#also threw a blanket over the crate so its dark for him and that seems to be helping too!!

[queercatboyrights]

exhausted,,,,cannot wait,,,,to sleep,,,,I have forgotten just how high energy puppies are

[live-the-fangirl-life]

Rainy Day Rescuer

Feyre Archeron x Rhysand - OneShot

Feyre gets locked out in the rain and fears she'll have to tough out the storm. That is, until a kind stranger opens his window.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language

2130 words

*******

Feyre’s favorite thing about her apartment building wasn't the location or the free parking—although she did love that—it was the rooftop.

She’d lived in the building almost a month before realizing she could access the roof. The padlock on the door was apparently for appearances only, and it easily came off when she pulled on it. She figured out how to rest it back on the door so that when she was out on the roof the door still looked locked to anyone who didn't know better.

So far, she hadn't run into any of her neighbors trying to share the spot, but she knew someone else used it. Normally, she came up here to paint or to think and look at the stars. The view from the roof was lovely; she could see the city center and all the lit-up buildings, and the Sidra river that flowed through it.

The first time she set up her easel, one of her paintbrushes rolled away, and when she tracked it down behind an old broken crate she found a book had been carefully tucked away behind it.

Feyre couldn't help it when she picked up the book to get a better look at it. She glanced around quickly before chiding herself, knowing that no one else was out there with her. She recognized it as some sort of mythology retelling. Feyre flipped through it, trying to find some name or any indication of who it belonged to. All she found was an old receipt from a clothing store being used as a bookmark.

Spotting her runaway paintbrush, she grabbed it and put the book back where she found it.

That wasn't the last time she saw that book, and it certainly wasn't the last time she lost one of her paintbrushes.

In the next few weeks, every time Feyre went out to the roof she looked for the book.

It was always in that same place, hidden away so it wouldn't be noticed. But every time she opened the book the bookmark was moved a little further along.

She also started noticing annotations written in the margins. Feyre tried to imagine what this person must be like. It was odd, but kind of fascinating to follow along with this person’s progress.

She tried to focus on the fascinating part, and not the part that made her feel a bit like a creep for peeping into this person’s thoughts.

Except, when she made her routine book check that night, it was gone.

Feyre tried not to feel too disappointed. Why was she so invested in another person’s book? But it had become a constant that she looked forward to, and now it was gone. She could only hope they would start another one.

She laid out a thin blanket and sat down to look at the stars.

She must have dozed off at some point because she was woken up by raindrops hitting her face. It wasn't heavy yet, but she could tell it was going to start soon.

Ignoring the drizzle, she glanced at her phone. Feyre groaned and sat up, rubbing her face.

“Ugh, okay Fey, let’s call it a night.” She mumbled to herself, sleepy and moving slowly. She packed the blanket in her large tote bag and went to go back inside. Pulling on the door, she stumbled back a step. She was too tired, her grip was already slipping.

Feyre adjusted the bag on her shoulder and pulled the door again.

It didn't move.

She gripped the handle with both hands and pulled, hard.

Nothing happened.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

Feyre was wide awake now. This couldn't be happening. Shit.

She threw her bag down and used all her strength to open the door she ultimately knew wouldn't budge.

Breathing heavily from the exertion, she stepped back from the door.

“Shit.”

The rain was beginning to pick up.

“Really?!”

Lunging for her bag, Feyre dug around until she felt her phone. Gripping it, she unlocked it and was about to find someone to call for help...but she had no service.

How could she not have any service? Oh, gods, she was going to be stuck out on the roof, in the rain, until someone decided to come out there. It could be who-knows-how-long until that happened.

Spinning around, Feyre caught sight of her salvation.

“The fire escape!” Beaming, she grabbed her bag and ran over to it. “You beautiful, fantastic fire escape, help me out.”

Feyre managed to climb down the four stories of stairs and ladders without slipping on the slick metal. Gods, wouldn't that be a sight? She’d slip and come tumbling down the rest of the way, providing free entertainment to whoever walked past the building’s back alley.

When she finally made it to the lowest landing she tried to lower the final ladder that would bring her to the ground.

Only, it wouldn't move.

“Come on,” she muttered, still trying to force it down, “Don’t do this to me. I’m so close!” Feyre looked down to see the drop. Cringing, she admitted it was farther than she trusted herself to jump without breaking something—most likely her.

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed across the sky. Feyre pressed herself against the building as the rain finally poured down.

“Seriously?!” She shouted up into the apparent waterfall above her head.

A knock from behind her startled her enough that she jumped around and let out a loud shriek.

“Um, are you okay?”

A voice came from a window set into the wall that she hadn't noticed before with a man’s face pressed up against it. Through the rain streaming down the glass, she couldn't tell if he looked more concerned or wary at her appearance.

It took her a second to respond.

“No.” She tried to shake the wet hair out of her face. “I’m not.”

