. It speaks to him. Tin Man.

[faelune-home]

A Blade of Fallen Petals

(A/N: Sometimes it’s the major story NPCs, and sometimes its the smaller ones. They were only around for so long, but their death still hits like a brick. ;-;

That’s Wilred here. A little story about missing him, and coping with that. I used Lyse as a bouncing off NPC for miqo!Fu partly due to location (since the mini questline that acknowledges him and gives him a resting place in Stormblood goes into the Lochs) but also I find Lyse an interesting character to discuss death, just because for as much as its not presented in game, she’s lost a lot. She’s probably quite familiar with it.

I want to write more of these NPC remembrance stories, and I’ve already done a few prior - one for Minfilia, and two as part of FFXIV Write 2020, both actually featuring Lyse incidentally - but I’d like to do more.

Didn’t do too much editing after I finished writing, so apologies for any iffy errors.

@ffxiv-writers)

Cracking bones pierced the air as Lyse stretched, finally freed from the stuffiness of the castle meeting room. It felt like she’d been up and moving and chatting since dawn had broken, but she could rest at last. Spying the sun in the sky, seeing it just hovering above the walls of the Quarter, she let out a breath of relief. It would be nearing meal time, and she was starving. And she’d have to consider collecting a plate for Fordola as well…

“Well well, if it ain’t Lyse? I figured you’d be busy till sundown,” a voice called, snapping the woman from her thoughts. Gundobald approached with a wave, an affable smile on his face, which she gladly returned.

“It’s getting close enough though, isn’t it? So technically I have been,” she countered, nodding in the direction of the lowering star. “But it’s good to see you, especially after so long.”

“Likewise, lass, likewise. And it's good to be back in Ala Mhigo, even if it's only for a day,” the elder man hummed contentedly, looking around the city with pride in his eyes. Lyse couldn’t help but smile at his reaction.

“Right, you said you’d stay behind for those that couldn’t make the trip,” she mused, remembering the arrangement one of her soldiers - his own nephew - had made to transport the Ala Mhigans home, “So what brings you all the way here then? Just seeing the sights? Taking back stories for the older folk back in Thanalan?”

Gundobald tilted his head. “Aye, I suppose I could do that for them. Rhalgr knows even in their last few days, everyone back in Little Ala Mhigo gains a bit of new life being reminded that their home is free now.” Then he shook his head. “But that wasn’t the main reason I came. It was to pay some respects to some old comrades. The ones that couldn’t be here even to hear the news.”

Lyse lowered her head upon hearing this. “I see. I did learn about the old mercenary monument up north. Probably still fitting for everyone else that uh...passed beyond these lands.” Looking back at him, she asked, “So you’re returning home now? Would you like an escort?”

“Nah, I’m not so enfeebled I can’t handle myself on the return trip,” the highlander shook his head, though there was a friendly glint in his eye as he said it, “Better to keep your men here where they’re needed more, Commander. But if you want, you could send someone to go check on the Scions’ Warrior girl by the monument.”

At this, the woman perked up. “Fufu is here? There, I mean?”

“Aye, I figured you would’ve known, that she would’ve told you. She was up there before I arrived, and she’s still there now.” Lyse shook her head, surprise still colouring her features. Gundobald frowned, but he didn’t sound worried when he added, “Well, I’ll let you look into that on your own. Suppose you’ve been so busy you could do with a catch up with your friend. I’ll get started on my way back.”

He waved, wandering off down the cobbled streets, leaving a pondering Lyse to her thoughts.

~*~*~

The woman didn’t wait long before making the decision to venture to the old tomb, leaving behind an order to deliver food to the resistance’s prisoner should Lyse not return in time to do it herself. A bread roll haphazardly stuffed in her own month would do her until then.

The sky was turning a shade of purple by the time she reached the monument, the clouds painted orange and pink in the fading sunlight. A sole figure sat on the quickly chilling stone in front of the pillar, the only other source of light coming from a small lantern mounted on the saddle of a sleeping chocobo nearby.

“Hey,” Lyse called out, making the miqo’te jump and spin around. A hand hovered over the chakram by her waist, however Fufu quickly relaxed at the sight of her old friend. Her flickering tail settled.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Fufu said as Lyse joined her. The hyur gave the Scion a friendly nudge, lightly scolding her by saying, “Of course you weren’t, ‘cos you never even told me you were here.”

The miqo’te winced, a sheepish smile on her face. “I’m sorry. In my defense I did show up at the palace gates, and I thought about it, but everyone said you were busy pretty much all day. They offered to take a message, but I didn’t want to interrupt or make you take time out if you were doing important stuff.”

“You’re never interrupting,” Lyse chucked, “I’ll always be happy to make time for you or the other Scions if I can. If anything,” she groaned, rolling her shoulder, both girls wincing at the loud crack it let out, “I’d appreciate having an excuse to take a break.”

Fufu nodded. “Alright then, noted.” Both women fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the quiet as night fell, the sounds of the salt waves lapping at the shore behind them, and Fufu’s noble bird snoring softly next to them, the lantern swinging gently on its hook with each breath the chocobo took. Their faint shadows shifted ever so slightly against the stone structure.

“Who are you here for?” Lyse finally asked, the question having been sitting on her tongue since she’d arrived. Fufu didn’t answer immediately, but Lyse didn’t expect her to. In the meantime she added, “I met Gundobald in the Quarter, he said he came here with you. Or more like you arranged to meet here, I suppose, he said you were already here when he arrived from Little Ala Mhigo.”

Fufu’s tail twitched, managing to brush against the hyuran’s arm.

“Someone I knew once.” Was all she said.

“Did I know them?”

“...Kinda.”

They sat again, Lyse willing to wait for her friend to talk, or even if she didn’t at all. But after a moment, Fufu took in a breath.

“You remember one of the first reports I wrote on my own? For one of my first missions without another Scion watching me.” With a sly smile and a side eye toward her friend, she added, “After the whole thing with the sylphs.”

Lyse inadvertently spluttered as she burst out laughing. “Oh gods! I remember that! Your penmanship was awful, and it was so plain!” 

Lyse was already near falling to the floor from hysterics, however the miqo’te shoved the other woman over with an exaggerated pout all the same, though unable to hide the amusement in her voice as she argued, “Excuse you, I’d never done much writing before then, never mind for a fancy mission report. And what am I supposed to even put in one? ‘Went to Little Ala Mhigo, nobody liked me, I had to save some kids from the amalj’aa’? And it's not like you or Papalymo or anybody else was around to help me write it.”

“I kno- gods,” the hyuran gasped, finally trying to bring her laughter to an end. Given their location, things were sure to take a turn, even if Fufu had started the moment of levity. Indeed the woman in question had turned sombre once more. Lyse coughed, trying to stem her chuckles. “Alright, I’m done.” 

Another breath out to calm herself, then Lyse said, “I mean, really, it was plain, but that’s fine. It did the job it was meant to do - say what happened, what you did - and you were still new to it all. And teaching you wouldn’t have helped, you probably don’t need to write those anymore. So nothing to dwell on anymore. Right?” Fufu shot her a grateful look. Then she looked up at the stone beacon in front of them.

“Well, one of those kids involved in that whole thing, he’s here now.” Lyse flinched, eyes glancing up at the tomb.

“The one that didn’t die in the amalj’aa attack...but he died later as a Brave,” Fufu said, her face eerily straight, yet her eyes already beginning to water. Lyse herself found her eyes drifting to the foggy horizon, a faint memory of a bright eyed, hopeful looking young man dressed in blue coming to mind.

“His name was Wilred,” the miqo’te added without prompt, “And he meant every word of the Braves’ original creed.”

She shook her head, letting out a shaky breath. “I know a few of the folk that believed in what the Braves were meant to be still stuck with the Scions after that whole mess, but Godsdammit, I wish he could’ve been there as well. He just disappeared one day and then h-he was...he’d been left to rot in Urth’s Fount! He d-didn’t deserve that, h-he…”

Her words caught in her throat, and despite pressing her hands against her eyes to stem the oncoming flood, a sob broke from the warrior. Without hesitation, Lyse pulled the miqo’te into her shoulder, letting her friend weep freely. Fufu’s chocobo nearby stirred, letting out a small chirp at the sound of its mistress’ crying. A glance from the monk let the bird settle again, although the tenseness in its haunches betrayed its worry.

“He should’ve been here, I know,” Lyse mumbled gently, rocking to try and calm the other woman. She bit her lip, trying to think of what she could say to soothe her friend, but coming up short. She didn’t know the boy that well, only recognising him as a passing face in the Rising Stones...and one that eventually stopped showing up.

“It’s more than that,” Fufu hiccuped, lifting her head. Her eyes were already red raw. “He started out so angry and desperate, desperate enough for the ascians to notice him and his friends and...and he was the only one to make it out alive. And that changed him, and he wanted to do good after that. And the Braves were supposed to be his second chance to do that and-- By the Twelve, Lyse, he was younger than us.” Her voice cracked, and Lyse winced.

Still, the woman leaned her head forward against the other’s in a reassuring gesture. Fufu sniffed.

“I know I can’t go back and change things. I can wish and hope and say what I could’ve done instead - and I wish I’d watched him more now, I wish I’d taken Riol worries to heart, and I wish we’d never crossed paths with Ilberd, that I had cut him down where he stood if I knew then what I do now - but I know that won’t change anything about what happened before.” She let out a heavy sigh after her rant, finally seeming to calm. “I wish for a lot of things Lyse.”

“Me too.”

“I wish he had a chance.”

“I know. I wish all the time that Papalymo was still here to help me. He’d keep the resistance in line better than I could.” At that, the keeper chuckled.

Another sniff. “It’s moments like this...losing people I feel like I could’ve saved, it makes me try harder. So I don’t have to lose anyone else. So normal people can have a chance after hardship.”

“For those we have lost?” Lyse said, a small smile on her lips. Fufu smiled back, nodding.

“I wish they didn’t have to die, but I won’t let their deaths be in vain. But...but I guess it all feels like so much sometimes. And I need to be alone to deal with it. I know I could stay with the other Scions and they wouldn’t judge me for it, but just every now and then...” She trailed off.

“I get that,” the hyuran chuckled, ruffling Fufu’s hair, “And that’s fine, good even. It shows that you care. That the whole Warrior of Light title isn’t just for show. Better that than coming across like some soulless killing machine.” 

“I’m proud of what I do, since I can help so many people, but sometimes it can feel like a weight,” Fufu pouted. 

Lyse sighed. “I know the feeling.”

The highlander stood, her knees cracking, offering a hand to Fufu as well. The chocobo finally woke after a whistle from its rider, stumbling to its feet.

“We’ll go back to the Quarter together, and you can spend the night with me. I can send a soldier or call Tataru’s linkshell to let the Scions know,” Lyse suggested. Too worn down by her emotional outburst to argue, Fufu nodded, the idea sounding appealing at that.

“And in future,” the woman continued, “if you come here again, I insist you let me know. I won’t let you sit here on your own. This sort of thing is better with a little support, isn’t it?”

Fufu looked up at the stars above, the shimmering dots reflecting in her wide watery eyes. She smiled, looking back at her friend.

“I’d appreciate that.”

[mankai-afterhours]

taking the L(eader) - winter troupe gangbang

- I have no excuses.

⚠️ PWP very much smut ahead 18+ pls be aware this is pure filth wee woo wee woo ⚠️

warnings: swearing, gang bang (duh), mild cum play, handjobs, oral (giving and receiving), cumming on self??, very mild degradation ("slut, cum dump"), praise, dirty talk, i think that's it?? phew

----------

Tsumugi is nervous. Well, that's really an understatement.

Talking with the fans about it, it had seemed so easy! Just call a meeting with the troupe and explain his fantasy to have them all rail him together.

Well... maybe easy was also an understatement.

Now here they are, all gathered in the practice room, sitting in a circle, and waiting for Tsumugi to speak. All eyes are on him. How can he do this?

"What's up, Tsumugi?" Tasuku prompts him, leaning back on his hands.

"Yes, I am also most curious what this meeting is about." Homare agrees, adjusting his scarf for a moment before deciding to remove it altogether.

Tsumugi doesn't blame him. It feels about twenty degrees hotter than usual in here... or maybe that's just him.

"Guys, I called this meeting to talk about something. Something important," Tsumugi looks down, balling his hands into fists where they rest on his knees.

"You don't say," Azuma chimes in with a laugh. "What is it? We're all ears, leader." His voice is lilted and teasing like always, but right now it's making Tsumugi's heart beat twice as fast in his chest.

They're all staring at him expectantly. He looks at each of them in turn, but then his gaze falls to the floor as he tries to work the words up from the pit of his stomach. "As your leader, it's important for me to be honest with you. And there's something I've been keeping to myself, that I want to get off my chest."

At this, the others noticeably shift, concerned, alert.

"I don't want any of you to think of me differently, and please know that I have the utmost respect and admiration for each and every one of you." He squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't want what I'm about to say to come between us..."

Tasuku sits forward, his brow furrowed. "Tsumugi-"

"I want you to fuck me!"

Silence. So still you could hear a pin drop.

Birds chirp beyond the window, blissfully unaware of the stagnant moment now laating an eternity within these walls.

"What?" Tasuku sounds hoarse.

Tsumugi can't bear to look at him, at any of them. He can feel his face growing hot. "I want you all to f-fuck me..." he crouches, bowing his head. "Please."

Azuma seems to recover most quickly. "That's all?" He chuckles. "You want us to fuck you?"

Tsumugi looks up, his face embarrassingly hot, but eyes wide with fascination. "You don't think it's... strange?"

"Well, it's human nature to occasionally fantasize about those around us. Coworkers, friends. The subconscious mind works in unusual ways." Azuma waves his hand in the air, as though dismissing Tsumugi's worries. "I'm not offended."

Tsumugi feels the weight in his heart start to lift. He looks hopefully to Homare and Hisoka. "And you guys? Are you... offended?"

"Why, not in the slightest~ in fact, I'm flattered!" Homare places a hand to his chest dramatically. "To think, my own leader has had risque thoughts about me! Why, it sparks poetic inspiration-"

"Don't." Hisoka saves them from an impromptu poem by placing a marshmallow from his ever-present bag into Homare's open mouth.

He then looks to Tsumugi, his sleepy expression unreadable. "I'm fine with it."

Tsumugi feels hopeful. That's three out of four troupe members who don't consider him a total creep. But the fourth is admittedly the one who's opinion he cares about the most.

Tasuku works his jaw, staring at a far corner of the room. His gaze seems distant. Is he mad?

"Tasuku-" Tsumugi begins to explain himself, but Tasuku interjects.

"Tonight," he says, crossing his arms warily. "We'll do it tonight."

What? Tsumugi looks around at the others, who all seem to be nodding in some sort of shared understanding.

"What's happening t-tonight?" Tsumugi asks, his heart leaping into his throat at the implications behind the simple word.

Tasuku finally meets his eyes, something dangerous and thrilling lurking beneath them.

"You're getting fucked, Tsumu."

----------

They decided on Azuma's room, since he didn't share with anyone, and was usually undisturbed in the evenings.

"I told the director that we'll be taking an online meditative yoga class tonight, so she won't be interrupting us." Azuma explains as the others file into his room in their pajamas.

"Meditative yoga?" Tsumugi asks.

"It's a stress reliever," Azuma explains with a wink. "And so is getting laid."

Tsumugi regrets asking. His heart is beating out of his chest. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

Azuma's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and the silver-haired man gives him a soothing smile. "Just relax, Tsumugi. We'll take care of everything tonight."

Tsumugi nods dazedly, still a little unsure of how he wound up in this situation. Of course he knows it was his own fault. This is what he wanted.

But as Azuma instructs everyone to disrobe, he can't help feeling that he's in over his head.

"Not you, Tsumugi," Azuma says, his voice clear in the silence of the room.

Tsumugi stops halfway down the buttons of his sleep shirt, and looks up, confused.

Azuma smiles and unties the belt at his own waist, letting the thin robe he'd been wearing flutter to the ground, leaving him bare. "Allow me." He approaches Tsumugi, who's trying his best not to stare, and runs his hands up the shy boy's arms, cupping his cheek and looking at him adoringly.

"May I undress you, Tsumugi?" Azuma asks, his voice like a flicker of candlelight.

Tsumugi is too flustered to use words, but nods in response.

Azuma deftly undoes the rest of his buttons, tracing his fingertips delicately along the milky skin that's now exposed. "Ooh... how sweet," he murmurs, causing Tsumugi's blush to deepen.

He sheds the pajama shirt and then guides Tsumugi to the center of the room, where a massage table has been set up.

"I used to use it for clients, but tonight it will be your throne, little prince." Azuma says softly, helping guide Tsumugi to sit on the table.

"Now lie down," he instructs, and helps Tsumugi finish undressing, leaving him in only his underwear. "What a pretty thing~ aren't we lucky? My, my..."

Azuma's praises go straight down to his groin, and he tries to cover himself on instinct, but Hisoka's hands stop him. "No." The quiet boy says, moving Tsumugi's hands to his sides. "Don't squirm."

Tsumugi very much wishes he could squirm now, as the naked men stare down at him like he's their next meal. But he digs his nails into his palms, and resolutely does not move. He's too shy to even speak.

"So... how do we do this?" Tasuku asks, breaking the silence that had started to form. The wide expanse of his chest seems even more broad and toned from Tsumugi's angle, and he quickly settles his gaze elsewhere.