“Are you trying to go up or down?”

Ah. He was probably worried she was just some random person who decided to hop up onto his balcony landing.

“Down.” She said, trying not to think of how bizarre it must be for him to look out and see a woman stuck outside his window, sopping wet.

This really wasn't how she wanted to make first impressions with her neighbors.

“I got locked out on the roof and tried to get down the fire escape, but,” she gestured to herself and the now downpouring rain that was making this conversation difficult, “it didn't really work.”

She hoped he would offer before she had to ask the insane request.

Thankfully he did.

His eyebrows shot up and he seemed to finally notice how bad the rain was. Hastily opening the window, he gestured for her to come in.

“Come in, it looks awful out there.”

Before she could think better of accepting the stranger's invitation to literally climb into their apartment, she picked up her soaking bag from the grate at her feet and crawled over the windowsill, quickly closing the window behind her to block the storm.

Maneuvering to a standing position, Feyre took a moment to take a breath and thank whoever was listening for her unexpected savior.

She turned to face him. He was tall, she would have to crane her neck up if stood much closer. And he had vibrant violet eyes that the artist in her wanted to study.

“Hang on a second.” He left her standing in his living room. Feyre looked around at the sofa and tv that took up most of the space, the bookshelf propped against one wall, and pictures of friends on the wall.

The man came back in with a towel in hand.

“Here, try this.” He handed it to her politely.

“Thanks.” She quickly wrapped it around herself, trying to dry off and stop shivering.

“No problem.” He looked like he was going to ask her something when something on the bookshelf caught her eye.

“It was your book?” She gasped, pulling the familiar volume from the shelf. Feyre whirled around to face the dark-haired man who was looking at her warily. “You’re the one who’s been using the roof!”

He stepped closer to her and gently took the book from her hands, casually flipping through it. Flicking his eyes up at her, he asked, “How did you know about my book?”

Feyre could feel her cheeks heating and she could've sworn a smirk made its way across his face.

“I, uh, found it one day.”

“You found it?” he asked skeptically. “I hid it behind some old box, how did you find it?”

At least he just looked curious, and mildly amused, and not disturbed at her snooping. Yeah, maybe it was tucked away, but anyone who tried for more than a minute could’ve found it, so she didn't feel as bad.

Drawing as much pride as she could muster when she was dripping water onto this man’s carpet, she huffed, “It was a crate, not a box.” He grinned and she went on, “and for your information, I dropped a paintbrush and it rolled over there. I found the book when I was chasing my brush. I don't actively seek out other people’s things to snoop.”

His grin widened as she explained and by the end, he was chuckling.

“And here I thought you just really wanted to get to know my reading tastes.”

She scoffed, but hid a grin, “Yeah, sure. I don't even know you.”

As she said it, she realized it was true.

Besides the fact that he lived in her building and was kind enough to let her in from the rain, she had no idea who this man was.

It seemed he remembered the same thing as he gave her a charming smile and held out his hand.

“You can call me Rhys.”

“Rhys?” She raised a brow. She’d never met anyone named Rhys before.

“My full name is Rhysand, but,” he paused to wink at her, “the people I like call me Rhys.”

Feyre rolled her eyes at his not-so-subtle flirting but met his hand with her own.

“Feyre. Just Feyre.” She held his gaze for a few more minutes before they both dropped their hands.

“Well, Just Feyre, I think I have something for you.”

Before she could respond, he vanished into the other room. He had something for her? What? Was this some other lame attempt at flirting?

She’d let him flirt if he wanted to, maybe she was a little interested to see what he’d try.

But he came back out to stand in front of her with one hand behind his back.

“Yes?” She tried to peek around him, but he angled his body away so she couldn't see what he was holding.

Leaning in close to her, Rhys said, “I believe that is yours.” With a flourish, he brought his hand in front of him.

“My paintbrush!” Feyre couldn't believe it. She looked back and forth between the brush and the man holding it, “I’ve been looking for this one. I lost it weeks ago! How do you have it?”

Rhys smiled broadly at her as she took it from his outstretched hand.

“I found it near the back corner one night, it must have just rolled away from you. It looked like it could blend right into the wall.”

Ceasing her inspection of the brush, shocked that she had found it—that Rhys had had it—she looked at him and beamed.

He blinked, almost dazedly, as he watched her smile.

“Thank you!”

Without thinking, she reached up and wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug. Rhys tensed, and at that moment Feyre remembered that she was still soaking wet from the rain. Wincing, she hastily pulled away before he had a chance to return her hug.

“Sorry. I got excited.” She glanced down to see the small puddle on the floor beneath her and cringed. “I should probably go.”

“Hm? Oh.” Rhys cleared his throat and nodded, “Right. You probably want to change into something dry.”

“Yeah.” They both stood there awkwardly staring at each other, not sure what to say next.