"Why not dive right in~?" Homare suggests, and leans forward so that he's nose to nose with their leader. "Would you like me to kiss you, Tsumugi?"

Tsumugi swallows, and presented with the beginning of his very own fantasy come to life, he finally finds his voice. "Yes."

Homare chuckles and joins their lips in a tender kiss. The poet is surprisingly gentle for all of his blustering, and Tsumugi finds himself relaxing after a moment or two.

Homare's nimble fingers skim over Tsumugi's chest and trail down his arms, eventually taking hold of his waist. Tsumugi lets out a soft noise at the grip, and finds himself tensing again. Homare pulls away briefly. "We won't do anything you don't want us to, Tsumugi," he laughs. "You said you wanted us to fuck you, correct?"

Tsumugi nods, then bolsters himself to speak through his embarrassment. "I do."

"Then perhaps a more direct approach is in order," Homare hums, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Tsumugi's briefs. He slowly starts to tug them down, and Tsumugi grips the edge of the massage table, hissing as the fabric band passes over his cock, letting his length spring free.

"He's already half-hard." Hisoka observes.

Azuma nods, amused. "And from such little contact... he must really be excited for tonight."

Tsumugi looks off to the side, pointedly avoiding their gazes, his cock twitching traitorously when they talk about him like this.

"Why don't you help him get ready, Hisoka?" Azuma suggests, and before Tsumugi can think, he feels warm, plush lips, kissing and mouthing at his cock.

Heat spikes throughout his body and his back arches as the sleepy boy starts to lick and suck at him. "Ah! H-Hisoka..."

Tsumugi doesn't take long at all to become fully erect, but he barely notices the time pass as Hisoka's heavenly mouth pulls whines and little moans out of him from places normally well hidden.

"That's enough, Hisoka." Azuma instructs, and Hisoka pops off of Tsumugi's head with on last kitten lick.

Tsumugi shudders in pleasure, his cock now red and throbbing from the stimulation. Azuma coos at the sight, and it makes him blush again.

"Now, as cute as you look right now, I believe what you wanted was for us to fuck you, right?" He asks, skimming the backs of his nails along Tsumugi's chest, drawing a shiver out of him.

"Yes." Tsumugi whispers, adrenaline coursing through him at the thought.

"Well, in that case, I think you should get on your hands and knees, baby boy." Azuma's voice is like a cool breeze, and his words ripple through Tsumugi, springing his limbs into action. He scrambles, hastily turning himself around on the table and getting into doggy position, sitting back on his haunches to give them better access to him.

"Oh, my~ so eager..." He can hear Azuma's voice and feel his soft hands as they run over his ass, carefully spreading his cheeks. "This hole will be nice and loose by the end of the night." He chuckles, and Tsumugi feels a thrill run through him.

He wants nothing more than that, to be their play thing. To be filled and fucked by their cocks and passed around for their pleasure.

It looks lile his dreams are finally coming true.

"Pick a word, Tsumugi." Azuma says, his voice low and sultry.

"Huh?" Tsumugi looks over his shoulder, confused.

"A safe word. You want to get fucked and used by four men. Things might go quickly. If something doesn't feel good, or you want to stop, you say your safe word and we stop,' he explains.

Tsumugi thinks for a moment. "Eggs."

"Eggs it is." Azuma runs his hands over Tsumugi's ass again. "Are you ready to start?"

Tsumugi nods eagerly. "I'm ready. Please. Fuck me."

Azuma smiles and lands a light spank to Tsumugi's rear. "Look at this tight little asshole..." he purrs. "Tasuku. Lube."

Tsumugi's heart skips a beat, and he returns his focus forward, away from the action. He closes his eyes and sighs as Azuma's fingers spread the cool liquid over his entrance.

"Such a pretty slut for us..."

The unexpected words straight out of his fantasies cause Tsumugi to tense up in anticipation, but Azuma quiets him with a hush.

Soon slender fingers push through the tight ring of muscle, and begin stroking, pumping in and out to prepare him for taking their cocks.

Lips on his shoulder distract him momentarily, and he looks up to see Homare there once again, ready with more kisses, which Tsumugi gratefully accepts.

He moans into Homare's mouth as Hisoka's hand slips beneath him to stroke at him cock, and in this moment, being touched and kissed and teased, Tsumugi thinks he's never felt happier.

"Tasuku, why don't you do the honors?"

These words drive the first shred of fear into his heart. He's worried what Tasuku thinks of all this, what hemight think of seeing him like this, vulnerable and desperate for cock.

But to his surprise, Tasuku agrees. "It'd be my pleasure."

Tsumugi's heart is racing, his senses overwhelmed as Homare's tongue starts to dance with his and Hisoka's fingers tease at his slit.

Tsumugi feels Tasuku tap the head of his cock on Tsumugi's ass, bouncing it on the soft flesh a few times before he aligns himself with Tsumugi's entrance.

He pushes in steadily, and both of them groan in pleasure. Tasuku is big. Tsumugi feels like he might split apart, but thankfully he's given enough time to adjust to the size before Tasuku starts moving.

Homare moves Tsumugi's hand, guiding it to his own hardened cock, and Tsumugi gladly starts stroking it, eliciting whines and gasps from the poet.

Tasuku slowly builds up speed, pumping himself in and out of Tsumugi's tight hole and watching with satisfaction as his friend takes in every inch of him, over and over again.

Tsumugi's moaning, and Homare decides to break their kiss to let his noises flow freely. They're nothing short of sinful, mewling cries of pleasure with every thrust, and murmurings of Tasuku's name.

This spurs Tasuku on, and he gets a little rougher, gripping Tsumugi's ass and smacking it as he fucks him in earnest.

"That's it," Tsumugi can hear Azuma supervising, aiding Tasuku in getting the most out of the experience. "Keep it up, just like that. Go deeper. Make him feel it in his guts."

Tsumugi forgets all about Homare's cock, and instead grips the table as Tasuku rams into him harder and harder. He cries out, whining, moaning at how good it feels to be fucked by him.

Tasuku grunts and leans forward, using his full body weight to rut desperately into Tsumugi. He's getting close, and he wants to be as connected with him as possible when he finally climaxes.

He kisses Tsumugi's shoulder, bracing his arms on either side of him and growling in his ear while he climbs rapidly towards his peak. "You like this, Tsumu? You like taking my cock like a little slut in front of everyone?"

Tsumugi nods, moaning helplessly in agreement.

"I know you do. I bet you want us to fuck you like this every night, don't you? You like being the star of the show?"

Tsumugi feels his own climax approaching, and turns his head to catch Tasuku's lips in a desperate kiss.

Tasuku is surprised, but his rhythm only stutters for a moment before he's back to a breathless, breakneck pace, thrusting into Tsumugi like a wild animal in heat.

Faster and faster, harder, and deeper, until at last, with a final jerk forward, Tasuku spills his load deep inside. His hot seed paints Tsumugi's inner walls and Tsumugi gasps, his breath coming hot and heavy as Tasuku slowly, carefully pulls out of him.

But just as he's left empty, a new cock head teases his entrance. He hears Homare moan in pleasure as he pushes inside Tsumugi's used and dripping hole.

"Ah~ still so tight! How did you manage, Tasuku?" Homare laughs and begins waxing poetic, pulling Tsumugi back to meet the base of his cock with each of his thrusts.

Tasuku comes around to Tsumugi's front and coaxes Tsumugi's lips open to clean off the head of his cock. Tsumugi gratefully accepts, each thrust from Homare shoving him forward onto Tasuku's cock.

"My turn," Hisoka's voice at his ear. He looks up and sees Hisoka quickly replace Tasuku's position, pushing his slightly smaller cock into Tsumugi's eagerly awaiting mouth.

Hisoka doesn't wait long before he grabs a fistful of Tsumugi's hair and starts thrusting onto Tsumugi's warm tongue. "Take it all." He insists, and Tsumugi obediently swallows down the shorter boy's cock, gagging as Hisoka hits the back of his throat and begins thrusting again.

Tsumugi moans and gurgles around Hisoka's length, letting himself be spitroasted between his troupe members, and he takes a mental picture, wishing he could stay in this moment forever.

Pretty soon, Homare's poetic verses begin to lose their coherence. His thrusts become sloppier, and with a final cry, he pushes himself fully inside and dumps his load inside to mingle with Tasuku's.

Tsumugi already feels so full... how will he take two more loads?

Hisoka follows soon after, his thrusts becoming quicker, making Tsumugi choke from the frequency. However, it doesn't take long until he whips out of Tsumugi's mouth and silently hastens to his rear end.

Just as Homare pulls out, Hisoka pushes in, a spurt of early cum landing on Tsumugi's ass before the rest is safely unloaded inside of him.

He's definitely full now. Really full.

The minute Hisoka removes his cock, like a leaky sink, cum starts to drip out of his asshole.

Thankfully, Azuma is prepared with a solution. He quickly maneuvers Tsumugi to roll onto his back, and has his bottom lifted into the air to keep gravity from letting any more of his hard earned rewards leak out.

They have enough hands between the four of them to keep him propped in the awkward position. From here, Tsumugi's almost close enough to suck his own cock.

"See? Meditative yoga. I told you we'd be doing some tonight." Azuma smirks, examining Tsumugi's messy entrance. "Oh, I just want to eat you up, look how well you're keeping in all that cum."

Tsumugi feels a jolt of pride despite the embarrassing circumstances. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Azuma gives a kiss to his puckered opening before unleashing his own cock and sliding inside him.

"Ooh, so good for us... look at how well you've been stretched out, baby." Azuma coos, beginning slow, languid thrusts inside Tsumugi's heat.

Tasuku turns Tsumugi's cheek and kisses him, as payback for the surprise kiss before. But Tsumugi happily kisses him back. Tasuku quickly forgets about payback and just focuses on tasting him.

Meanwhile Homare reaches to stroke Tsumugi's cock, hoping to reward him with an orgasm at last for taking them so well.

Hisoka begins biting and licking at Tsumugi's thighs, sucking hickeys wherever he can with his plush lips and skilled mouth.

Tsumugi is in heaven. He's filled to the brim and being kissed, touched, bitten... it's a dream come true. His noises must be expressing the depths of his pleasure, because they all seem to try even harder to pleasure him.

Azuma sighs in delight, loving the wet, slippery feeling of a well used hole. He hitches Tsumugi's legs over his shoulders and licks a stripe up Tsumugi's other thigh, double teaming and sharing a kiss with Hisoka while he thrusts into their toy.

Tsumugi is overwhelmed and overjoyed, and the minute Tasuku reaches down to play with his nipples, he can feel his orgasm fast approaching. In moments, he's cumming all over Homare's hand and himself, spraying his release on his chest and face from such a steep angle.

He moans, and then sighs, whimpering as Tasuku licks some of the cum off his face and Azuma finishes having his way with him.

Azuma pulls all the way out of Tsumugi, watching, mesmerized as their combined releases start to gush out of him, only to be shoved back inside again by his cock.

He repeats this a few times, then returns to thrusting, newly inspired as his orgasm begins to take shape.

"Can you take one more load, Tsumugi?" He asks breathlessly. "You're so full, baby, but you can take it, can't you? You're such a good little cum dump for us..."

And it's these words that spark a moan of longing, of confirmation from Tsumugi, and the sound sends Azuma over the edge. He cums with a delicate moan, his thighs shaking as he empties his load inside Tsumugi, completing the cocktail of semen stuffing him to the brim.

Azuma catches his breath before finally pulling out, watching with satisfaction as cum gushes out from Tsumugi's puckering hole.

He instructs the others to gently lower Tsumugi, laying him on his back. He spreads Tsumugi's legs, watching their cum pool on the table from his ass, the sight lewd enough to make him chuckle.

"You did so well, Tsumugi..." Azuma praises him, dipping his fingers into the slick on the table and bringing the digits to Tsumugi's mouth. He smears it on Tsumugi's lips before Tsumugi latches onto his fingers, greedily sucking on them.

"What a good boy~" he says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his slightly sweaty brow.

----------

"So," Tasuku says, as they all cuddle together that night, still coming down from their highs. They had decided to stay in Azuma's room after cleaning up, and the others had quickly fallen asleep from the exertion.

"Was it as good as you'd hoped?" He asks Tsumugi, resting his hand on his friend's waist beneath the blankets.

Tsumugi shakes his head with a smile and cuddles into Tasuku's chest, inhaling his scent, perfectly content.

"It was even better."

[cosleia]

What if Millicent wasn't a small cat but something tiger-sized and Pryde poked her with his stick one time too many?

The Deaths of Allegiant General Pryde, Part 6: Dinner

(kylux, preslash. content note: graphic descriptions of an animal mauling and eating a person)

“I understand you have a...pet,” said Allegiant General Enric Pryde, slapping his swagger stick into his palm.

General Armitage Hux’s office on the Steadfast was not large—nothing like his war room and engineering facilities on the Finalizer had been—but it had a desk and a chair and a door, and at this point that was all he could hope for. It did have its merits: Pryde had had to use the call box before entering, and he also had to stand while Armitage remained comfortable in his seat.

Armitage managed not to twitch at the sound of Pryde’s crop striking the leather of his glove. It was an obvious intimidation tactic, and Armitage was not intimidated by sanctimonious peons like Pryde. “Yes,” he said. “It’s my prerogative as ranking general.” He watched Pryde’s face, daring him to claim that his rank was higher. This issue had not yet come to a head, and Armitage was, quite frankly, tired of the chain of command being unclear.

But Pryde ignored the comment, likely because he didn’t want to risk losing the authority he’d so recently gained when Supreme Leader Kylo Ren chose to make Pryde’s flagship his own. What he did say was, “It’s highly irregular. And as this is my ship, I have the right to assess the way this creature is being housed. Every centimetre counts on a starship, General—”

“Millicent lives in my chambers, General,” Armitage put in, a bit crossly. “And I pay for her food out of my own stipend. She will have no impact on the operation of the Steadfast, just as she never interfered with the operation of the Finalizer.”

Pryde raised an eyebrow. “If that’s true, then you shouldn’t mind a brief inspection of your quarters? To validate what you’ve said.”

Armitage had a feeling he’d been outmaneuvered, but he wasn’t sure how. Pryde had the right to enter any area on the Steadfast, including all officers’ chambers. Well, excepting Ren’s, of course, and the rooms Ren kept for his Knights.

Wait. Had Ren also made Armitage’s chambers off limits to Pryde?

A smile twitched its way across Armitage’s face. “You’re more than welcome to come meet Millicent, General,” he said graciously. “I’m sure she’d enjoy the company.”

“I’ll send an audit team,” Pryde sniffed. He tucked his swagger stick beneath his left arm the way he did when he was about to walk away dismissively, and oh, so that’s what he was after. Pryde wanted to spy on Armitage. His ‘audit team’ would almost certainly consist of intelligence officers who would bring with them any number of tiny, easily hidden surveillance devices.

“I’m sorry, General,” Armitage said, “but I can’t allow that. Millicent loves people, but she can be distressed by groups. One person is all I’m willing to subject her to.”

“Yet you claim the creature won’t interfere with the operation of this ship.”

Armitage smiled again. “One person is sufficient to perform an audit. As I said, you are more than welcome to come yourself.”

Pryde always looked like he was glowering, but his face looked especially severe now. “Fine,” he said.

“Of course, I must also be present,” Armitage added. “She won’t take kindly to a stranger I haven’t introduced her to.”

“Fine,” Pryde said again. If he was feeling anything beyond slightly inconvenienced, he was hiding it exceptionally well. “We’ll go now.”

~

Armitage heard a muffled thump and the clack of Millie’s claws on the durasteel floor as soon as the hatch cycled open. “Come, darling!” he called, though she was almost certainly already on her way. “We have a visitor!”

Millicent emerged from the bedroom at a gallop, a giant blur of orange and black and white, barreling up to Armitage and bounding up on her hind legs to throw her front paws onto his shoulders. He staggered a bit under her weight and laughed as her enormous tongue lapped over his neck and face. “There’s a good girl,” he praised her, putting his arms as far around her as he could get them, stroking down her back, and burying his face in the wonderfully soft fur behind her ear. “Hello. Hello. Did you miss me?”

As usual, the greeting was over in a matter of seconds; Millie pushed off him and dropped back to the floor and circled toward where Pryde was standing. Her hackles weren’t raised, not really, but she was curious, cautious. The muscles in her legs and back were visibly tensed for a pounce, and her tail was flicking slowly back and forth behind her in preparation to counterbalance. She was absolutely magnificent, the perfect hunter, and Armitage indulged in watching her for a moment before turning his attention to Pryde.

The allegiant general stood stock-still by the door, arms straight at his sides. The only parts of him that moved were his eyes as they followed Millie’s prowl back and forth between him and the main living space. “General?” Armitage prompted.

“It’s rather...large,” Pryde said. For once, his voice wasn’t strong and certain. He seemed to remember how to move, pulling his swagger stick out from under his arm and brandishing it in front of him like a knife.

“Yes, she is,” Armitage agreed.

“I expected something...smaller. Where is its cage?”

Armitage blinked, affronted. “I would never put my Millie in a cage. She needs room to move about. It’s in her blood.”

“It’s tame, though?”

“Of course. I trained her myself. It can be difficult with this species, but only if one is not fully committed to the task.”

“Ah,” Pryde said, shifting back a half step as Millie twitched her whiskers at him. “I suppose you are the son of a nerf-herder.”