“Okay,” Feyre picked up her bag and took a step towards the door. “I’m just gonna...” She trailed off as she and Rhys pivoted around each other so that she was closer to the door.

He walked with her the last few steps, pausing when she opened the door and turned back to him.

“Thank you, Rhys. For the paintbrush, and for not making me stand outside like a drowned cat all night.”

His laugh made Feyre crack a smile.

“Anytime Feyre, darling.”

She smiled.

“Goodnight Rhys.”

He mirrored her smile.

“Goodnight Feyre.”

Maybe getting locked out wasn’t so bad, after all.

***

Taglist:

@allthebooksunderthemoon

@astra-ad-mare

@becarefuloflove

@bisexual-genderfluid-fan

@booklover41802

@charlizeed

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@danibutterr

@doubt-less

@emily-gsh

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@foughtconquered

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@hakunamatatazz

@i-have-but-one-brain-cell

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato

@jorjy-jo

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@live-the-fangirl-life

@mariamuses

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@miserablesmusings

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@stardelia

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@superspiritfestival

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@swankii-art-teacher

@tomtenadia

@westofmoon

@whimsicallyreading

[be-ace-write-crime]

Too Many Kitties!

“I had six cats… Now I have six nearly naked men in my house…” you summarized out loud, rubbing your temples.

The cats you adopted turn out to be magic hybrids and they are so glad to be adopted by such a sweet mistress! You're not sending them away are you?!

Reader x Cat hybrid Bucci gang!

Wish fulfillment, fluff, cat hybrids, poly ships, surprise adoption, reader insert.

You were driving home after a long day at work. Nothing was going right at all. You had received a promotion at work a while ago, which you were initially excited about, but it really just meant you were handed off a complete dumpster fire for a small pay raise and your cat was your only salvation in these dark times.

You were actually thinking of getting a second one to keep Leone company. You’d get one from the pound when you had a little more free time. You weren’t really picky about breeds or things like that, but you wanted something cuddly.

Leone you had found on a rainy day under a dumpster. You had carefully kneeled in the filthy puddle around it and reached out to him. The look in his eyes broke your heart and you ran home with the big, soaking fur ball. He’d not even struggled when you bathed him, although he certainly howled like he was being murdered. It took him a long time to want to be touched after that first night, but now he greeted you when you came home with a rub against your legs, headbutts when you fed him, and he slept on the foot of your bed.

Thinking about it, it was raining just like that day now. Only by now you had a car. You looked into the grim alley you had found Leone in nearly steering off the road when you saw what you thought was a crate full of cats there. You blinked at yourself, thinking that had to be some kind of mistake. Who would leave a crate full of cats in this weather? You needed to check.

That U-turn you made could have landed you in prison if anyone was around, but you drove back up to the alleyway and heard the unmistakable yowling of cats. The bottom of their crate had filled up and the wet, mangy looking little gremlins were pawing at the bars, begging to be let out of the small basin they were sitting in. You slapped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head.

“Oh, no, babies. I’m not letting you out into the street, but I’m not leaving you here,” you said, grabbing the crate and tipping it over until the water was mostly if not completely out. It was hard to tell with the wet, furry sponges inside and the pouring rain that had soaked your hair and clothes as well now. It wasn’t just a drizzle, it was bad. You moved your car closer and hauled the crate the rest of the way and by some miracle got it into the trunk.

You turned the heat up for all of you and drove home, cooing soothingly at the soft meowing in the back.

When you opened the door Leone was there, joining the chorus of meows all around. You were all kinds of tired though, kicking the door shut and opening the big crate. You tore off your wet clothes down to your underwear, because it was freezing and examined the cats more closely for the first time.

They were a mixed bunch. One was white with black spots all over and bright blue eyes, almost snow leopard like, but it was most certainly a kitty. It was the first to tentatively step into your apartment and let out a less offended or scared sounding meow.

There was another white one, this one looking like one of those fancy, purebred, long haired ones, and it had bright red eyes. That one in particular was pressed as far back as possible, hissing even. You couldn’t really blame it. Your transport here had been less than gentle.

Then there was the small back one with little patches of orange. It was small and scrawny, you could tell it would be even when it was dry, but it had the brightest, most adoring purple eyes you had ever seen. It stayed cuddled close to the spotted white one, getting it all wet again trying to shake off.

Then there was a very exotic looking one. It was long and slender, with bronze fur and elegant spots and tiger like stripes. It had cheerful brown eyes and was the first to start looking around, under loud, meowing protest from Leone.

The last one was a small, fluffy one with gold fur and a slightly lighter patch in the shape of a heart on his chest. It’s green eyes studied you inquisitively, before getting out of the cage and bolting deeper into the apartment, getting a loud yowl of protest from Leone, who gave you an accusatory glare.

“Sorry for the surprise, Leone floof… I couldn’t leave them out in the rain, could I? And I do feel bad leaving you home alone all day now, so maybe you can get along? I’ll put up lost cat posters and call in with the local shelter, but I don’t think they were left out by accident…” you explained sadly, scooping the big, silver grump into your arms. He was so warm against your rain chilled skin and he didn’t even protest, just kept staring down at the other cats imperially from his place in your arms.

First order of business was getting the cats and yourself dry and warm. You toweled off the spotted white one, the exotic one, and managed to give the black one a cursory ruffle with a towel before it bolted. The blonde one had hidden under your couch, looking at you quietly with its tail twitching restlessly. You decided to leave it. You also didn’t dare get near the long haired white one.

Next was food and you wanted to be sure they all ate so you split them into different rooms, as much as possible, with a bowl of wet food each. White one in the crate, Leone in the kitchen as usual, gold in the living room, spotted white in your bedroom, exotic in your spare room, and black in the bathroom. In the minute or two they were all eating you quickly changed into something warm and dry and comfy. Dry and comfy being the dumbass giant onesie in your favorite color that you only ever wore around Leone.

You ran around to let the cats out of the rooms and checked to make sure they had eaten. They had. You collapsed on your favourite spot on the couch. You threw your electric blanket over your lap and turned it on and laid out the other over the free space on the couch where Leone liked to nap. As expected, your oldest cat curled up on it, purring happily, and the other cats caught on quickly, flopping down on either Leone’s blanket or you while you browsed your phone and decided tonight was a takeout kind of night.

The long haired white one came trotting over eventually and you slowly held out your hand to it until it dared come close enough to be lifted onto your lap. It was still kinda wet, but you could ignore that for now. The gold one peeked out from under the couch, still damp and sad looking as well, and you tried to reach, but it already hopped onto the couch and laid down on the backrest, watching you with its big, bottomless emeralds for eyes.

“I’ll probably have to name you all something, huh? Hmm…” You mused, holding the hissy baby still in your lap. It needed to dry up a little and you knew you’d never be able to pin him down with a hairdryer, so this was the best place for it. “You can be Pannacotta. Like the desert~” she told him.

The exotic looking one meowed as if to say they wanted to be named next. “Alright, you… Guido? Do you like that?” The cat meowed affirmatively and looked at the gold one.

“How about Giorno?” you asked the blonde kitten. It showed no outward response, but it didn’t seem to object. About what you could expect from a cat.

“You can be Arancia, with those bright orange spots~” you told the black cutie. Right away it seemed to meow something like the name and you laughed. “Narancia? Would you prefer that? Okay, it actually sounds cuter that way. Good call!” you laughed.

Last was the spotted one. You struggled with a name for a bit, thinking of a few and dismissing them. “I really like the name Bruno, but you’re a white kitty,” you eventually said. You’d already gotten kind of fixated on the name for him, assuming he was even a boy. You hadn’t checked. The spotted cat purred and came to cuddle up to you, which had to be the clearest consent you could get from any feline. “Alright, Bruno it is!” you agreed, snuggling with your new cats until the food arrived.

You didn’t feel like staying up late or doing much the rest of the evening. You checked a few missing pet sites and set a reminder in your phone to call the pound during your lunch break tomorrow. You were starting to hope no one was looking for them, because these kitties made you happy beyond belief in just one night, even if you felt a little bad for Leone now. However, strays don’t end up in a giant travel crate together and most of these cats looked like very expensive breeds.

You left the heated blankets on the couch on a low setting and quietly went to bed while the cats slept. Only Leone got up to follow you, as he normally did. You got in bed and he made a soft mewl that drew your attention.

“What’s wrong, Leone?” you asked softly, smiling as he rolled onto his back and exposed his soft little cat belly submissively. He’d never done this before and you giggled and rubbed his belly in slow reassuring strokes. “Don’t worry, baby. Someone’s probably busy looking for them right now. I don’t think I can take care of that many cats anyway. I’m too young to be an old lady with six cats, right? You’ll always be my favorite, Leone. Just don’t tell them, yeah? Kitty promise?” you whispered softly, smiling wider when he purred and cuddled up against your side.

The next morning you tried to feed all your new cats their wet food the same way you had the day before, but Giorno had somehow made it to the top of your bookcase and was not coming down. Panna had taken his spot under the couch and was similarly unmovable, and Narancia and Guido were both hovering by your door, ready to make a break for it.

You had a kibble feeder set up, so you fed Leone so he wouldn’t get grumpy and set out a bowl of special cat milk your first cat didn’t care for. It did catch the attention of your other cats, who were more interested in it and satisfied you hadn’t left out the new kitties food wise you got showered and dressed for work.

“Be good babies! I love you!” you called out, already excited to come home to your sweet cats tonight. You forced yourself not to get too excited. You also forbade yourself from shopping for an extra big litter box and collars and cat beds, because you already knew that the second you got a call about the owner being found you’d be heartbroken.