“Nerfs are docile plant-eaters!” Even someone as witless as Pryde should be able to appreciate how special Millie was, how unique. “Millie is a carnivore. A predator. It’s completely different.” Armitage wrinkled his nose and added, “Also, Millie doesn’t stink.”

Millie, sensing Armitage’s distress, began to growl low in the back of her throat. Pryde took a full step back.

“No, no, it’s all right, Millie,” Armitage told her. “To me.” Millicent loped to Armitage’s side. “Sit,” Armitage said, and Millie lowered her haunches to the floor in her elegant, feline version of parade rest. “Good girl.”

“She does seem to be well trained,” Pryde said, sounding half relieved and half disappointed. “And her presence in your quarters does not affect the operation of the ship. I shall not press the matter.”

“I appreciate your understanding, General,” Armitage said. At this point, Pryde just seemed eager to leave. He’d had no opportunity to plant any bugs; he hadn’t even moved from the doorway. Armitage, with Millicent’s help, had successfully foiled his plot. “Shall we return to the bridge?”

~

Life-partner did not like the grouchy man he brought home today. Millicent knew that for certain. And Grouchy didn’t seem to like life-partner, either, which meant Grouchy was a threat. They were tolerating each other, though, and that meant Millicent would tolerate Grouchy too...so long as Grouchy didn’t cause any problems.

Some time had passed since then. She had batted her toys around for a while and now she was lying at the foot of their bed. She had just started meticulously grooming herself when she heard the front door cycle open again. It was early for life-partner to return, but he had returned at a strange time already today, so Millie did not worry right away. However, the heavy footfalls she heard next did not belong to life-partner, nor did the scent that shortly came wafting in. Millie leapt off the bed and trotted out to the playroom, lips already curling back in warning.

It was Grouchy. Life-partner was not with him.

Millie bared all her teeth and told Grouchy unequivocally to get out of their home. Her loud, rumbling growl seemed to terrify Grouchy; he froze in place like an ash-rabbit instead of doing what she’d told him. Something he was holding in his left hand fell to the floor with a small clatter.

Millie stepped forward, attempting to startle him, to herd him to the door. Grouchy waved the stick he was carrying in his right hand at her. She paused, cocking her head to the side as she evaluated the weapon. It did not seem to pose any significant threat. “Back,” Grouchy said. “Back, you ugly beast.”

Millie recognized the words. ‘Back,’ of course, was a command. Life-partner used ‘ugly’ whenever he was talking about Dark One, and he loved Dark One almost as much as he loved Millicent, so it must be a compliment. ‘Beast,’ however, was an unpleasant word she had heard as a cub, back before life-partner had chosen her. It meant disrespect.

Millie did not obey the commands of those who did not respect her.

She continued her slow, steady advance. Grouchy let out a high-pitched sound and waved his stick right in her face. This time it actually brushed her whiskers. Millie snapped at it in warning, letting her sharp teeth clack together noisily. “Sit!” Grouchy yelled. “Lie down! Get back! Get away!”

She let out her own yell, again commanding him to leave her home. The roar was so load it rattled the drinking glass life-partner had left on the caf table. Surely that would be enough to get Grouchy to go.

But it wasn’t. Grouchy crouched down, reaching with his free hand for the small item he’d dropped. At the same time, he stopped waving the stick and started thrusting it toward her. This form of attack seemed more dangerous; he might strike her in the eye. One thrust poked her hard in the cheek; she howled, more from surprise than pain, and then she snapped her jaws closed around Grouchy’s wrist to keep him from poking her again.

She’d been polite long enough.

Grouchy screeched and jerked backward, trying and failing to free himself from Millie’s powerful hold, and dropped both the stick and the other thing. Millicent sank her teeth deep into his flesh to secure her grip.

Then she tasted blood.

Life-partner took good care of Millie, providing food and water and a bed and toys and a place to play. But it had been a long time since Millie had hunted prey. A long time since she’d enjoyed the meat of a fresh kill.

She considered. Would life-partner be troubled if she had Grouchy for dinner? Surely his unwelcome intrusion into their home and his refusal to leave broke any sort of truce the two of them had. There might be some other reason life-partner wouldn’t want Millie to eat Grouchy, but now his blood was trickling tantalizingly down her throat and she wanted more.

She deserved this, Millie decided. She had been very good for life-partner, and life-partner loved her. This was her treat.

That settled, she bit Grouchy’s hand off.

Her teeth crunched delightfully straight through the bones and tendons of Grouchy’s arm, and she chomped and smacked her lips and tossed her head until she got the whole hand into her mouth. Millie ground the meat and bones down to delicious pieces between her teeth and swallowed it all triumphantly.

Grouchy was screaming, clutching at his bloody arm, and that only made Millicent want more. She stalked toward him, licking her chops. Should she eat him piece by piece, saving the most savory bits for last? Should she go straight for the delectable organs she knew she’d find within his torso? She could crack him open easily just by leaping on top of him to break his sternum, tearing into his flesh with her claws, ripping out his ribs with her teeth—

He staggered backward until he hit the wall, and then he was scrabbling against it desperately, still screaming. His wounded cries were so sweet and enticing; how could she resist? Millicent lunged and struck him heavily with one paw, sending him flying to the floor faster than he could fall. One of his legs was left sticking out at an odd angle; she stepped on it and felt it break in two beneath her paw.

Now he was sobbing, trying and failing to crawl away. She almost wished they were in an open plain where she could really chase him, follow his wails and hunt him properly, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t have put up much of a fight no matter where he was.

Anyway, in an open plain she might have had to share. Here, this meal was all hers.

He kicked his good leg at her, so Millicent got her mouth around his ankle and gave it a good chomp. It was slightly harder to separate his foot from his body because of the covering over it, but after a few moments of worrying at it, she finally ripped it free. Millicent kept an eye on her prey as she set about tearing open the foot covering to get at the meat. Human feet weren’t especially delicious, but the bones provided a satisfying crunch, and she wanted to enjoy that before moving on to something meatier like the leg.

All Grouchy was doing was whimpering and crying and dragging himself along the ground as best he could without the full use of three limbs. It was slow going. He seemed to be trying to get to the door, but there was no way he’d be able to open it without standing on his hind legs, and Millicent didn’t think he would be able to do that. She took her time, gnawing and slurping at the foot until finally she finished it with a single definitive crunch.

Grouchy had almost made it to the door by the time she was done. It wouldn’t do for life-partner to stumble over him when he got home. Millicent trotted over and grabbed the back of Grouchy’s neck in her jaws and flung him bodily back toward the center of the room. Necks were vulnerable, especially human necks, and Millicent thought she might have broken Grouchy’s; at least that meant he’d hold still while she finished her feast.

It was time to eat his heart, Millicent decided. She’d denied herself long enough. Eagerly, Millie bounded over to Grouchy’s collapsed form, batted him over onto his back with her paw, and cracked open his chest just like she’d planned.

~

“Where is Allegiant General Pryde?”

Usually Pryde was at Kylo’s side whenever Kylo was outside his chambers. Kylo vacillated between finding it convenient and irritating; having an old Imperial constantly hanging around wasn’t really the same as keeping Hux close. Right now, though, the allegiant general was nowhere to be found, and Kylo had some orders to give him.

“General Hux?” Kylo asked, because Hux was the type to know where everyone was at all times.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Hux said. A cursory scan of his mind showed he was telling the truth. Surprising. “I haven’t seen him since the middle of cresh shift. He said he had business and left the bridge.”

Kylo felt himself scowling and wished he hadn’t destroyed his mask.

“Can...I help with something, sir?” Hux added.

“Yes,” Kylo said, because he could give orders through Hux just as well as through Pryde. Actually, the allegiant general being absent was a good opportunity. Kylo didn’t feel like he could talk to Hux when Pryde was around. This was ridiculous, of course; he was Supreme Leader and could talk to anybody whenever he wanted. But still, it always felt...awkward. “Your chambers,” Kylo decided, in case Pryde suddenly decided to appear. “Now.”

As they set off together, Hux actually walked abreast of Kylo instead of trailing behind him. It was, Kylo thought, the first time he’d done that in a year. It reminded Kylo of how things had been on the Finalizer, before.

“How is Millicent?” Kylo asked, realizing he hadn’t thought about Hux’s pet in months. He wasn’t even sure she had survived Batuu.

“She’s fine, Supreme Leader,” Hux said. “Healthy and happy.”

It would be nice to see her again. She had always been friendly with Kylo, letting him pet her and scratch below her jowls. She had a deep, throaty purr that was strangely soothing.

He felt a sudden spike of anxiety that things might be different now, that Millicent might not like Kylo anymore. The thought of her rebuffing him was unpleasant. But there was no reason for Millicent to dislike him, was there? Things had—changed, shifted, with Hux, but surely that wouldn’t affect—

Kylo swallowed and pushed those worries down. It didn’t matter if an animal didn’t like him, did it? He was the Supreme Leader. He didn’t need anyone to like him. Not Millicent, not Hux, not anyone.

“Here we are,” Hux said, breaking into Kylo’s maudlin thoughts. Hux activated the airlock hatch to his chambers and started to enter. “Can I offer you a—” Then he broke off, stopping in the doorway, his mouth hanging open for a beat. “Ah. Supreme Leader. Perhaps a different venue—?”

“No,” Kylo said. “We’re already here. I don’t care if you haven’t dusted, or whatever.” He shouldered past Hux.

Then he stopped too. The floor was covered in dried blood, tattered pieces of fabric and leather, and bits of what looked like bone. Millicent lay curled up by the sofa. She looked very pleased with herself; her long tail curled slowly back and forth as she raised her head to look at Kylo. There was blood all around her mouth and all over her paws.

Her stomach was distended.

The smell of blood always gave Kylo something of a rush. It excited him. It was a scent of battle. He licked his lips as he stepped further into Hux’s chambers, scanning the room for evidence of what exactly had happened. It seemed clear enough, though. “Millie,” he said, “did you eat someone?”

Millie licked her own chops in response, as if to say yes.

Hux spoke up then, a nervous thread in his voice. “Supreme Leader, I’m utterly horrified. I’ve no idea how this happened. No one should have been in my chambers. I’m sure she was simply defending herself—”

Kylo raised a hand to shut him up. “It’s fine,” he said. “If Millie did eat someone, they probably deserved it.” He crossed the room to Millicent and buried his hands in her fur. “I missed you,” he crooned to her. To his delight, she rolled onto her back, inviting him to rub her tummy.

“You won’t...punish her?” Hux asked. “No matter who it was?”

“No,” Kylo said shrugging. “Why would I do that? I won’t punish you, either.”

“In that case...” Hux stepped further into the room, stooped over, picked something up, and brought it to Kylo. Kylo glanced up, then did a double take. It was that stick Pryde was always carrying around.

“Oh,” Kylo said with a laugh of realization. “So that’s where he was.”

Hux’s face took on a look of triumph. It was subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but Kylo did. It helped that he could also feel the man’s satisfaction rolling out from him like waves in the Force.

“You didn’t like him,” Kylo said. When Hux didn’t answer right away, Kylo added, “I know you didn’t plan this.”

At that, Hux let out a small laugh of surprise. "No, Supreme Leader. I didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t really like him either,” Kylo said. “But he always did what I ordered, so there wasn’t a good reason to kill him.” Kylo shrugged.

“It seems he intended to spy on me,” Hux added, holding up another item that appeared to be a small transmitter.

Kylo scoffed. “Was he so inept that he didn’t think he could serve me without trying to copy my most brilliant general? Fool.” Kylo turned back to Millicent and resumed stroking her fat belly. “You ate well, didn’t you? Guess you don’t need your regular dinner, do you?” Millicent nudged her face against Kylo’s ankle and started purring, and Kylo felt both gratified and content, like everything was the way it was supposed to be.

After a moment, Hux moved around the caf table and sat down on the couch, leaning over to join Kylo in petting Millicent. “Good girl,” Kylo heard him say softly.

~

Millie didn’t know why life-partner hadn’t taken Dark One as his mate yet. Humans had many strange and inconvenient customs; perhaps a long courtship was one of them. But it was nice to see Dark One again. There was something different about him, something different about the way he and life-partner were behaving around each other...but life-partner still smiled when he thought Dark One wasn’t looking, and Dark One still stared at life-partner like he wanted to mate immediately. It was only a matter of time.

Maybe, Millicent thought as Dark One settled onto the sofa next to life-partner and she climbed up to sprawl across both their laps, it would happen tonight.

~

The Deaths of Allegiant General Pryde series on AO3

[hawkbucks]

@endrega23​ here’s your WinterHawk request! Hope it’s alright. I’ll get to your WinterIron request when I get the chance! 

5. “Can I pet your dog?” “Do I know you?” 

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Clint is watching fondly as Lucky works on scarfing down the hot dogs that the ever generous Hot Dog Woman (he really needs to learn her name) gives Lucky every time they pass by her cart. 

He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns, fully expecting Natasha to be there, ready to rag on him for sitting in Central Park all on his lonesome, only to see some guy with shaggy brown hair and the most intense pair of eyes he’s ever seen. The guy’s handsome, he’ll admit, but he also looks like he’s about to ask Clint for some money and he’s only really got a few quarters in his pocket and--

“Can I pet your dog?” the guy asks, gesturing at Lucky. Lucky immediately breaks into a toothy grin at the mention of pets and quickly eats the rest of the hot dogs before straightening his back, tail wagging wildly behind him. 

“Do I know you?” Not that people haven’t approached Clint asking to pet Lucky before, but it seems like a reasonable response... or, rather, it’s what came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. 

“My name’s James, but my friends call me Bucky. Now you know me. Can I pet your dog?” 

Lucky barks then whines, tilting his head to the side and sending Clint a pleading look. 

This Bucky guy is nothing if not determined, and Clint can’t say he doesn’t respect that. He shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, yeah? His name’s Lucky, but be careful ‘cause he--” 

Bucky calls Lucky and is immediately bowled over by 65 pounds of excited dog, yelling in surprise as he goes down. 

“--really likes pouncing on people. Dude, you should’ve let me finish.” Clint puts his hands on his hips. “Lucky, off!” 

Lucky gets off of Bucky, quietly huffing, and sits on his haunches. 

Bucky sits up, slobber visible on his cheeks. He wipes it off with the sleeves of his sweater. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair, and Clint doesn’t know if he should tell him about it. “Wouldn’t have been the worst way to go.” Lucky insistently pats Bucky’s shoulder with his paw and gets rewarded with a few scratches behind his ear. 

“Cutest way to die for sure. Also, you’ve got a leaf in your hair. And, uh, sorry for Lucky. He’s easily exciteable.” He shakes his head. “My name’s Clint, by the way.”

“If you wanna make it up to me--” Bucky takes the leaf out of his hair, grimacing as he does so, and flicks it away; Lucky snaps at it-- “you could always let me take you out to lunch, Clint.” 

Clint stares at Bucky, dumbfounded. “Was asking me to pet my dog your sly way of asking me out?” 

“No. I really did want to pet your dog. What breed is he?”

“Labrador retriever.” 

“See. Those are cute dogs.” Bucky faces Lucky. “You’re cute, aren’t you?” he coos. Lucky’s grin stretches wider, his tail thumping on the ground. “And you--” now he’s looking back at Clint-- “are cute, too. You don’t gotta say yes. M’not trying to pressure you into anything, but what do you say?” 

“I’ve got no plans so, eh, why not. There’s a cafe around here that’s dog-friendly and not to brag, but I know the owner, so she might cut us a deal. Lucky likes her because she gives him pizza.” 

“I’m always down for dogs and discounts.” Bucky stops petting Lucky to get up on his feet. He brushes off his pants, laughing when Lucky gets up on his hind legs and sets his front paws on Bucky’s stomach, begging for more scritches. “Whenever you’re ready, Clint.” Bucky smiles, and goddamn, that’s a nice smile. 

“More than ready.” When they get home, Clint resolves that he’ll feed Lucky a couple of extra treats as thanks for introducing him to Bucky. 

[nazariolahela]

Best Beloved: Chapter 7

A/N: Hey y'all! This story is told in dual first-person narrative, from Kaia (F!MC) and Damien’s POV. The first half of this story takes place during Kaia’s freshman year and Damien’s senior year of college. The second half is two years after Kaia graduates. There will be sprinklings of canon in this fic, but we’ll try to step out of the box for the most part. Thanks for reading, and please leave feedback, and/or if you would like to be tagged.

Catch up here

Series Tags: @burnsoslow​​ @lady-calypso​​​​ @irishwhiskys-blog​​ @loveellamae​​

Synopsis: What happens when you find yourself crushing on your best friend? For years, Damien and Kaia have been friends, while secretly harboring feelings for one another. Everything changes one night after a little too much alcohol and years of pent up feelings. Can they control their emotions and salvage their friendship, or will the feelings they hold for one another destroy everything they have?

All characters are the property of Pixelberry Studios. Thanks for allowing me to borrow them.

Chapter Summary: One relationship progresses, while another comes to its end.

Kaia

“STRIKE! Suck it, Kaia!” Victoria shouted as her bowling ball struck all ten pins.

It was Thursday night at the local bowling alley — humorously-titled Split Happens — and my friends and I were hanging out for College Student Night. Nadia initially had the idea for me, her, Steve, and Hayden to double date, but, then I invited Vic and Drake, and it ended up being a group gathering. We invited Sloane, but she had other plans.

Hayden returned to our seats holding two drinks and a basket of fries. He set the fries on the seat in between us and handed me my drink. We’d gone out a few times since the night of the homecoming dance. For our first date, he took me to brunch at this cute little café off-campus. We talked for hours about everything from our favorite professors to our personal lives. He also told me stories about his dog, Dipper. We’d gone out three times after that, each date ending with a hug or a peck on the cheek, and a promise to call or text the next day.