During your break you called a few of the shelters near you, reporting what had happened. They all recommended you take them to the vet to check for a chip, which you agreed to do. You booked an appointment at the vet and with gritted teeth you begged for the time off from your boss. He was not happy, since you were still in charge of a shitshow from hell and your predecessor had left a mountain of work to be sorted out for you. You were entitled to that time off though, so you got your vet visit, under the condition you worked some overtime again, which you already expected.

It was getting dark by the time you were on your way home and while you were happy there was the slight underlying anxiety your new babies might have demolished your home in your absence. You had no way of knowing if any of them had spraying issues or if they might need a special diet. Leone was a very clean and neat cat, who’s only messes were his litter box and some shed fur that couldn’t be helped.

There was also the chance they might have fought for whatever reason and you quickly forced that thought out of your mind.

You would come home and there would be six lovely kitties meowing hello and wanting food and you’d all cuddle on the couch together and you’d be alright.

You opened your door and were shocked by the smell before anything else. It wasn’t the smell of cat pee or blood, which you were happy about, but it smelled like food. Like pasta with red sauce, to be precise.

Okay… maybe your mom had come over and let herself in and made you dinner? It was unlike her to do that, especially unannounced, but it was the only semi-reasonable explanation you could come up with until a stranger came walking out of your kitchen.

“Mistress, you’re home! Bellissimo! Leone said you’re usually home sooner, so we were getting worried-”

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?!” you yelled. You didn’t want to be rude, you really didn’t, but you did not know this man and he was standing in your hallway, wearing nothing except your girly white apron that you rarely ever used. The man was of medium build, tan skin and a black bob cut, with two black cat ears perched almost cutely on the sides. You weren’t sure if the not knowing or the almost naked part disturbed you more.

A few seconds later you would discover it was in fact neither of those things that bothered you most, it was that apron man wasn’t the only under dressed intruder in your house! “You don’t have to yell. You invited us in,” a tall, lean, brown haired male with leopard spotted cat ears said, coming out of your living room wearing a pair of your hipster panties with a leopard print that matched his ears and at this point you were groping behind you for the door handle.

“Vecellio is next door...” you said, thinking these guys were probably friends of your neighbors who let themselves in. Did you not lock the door? Did they find your spare key? Did they not realize they were in the wrong house?

“That’s… nice? But I don’t think that’s got anything to do with us,” apron man said.

“You’re home~!!!” a small, black haired boy yelled, coming down the stairs in a bright orange mini skirt that you had only worn for Halloween once. He looked like he wanted to come up and hug you, but your indignant yelp stopped him.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?!” you demanded, tucking yourself way back into the corner.

“Chill, you didn’t have any guy clothes. Just thought it’d be more polite to put something on than to greet you with our dicks out. We’ll take ‘em off if you want,” leopard print said, already hooking his thumb into the panties he was wearing.

“N-No, keep that on! That is not what I meant!” you said quickly.

“If she’s home, does that mean we can have dinner now?” the black haired boy in the skirt asked.

“Not yet, Narancia. I think our new mistress needs a little more explaining,” the first said, beckoning you further into your apartment. By now two more guys had appeared. One was wearing the bottoms of your strawberry print pajamas and more egregiously, holding your laptop! The other only had a white sheet around his waist like he belonged in a renaissance painting, which quite frankly, would not be wrong.

“You're damn right I need a fucking explanation!” you snapped, already at a point where you were willing to overlook the mistress part of that statement when you realized something that had you ready to escalate this situation from potential battery to potential murder. “Where are my cats?!”

Around the corner at that very moment came your big, silver fur ball and you exhaled a sigh of relief, getting down on one knee to pick him up quickly.

“Hey, Leone,” you said, considerably more calm, only for the sweet but distant tomcat you’d had for over a year to transform before your very eyes into a tall, naked, silver haired man with an impatient scowl, with you still kneeling at eye level with exposed groin as he cocked his hip and crossed his arms.

“Now will you make them leave?!” he asked.

[nukyster-blog]

Changing Course Chapter 29) Bird of nightmare

.-.-.

“I am the youngest offspring of Ragnar Lothbrok, the most famous Viking who ever lived,” Ivar spoke, pressing the back of his head against the board that separated the boxes. After his disgraceful meltdown, he felt the need to overcompensate and in all honesty, his royal blood seemed like his last resort. 

Piglet paused her knitting, she’d been trying to patch the destroyed potato sacks together, giving him a long bug-eyed look that she eventually broke off to continue  her work. 

Ivar couldn’t tell if she believed him or not, but she wasn’t mocking him yet, so he continued: “he was a king, a legend. And I was destined to be at his side, to die, by his side-” he paused and let out a long deep sign, “-but I failed to do so. It displeased the Gods, so now I’m here. With you, enslaved and ruled out of dying with dignity. Which means I will either die an unworthy death, or of old age, which I highly doubt. Doesn’t matter though, both won’t grant me access to Valhalla. Which means I will never see my father, nor my brothers and mother, again.”