“Your roommate is funny,” he said, grabbing some fries from the basket before shoving them in his mouth. I turned to where Victoria was sitting and saw her eyes glued to Drake’s backside as he bent over to pick up his bowling ball.

“She’s something. I got really lucky in the roommate department.”

He nodded. “Mine sucks. Wanna trade?”

“Ha! Not after the stories you’ve told me. I’m lucky Vic only brings Drake to the room when I’m not there. And no overnights, thank the gods.”

“Well, at least she respects your personal space. I found some lacy underwear in my bed last week. And I know they weren’t mine. Red is totally not my color.”

I laughed and reached for a handful of fries at the same time he did. Our hands brushed and I almost dropped mine at the contact. He looked down at the basket, then back up at me, and smiled as he popped the fries in his mouth. His tongue darted out to lick the granules of salt from his lips, and my eyes followed the movement. The two of us stared at each other until we were interrupted by Nadia slumping down in her chair next to me.

“You’re up, Kaia,”  she sighed.

I set my drink down and walked toward the ball return. Finding the pink and white marble ball, I slipped my thumb, middle, and ring fingers into the finger holes, hefted the ball up, and walked up to the foul line.

I stared up at the scoreboard and surveyed my status. It was the tenth frame and I was only six points behind Victoria, so I just needed to knock seven pins down and I’d beat her. We started the game out friendly, but she let her competitive streak get the best of her, and it ended up getting chippy towards the end. Naturally, Steve was smoking all of us. It was stupid how athletically gifted he was. Hayden was in second, followed by Drake, Victoria, then me. Nadia brought up the rear, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was too focused on swapping spit with Steve once her turn was up.

I pulled the ball close to my chest and lined up my shot. Inhale. Exhale. I swung my arm back, before propelling the ball forward and releasing it. It rolled down the lane, teetering towards the gutter. I squatted down on my haunches as the ball rolled down the lane, waving my hands as if my psychic powers could redirect the ball back towards the pins. The ball reached the pins and clipped the sixth and tenth ones, causing them to wobble, before toppling over and taking the ninth pin with them. I groaned. Shit. I had two more balls to get at least four pins in this frame.

Behind me, Victoria giggled. “I got this in the bag,” she loudly proclaimed. I whipped around and narrowed my eyes in her direction as she squeezed Drake’s arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t celebrate too soon. I still have two more balls this frame,” I said as I walked back to the return.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Hayden watching me. I turned my head towards him and we locked eyes. He smiled and took a sip of his soda.

“Any advice?” I asked.

He stood up and stalked towards me, his massive frame shadowing my much smaller one. He guided me towards the lane and stood behind me, positioning my body.

“The first thing you want to do is square your shoulders,” he said, placing one hand on each of my shoulders, straightening my posture. The touch of his hands burned through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.  “Then, when you go to release, keep your backswing moderately high, it will give you a modest ball rotation and your release will be smoother.” He dragged his hand down the back of my arm to my elbow, sending goosebumps all over my body. He hooked his fingers in the crook of my arm and pulled my arm back to mime the motion.

“Also, try to rotate your wrist clockwise. This will cause the ball to hook in the opposite direction so you don’t sink it in the gutter,” he said, wrapping his large hands around my tiny wrist, and rotating it. His fingers brushed the underside of my wrist ever so gently and I sucked in a quick breath.

“O-okay! I think I got it,” I stuttered, pulling my hand from his grasp. I slipped my fingers in the grips of the ball and narrowed my eyes at the seven remaining pins. I tried to ignore Hayden’s burning gaze behind me as I lined up my shot and released my ball down the lane. Everyone in our group fell silent as the ball made its slow (okay, maybe it wasn’t that slow, but it sure felt like it) descent down the lane towards the remaining seven pins. I heard Victoria gasp as the ball struck the front pin dead center and took out the remaining pins.

When the pin sweep dropped and swept away the discarded pins, I whipped around and leaped into Hayden’s arms. “You’re a genius!”

He chuckled and squeezed me against him. “What do you mean? That was all you! You kicked those pins’ asses.” He set me back down and I ran over and high-fived Steve, Nadia, and Drake. I plopped down next to Victoria and she rolled her eyes and held up a hand for a high-five, smirking as our palms connected.

“Yeah, yeah. You got me.” She looked over at Hayden, who was talking with Steve about gods knows what. “So, how’s it going with you two?”

“Things are good. We’re taking it slow. Getting to know each other. I really like him. He’s funny. And so cute. How’s everything with you and Drake?”

She visibly blushed, and I reached over to grip her forearm. “Vic! Tell me EVERYTHING!”

“He’s amazing. We’re together almost every day, and the ones we aren’t, we talk on the phone every night. I’m crazy about him, Kaia. Dare I say, I might be in L-word.”

Victoria and Drake had been seeing each other for about two months and it warmed my heart to hear that she was head over heels for him. I smiled and pulled her in for a hug. “Oh, Vic! I’m so happy for you. You deserve to be happy.” I pulled back and noticed her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just that saying those words out loud, it feels real.” She looked away from me and I followed her line of sight to see her staring at Drake lovingly. She quickly wiped her eyes and stood up from her seat. “Alright. Enough emotions. You guys wanna play another game?”

“I’m up for it if everyone else is,” I replied. The rest of our group agreed and we set up for another game. When it was all said and done, Steve won (again) followed by Drake, and Hayden. Victoria ended up finishing two pins ahead of me, with Nadia once again bringing up the rear. We gathered our coats and returned our shoes to the rental. As we stepped out of the alley, the wind picked up. I tugged my jacket tighter against me. These late-October temps were pretty unpredictable and I was thankful I brought a heavier jacket.

I waved goodbye to my friends as Hayden wrapped an arm around my shoulders and guided me to his car. He opened the door for me and I winked at him as I slipped into the passenger’s seat. I watched as he jogged around the back of the car and climbed in the driver’s side.

“You hungry? Wanna go grab a bite before I drop you back off at your dorm?”

“Sure,” I replied. He nodded then fired up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Did you have fun tonight?” I asked.

He turned slightly, keeping his eyes on the road. “I did. Your friends are fun.”

I smiled. “I’m glad you said that. I was worried about how you’d get along with them. They can be a little much. Especially my cousin and my roommate.”

He laughed. “Your cousin is a trip! And her boyfriend seems nice. Your roommate, on the other hand...”

I turned in my seat. “Why? What did she say to you?”

“Nothing bad. But she cornered me near the restrooms and asked me what my intentions with you were.”

“And what did you tell her?” I asked, amused.

“I just told her that I wanted to get to know you and see where things went. My intentions are pure. Nothing inappropriate. Yet.” He laughed and wiggled his eyebrows.

I smirked and shook my head as we drove. A few minutes later, we pulled up in the McDermots drive-thru. I ordered a McBurger while Hayden got the Wild-Style Double McDermot Deluxe burger. We sat in the parking lot and ate our food in comfortable silence.

When Hayden finished eating, he balled up his sandwich wrapper and turned to me. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Well, midterms are almost over, so I’m definitely catching up on sleep, but I can make time to see you. What did you have in mind?” I asked, throwing my wrapper in the take-out bag.

He smiled. “Well, we could go check out that new Keanu Reeves movie that hits theaters tomorrow if you like action movies.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Text me this weekend and we’ll play it by ear.”

He nodded and put the car in gear, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to campus. We chatted about midterms for the rest of the ride. When he pulled into the dorm parking lot, we exited the car and he walked me to my room.

“So, I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” I said as I unlocked my door.

I swung it open and stepped over the threshold of my room then turned back to him. He leaned one arm on the doorframe, staring at me with those dark eyes. “Looking forward to it.”

We stared at each other for several beats, then he leaned in and pressed a searing kiss to my lips. I froze at first, not sure how to respond, but then gave in to the kiss. I gripped his biceps to steady myself as the kiss grew deeper. After what felt like hours, he broke the kiss and stepped back. Both of us stared at each other as we tried to catch our breaths.

“Sorry. I had to do that,” he said.

“Don’t apologize. It was nice,” I replied.

He smiled and cupped my cheek in his palm. “See you,” he said, then strode down the hallway towards the elevator.

I slipped into my room and shut the door, leaning against the back of it. I brought my fingers up to my lips, still feeling his kiss. I couldn't lie, I did like it. Almost as much as I liked the one Damien sprung on me at homecoming.

What the... Why was I thinking about him? Things with Hayden were never going to progress if I kept carrying a torch for Damien. I groaned and flung myself onto my bed. I was in deep shit.