In the shimmer of twilight, it was hard to see, but Piglet’s eyes slowly welled up with tears and although she furiously rubbed her face, it was evident she’d been touched by his revelation. 

It again brought Ivar back to the great puzzle that was Piglet, the still nameless slave maiden who time after time surprised him with the tricks up her sleeves. 

But before Ivar could reminisce about Piglet’s past, the maiden jolted up and dropped the bags.

“UTSTOTT!” She exclaimed, and hastily started to move her hands through the blanket of hay. Ivar could feel the color drain from his face and cursed himself for not thinking about the tiny white raven sooner. 

Piglet hurried to pick up her broom and started sweeping the shed, while Ivar scanned every inch of his box with his eyes and hands. He checked everywhere, inside his trough, underneath the loose planks of the floorboard, and clenched his jaw when he noticed all the ripped pieces of potato bag. What if, during his fit of rage, he’d ripped off the hatchling’s wings as easily as he’d destroyed the tough fabric? 

“Seek upstairs!” Ivar ordered with a voice that skipped a few beats, when Piglet returned empty handed from her search. 

What if he stomped it? What if he killed it? 

Ivar swept away hay and scraped his palms over the sandy floor until his box was empty. 

“He vanished”, Piglet mumbled sorrowfully, as her search upstairs had been fruitless as well, “maybe you scared him off and he escaped?” 

Ivar threw her an annoyed glance and motioned to the door, “we’re locked up, he’s small, but not small enough to pass through the door’s lock!” 

Ivar shoved his trough aside, turned over a bucket that lay in reach and checked the floorboards again all while Piglet pushed and pulled herself through cattle.

A soft caw made both of them freeze, the sound was almost inaudible and sounded from far, far away. But it was there, dull and muffled, as if there was a thick wall in between them. 

Ivar covered his ears, trying to locate the side the sound was coming from. A caw echoed from the attic, but the moment Ivar wanted to scold Piglet for being such a lousy seeker, the sound stopped and traveled downstairs, over the boxes and ended underneath Ivar’s floorboard.

  Ivar’s mouth dropped; because that featherless chick could in no way possible travel so fast on his own. He’d seen it wobble through the shed, there was no way those naked feathers could carry his weight. 

Piglet must have realised that too, because the slave maiden glanced around the corner of Ivar’s box with huge eyes, shock written all over her face. 

Ivar didn’t know what held him back and eventually decided it could not be fright when he pulled up the plank of the floorboard. Expecting Utstott to be seated on top of his humble treasury; woodcarvings, nails, the knife and sling, Ivar’s face went completely blank when the baby bird wasn’t there. 

A caw came from up close and Piglet let out a petrified shriek, hastily moving down at Ivar’s side. Casting anxious skyward glances, she pinched Ivar’s shoulder and huddled close to him.

“Voodoo!” she whimpered and cried out when a high pitched caw blared right over their heads. Ivar froze and could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He recalled his first weeks inside the shed; how he’d battled fever and the mare riding his chest. He also recalled vividly how he’d witnessed his father being devoured by a flock of ravens. 

When he regained strength, he simply brushed it off as feverish dreams intensified by the mare. Yet, during the feverish days, he’d been staring into the shadows, petrified to register tarred feathers and beaks inside the darkness of the shed. 

A gust of cold night’s air made the pair duck their heads down, instinctively Ivar shoved Piglet down to the floor and reached for the knife, although he highly doubted it would do any damage. 

The cawing continued and it started to frighten the animals inside, for they could sense the unnatural atmosphere. 

To make matters worse, Piglet’s body went completely limp, only to abruptly shoot into a series of spasms. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me”, Ivar hissed through his teeth and hastily dragged the young woman onto her side so she wouldn’t choke on her own tongue. Her eyes were all white while her limbs convulsed in quick and odd motions. 

Piglet’s unconsciousness made Ivar feel utterly alone and exposed. Raising the knife in his fist, he held his breath- all while holding onto Piglet’s chin to prevent her from banging her face into the floor. 

Another caw cackled through the shed; it didn’t come from one side, no- it seemed to twirl in circles. 

It was then and there that Ivar realised he could either whimper as a coward or face the unknown abomination hiding inside the shadows. 

“SHOW YOURSELF!” Ivar roared, rising up to his knees and puffing his chest out. 

‘What are the odds of survival?’ Ivar asked himself. He was in chains, crippled, and his only ally lay in a seizure down on the floor. 

As an answer, the cawing evaporated and all went quiet inside the shed, aside from the soft frightened noises of the animals. 

Ivar’s eyes darted through the room, scanning all shadows and dark corners. Surely, this couldn’t be the end of it? 