***

Damien

I walked in the door of my childhood home and sighed. I loved coming here. It made me feel like I was whole. I missed home. Even before my dad passed away, I made an effort to come back at least once a month. More, if needed. Stepping aside, I let Alana walk in front of me and guided her toward the living room. The smell of empanadillas wafted through the house as my mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen. 

“Is that you, mijo?”

“Yeah, Mama! Alana and I are here.”

She bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, then took my face in her hands. She pulled me down to her height and kissed my cheeks. “My boy! So good to see you.” 

She then turned to Alana and her eyes lit up. “Hello, dear. How are you?” she asked as she placed a hand on Alana’s shoulder.

“I’m good Mrs. Nazario. How have you been?”

My mother nodded “Good, good. It’s always nice when my children come home.” She patted Alana on the cheek and ushered her to have a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water’s fine for me,” Alana replied. 

My mother nodded then motioned for me to follow her to the kitchen. We entered and I spotted my youngest sister, Lucilla, leaning against the counter. “Dames! So nice of you to join us,” she smirked as she bit into an apple. 

I moved forward and wrapped my arm around her neck, pulling her to my body, as I rubbed my knuckles against her scalp. She grunted as the apple she was holding dropped to the floor. “Hi, sis. Did you miss me?”

Lucilla reached over and pinched my sides. I yelped as I released her from my grip. “How could I miss you when you never go away?” she said as she leaned over to pick up the apple. “Did you bring your girlfriend?” 

I looked to Mama, then back to her. “Yeah, she’s in the living room. Can you bring her some water?”

Lucilla rolled her eyes then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “That’s fine. We can catch up and talk shit about you.”

I swung my leg out to kick her, but she dodged me at the last second, laughing as she burst through the kitchen door to the living room. My mother chuckled to herself at the interaction. When my sister was out of the room she turned to me, smiling.

“How are you, my boy? School going well?”

I nodded, leaning beside her against the counter as she slipped the next batch of empanadillas into the deep fryer. “Yeah. Just finished midterms. I’m ready to be done already. Just gotta get through the rest of this semester and next.”

She smiled. “I’m so proud of you. Your father would be too. Just hang in there for a few more months. It will all be worth it. How is the internship going?”

“It’s great. I’m loving every minute of it. I think I’m going to pursue a career in Intelligence after graduation.”

Mama’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my boy! That’s so wonderful. I can see it now. My son will have a fancy government job in Washington D.C. I’ll never have to worry about you.”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. I hated hearing that my mother worried about me. Especially when she had her own heartache and my younger sisters to worry about. I wiped a stray tear from her cheek and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be alright.”

“I know you will. But it’s my job to worry about you. As long as you’re taking care of yourself.” She pulled the empanadillas from the deep fryer and set them on a towel to cool. Her eyes darted to the kitchen door and she lowered her voice. “Everything alright with...” she jerked her head towards the living room.

I sighed and dragged a hand down my face. “Where do I start?”

My mother wiped her hands on her apron and guided me to the kitchen table. “Sit. Do you want something to drink?”

“Rum if you’ve got it,” I replied. 

She moved over to the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of spiced rum. I smiled. It was my father’s favorite brand. She placed the bottle and two tumblers on the table and took a seat across from me. “Spill, my boy.”

“I don’t know, Mama. It just seems like our whole relationship is toxic. We barely spend time together, and when we do, we argue the whole time. She gets crazy insecure and accuses me of cheating on her just because I hang out with Kaia, and it-”

“Wait...Kaia? Kaia Park?” my mother interrupted.

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

My mother pursed her lips and stared at her hands. “I didn’t want to say anything back then, but I always wondered what happened between you two.”

“Mama, nothing happened between us. She was always too young for me. The last time anything happened was four years ago.” I purposely omitted the incident at homecoming, but my mother knew about the graduation party. She mentioned that Kaia seemed off in the days following, and stopped coming around the house after I left for college. It wasn’t until Nadia told Carina, who told Ma what happened, that she finally put two and two together.

“You were always smitten with that girl, no matter how much you lied to yourself.”

“Mama. It wasn’t like that. We’re best friends,” I said defensively.

“I know better, mijo. I watched you two when you were together. You looked at her like she was the only girl in the room. And she you.” She chuckled and took a sip of her glass. “You two were attached at the hip. I never suspected anything until that summer before your junior year. She came over one time when you weren’t home and your father found her hanging out in that treehouse. When he asked her what she was doing, she said she wanted to be here when you got back. He said he knew at that moment that you weren’t ‘just friends’ in her eyes.”

I swallowed a sip of spiced rum, the liquid burned as it went down. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean anything. She had a crush on me. I already knew that. But I never pursued her. She was underage.”

“Understandable. But do you remember your senior year of high school? When that boy she was seeing broke her heart? You went over to his house and threatened to beat him up if he even looked at her again.”

“Yeah, ‘cause she was my best friend and she was hurting,” I said.

My mother shook her head. “Guess how many times I caught you glaring at him while you watched them together? Every time he showed up at her house, you sat on that front porch and stared. If looks could kill, that boy would have dropped dead before he reached the front door.”

I twisted the tumbler in my hand. “I...I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything to me. You need to be honest with yourself, first and foremost. Then, you need to be honest with Kaia.”

The faint sounds of laughter came from the living room. I glanced at the door before turning back to Mama. “Won’t matter. She has a boyfriend. And I have a girlfriend. Who I love. And who’s sitting in the next room.”

My mother cupped my cheek in her palm. “Oh, mijo. You know I love you, and I want you to be happy. But that girl. She does not make you happy. I can see it in your eyes.”

Damn, she was good. How did moms always know what kids didn’t? “I have a lot to think about. But thank you for being there.” I sighed and finished off my rum, then collected both glasses and put them in the dishwasher. 

Mama brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed the top of my head. She put the bottle of rum back in the cabinet and went back to preparing dinner. “Go tell Alana and Lucilla that dinner is almost ready.”

I swung the door open and saw my sister and girlfriend sitting on the sofa, looking through a photo album. A bottle of wine sat open on the coffee table accompanied by two glasses. Alana’s water bottle remained untouched. “Hey! Mama said dinner’s almost ready, so go wash up.” 

Lucilla rose from the couch, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, okay.” She collected the wine bottle and glasses and retreated into the kitchen. 

I turned to look at Alana, who set the photo album down and examined her nails. “Did you and your mom have a nice chat?”

“We did. Were you getting my sister drunk?”

She laughed humorously. “It was one glass, Damien. And she’s not driving anywhere. It will be fine.”

“She’s only 16, babe.” 

I glanced down at the photo album which lay open on the coffee table. Photos of my sisters and me when we were kids filled the pages. I picked up the book and went to close it when one picture caught my eye. It was Nadia, Kaia, Carina, and I. I was maybe 17 at the time. We were sitting on the porch swing outside Kaia’s house. Nadia and Carina sat on the end, making funny faces, while Kaia and I were squished in the middle. My arm was slung around her shoulders, and I was gazing at her. Then, it hit me. I finally saw what my mother was talking about.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered under my breath. I looked up to see Alana eyeing me suspiciously. I opened my mouth to say something when my mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready. Come eat!”

Alana turned on her heel and stomped towards the kitchen. I closed the photo album and put it back on the bookshelf behind the sofa. I raked my hand through my hair and made my way towards the kitchen. This was going to be a long dinner.

A few hours later, Alana and I were on our way back to campus. We drove in uncomfortable silence for most of the trip. We were about 10 miles from school when she turned to me, breaking the silence.

“How long have you been in love with her?”

I swallowed. Welp, better to rip off the bandaid now. “I don’t know exactly. I guess I’ve been lying to myself this whole time.”

“And to me…” she trailed off.

“Alana-”

“Don’t, Damien. Okay? Just...don’t. I’m not an idiot. You know, I didn’t want to believe it, but the signs were right in front of me this whole time. The stolen glances. The emotional unavailability. I guess I thought you'd eventually get over whatever it was you felt for her. I’m just sorry that whatever we had wasn’t enough to keep you interested.”

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. “I’m sorry too. To be honest, I knew this relationship was doomed when you turned down my marriage proposal. I think I stuck it out, hoping you’d eventually change your mind. I wish we would have just called it quits then. It would have saved us both a lot of pain.”

She nodded. Neither of us said another word until we pulled into the campus parking lot. She reached out to open the car door, but stopped and turned to me. “For what it’s worth, I did love you. I guess it just wasn’t enough to spend forever together.” She gave me a weak smile, then got out of the car. I watched her walk away, a heavy weight lifted off of my shoulders. When she was out of sight, I got out and made my way to my dorm. 

When I got inside my room, I threw myself on my bed and sighed deeply. I knew breaking up with Alana was the right thing to do, but I still felt like shit about it. I needed to get some things off my chest and there was only one person I wanted to talk to. I pulled my phone from my pocket and thumbed through my contacts until I pulled up her name. I opened the text app and typed out my message.