A small beak appeared from around the corner of his box, causing Ivar to withdraw and land on his arse. To keep a slice of his dignity, he struggled back onto his knees and watched the tiny hatchling hop over Piglet’s makeshift line. There was a bit of smugness in his strutt as he blinked a couple of times; one eye glazed and milky white, the other a vibrant blue. 

“What are you?” Ivar whispered, pulling Piglet close and keeping the knife raised above his head. 

Utstott tilted his head, puffing up his humble feathers as he hopped toward Ivar. Like a half naked, fluffy ball, Utstott inched closer and closer. For some reason, Ivar sensed that the bird knew he’d be able to kill it, yet that  didn’t stop him. Utstott didn’t fear Ivar. 

Inch for inch, Ivar lowered the knife until he placed it down onto the floor and reached his hand out to the hatchling. 

Contentment seemed to beam from the tiny creature as it seated itself into the palm of Ivar’s hand. 

“What are you?”, Ivar wondered, calmer this time as he watched the bird peck at its own feathers, “what are you?”.

.-.-.

Piglet and Ivar did not see eye to eye; the slave maiden was convinced Utstott was ‘black magic’, an evil creature summoned from Jahannam, a place of blazing fire and the final destination of sinners. 

Despite  Piglet’s conviction, Ivar still couldn't put his finger on what Utstott actually was, and decided to keep him. 

Utstott sided with Ivar, with a raspy caw the bird sat on his shoulder and refused to leave that spot. 

“Fine”, Piglet eventually settled, “but you lock it up!” 

So, Ivar forced a deeply insulted Utstott inside a crate and placed his trough on top of it. He highly doubted the bird would remain inside of the makeshift cage, but it calmed Piglet’s fear.

Another day of scrubbing started and with that, rain started to pour down. Usually the task was pointless, now it was simply a joke. Ivar spent the first few hours of dawn soaking wet; his hair became one with his face, wetly draping over his bone structure. Muddy water splashed up everytime someone hastily passed him, hurried to find shelter inside. 

Oh, but Ivar continued his pointless task, gritting his teeth as the Giant watched him from the doorway. The large man stood with  crossed arms, contently watching his slave from up high and dry. 

Another dreadful and overall wet day ended and Ivar’s knees soaked the hay as he was returned to his shackles. The moment the Giant left, Ivar plucked at the cuff of his tunic and hastily peeled it off; he wasn’t cold per se, spring had been kind to him today. But removing the soaked fabric from his skin felt like a blessing. 

Piglet silently picked up his clothes and hung them out. Throwing a few blankets to his side, she paced around the shed for a few moments before casually mentioning:

“I think Utstott died”, as she watched how Ivar’s face fell, she quickly added: “he didn’t make any sound all day”. 

Ivar’s eyes shot to the crate and he crawled toward it, picking it up, he shook the wooden box. He didn’t hear the sound of Utstott’s aggravated caws, nor did he hear a tiny limp body toss and turn. 

“He vanished again”, Ivar explained as he showed Piglet the empty crate, “see?”. 

“By Allah…”, Piglet’s voice faded as she stared in shock at the emptiness inside the crate. She faltered down onto her knees and started a prayer: “Bismillaahir-Rahmaanir-Raheem . Qul 'a'oothu birabbin-naas . Malikin-naas . 'Ilaahin-naas . Min sharril-waswaasil-khannaas. Allathee yuwaswisu fee sudoorin-naas. Minal-jinnati wannaas”. 

Ivar simply rolled his eyes and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders: “don’t be such a wimp Piglet, he did not do anything harmful to us”. 

“That’s easy for you to say!” Piglet snapped through her prayer, “you’re Viking, you’re religion is an interplay of wickedness and bloodshed. The place you call ‘hell’ is a simple wasteland for the weak. My version of hell is an endless circle of pain and suffering and I will not put my soul on the line for your demonic bird!”.

Perfectly on cue, Utstott came teettering from underneath Piglets skirts, causing the slave maiden to scream bloody murder. Jumping onto the tips of her toes, she tried to kick the little hatchling.

Utstott managed to avoid Piglet’s toes and quickly ran toward Ivar for safety. He made one final jump, flapped his little wings, and landed onto Ivar’s lap. 

“Hamar! Idiot! Thick-head!” Piglet cursed him, as Ivar clapped his hands and started laughing. “You’re damming yourself! I won’t be a part of this!” 

Ivar continued laughing and shook his head as Piglet barged up the stairs to the attic. Petting the tiny bird, he watched Utstott puff up his feathers and close his beady eyes in content. Later that night, Piglet eventually moved to Ivar’s side, instead of remaining upstairs. The fear of the danger that lingered outside of the walls of their shed victored over the fear she held for the little white raven. 

.-.-.

A/N: For those of you who’d like to be refreshed, I highly suggest you re-read chapter 5; ‘Eaten Alive’, that’s the chapter where Ivar’s fever gets the best of him and he sees his father being devoured by ravens. 

Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I’m very curious how you feel about Utstott.

Xoxox Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane The tagged ones:@youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax @saldelys​ @shannygoatgruff@pieces-by-me@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa@readsalot73@lauraan182 @conaionaru@sarahh-jane@peachybonelessIf you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

[bgn846]

Of Snakes and Men - FFXV Fanfic

Summary: Ignis gets kidnapped by a maralith during battle. However, when Ignis thinks he's about to die the maralith does the last thing he expects.

Work Text:          

Being crushed to death by a huge, monster snake was not how Ignis wanted to die. He’d only tried to help the glaive standing nearby when the thing attacked. Unfortunately, that meant Ignis had become the maraliths target instead. Memories of Noct’s gruesome childhood injury flashed through Ignis’ mind as he was lifted in the air. One pair of massive arms was solely focused on holding him while the other two pair kept fighting.

With his arms pinned down in the maraliths strong grip, Ignis quickly gave up on the idea of summoning his daggers. He’d most likely end up slicing his leg open and bleed out before anyone could save him. If they could save him that is, the situation wasn’t exactly looking hopeful.

What was supposed to have been a simple diplomatic trip outside the wall had quickly turned into a nightmare. None of them had been expecting a giant pissed-off maralith to appear and block the road. At least the prince was safe; Noct was at the citadel safe with the king. Though that thought did little to help Ignis now.

A loud boom sounded a second later causing Ignis look down; one of the glaives on the ground had set off a smoke bomb. Unable to escape the billowing cloud of gas Ignis began choking. Six, it was bloody tear gas. His throat burned but maybe it was having the same effect on the maralith. Wiggling experimentally, Ignis tried to push away the massive hands locking his body in place.

To no such avail, he was stuck, and breathing was becoming a real problem. During his coughing fit, Ignis barely registered the loud roar from the monster.  Guess it didn’t like the gas either. The thing just had to let him go, the fall would hurt but he’d be free of the blasted maralith.

However, that is not what happened. His lungs were burning and he couldn’t see properly due to the gas making his eyes tear up. Then, the only thing his senses were aware of was the dizzying effect of moving too fast. The gas mercifully lifted, but that wasn’t a good thing either. The maralith had simply fled the fight with Ignis still in his clutches.

Still unable to catch a decent breath Ignis tried again to work his way free. This time the maralith noticed and growled. Everything was blurry but Ignis was conscious of the landscape changing. Were they heading up a bloody mountain cliff?

The distant shouts of the glaives soon faded, replaced by howling winds. Suddenly, the light dimmed and they were surrounded by darkness. Ignis was going to die, he’d been captured by a monster and it’d taken him away. His vision was still clouded, but he realized the maralith had gone into a cave. Crying out in a desperate bid for life, Ignis wondered if he could reason with the monster.

Hope flickered in his chest when he felt the monster set him down a moment later. Taking his shirt to rub at his face, Ignis attempted to wipe away the tear gas residue. The sting was still great and he gave up after a few seconds, he needed relief but couldn’t see well enough to do anything more. That’s when he heard splashing water. Reaching out with his hand he immediately felt the icy touch of water.

Without pause, Ignis shoved his glasses up on his head and lurched forward to clean his face. Finally, the burn was going away and he could see something. The cave was nearly pitch black, aside from dim light coming from above. There must have been another entrance further up the cave wall. For now, all he could make out was the freshwater pool at his fingertips and the hulking shadow of the maralith twenty yards away.

The monster was scrubbing at his face and throwing water over its head. The thing was apparently unaffected by the freezing waters. Realizing this might be his only chance to get away Ignis scrambled to get up. If he could make it back to the entrance maybe he could slide down the cliff face. Wishing he’d been able to master warping like Noct, Ignis stumbled forward grasping clumsily at the rock sides, he couldn’t jet away to safety so easily.

He’d only made it a few feet when the maralith noticed. There was a loud shout followed by the sound of sloshing water. Ignis didn’t want to look behind him; he knew the monster was coming. Speeding up his pace caused Ignis to slip on the wet rocks. Managing to stay mostly upright he continued on, he had to try to escape.

Taking another step resulted in his foot slipping again, this time into the icy waters. Cringing at the sensation Ignis quickly stood up, however, the loose stone underneath his feet merely shifted further. A sickening crack was all that prepared him for the rock face giving way and sending him into the dark freezing pool.

The shock of the water temperature instantly numbed his senses as he sank into the depths. The pool was a lot deeper than it seemed. It took a few long seconds for his brain to kick into gear, he needed air. This is when another terrifying aspect of his current predicament came to light. His ankle was trapped underneath something. Something heavy, like a fucking rock.

It was becoming harder and harder to think as he struggled to free himself. Pulling at his leg did nothing to help, he wouldn’t last much longer. The lack of air was making his lungs burn, and just as he felt the world fading away something grabbed his leg.

--

The smell of burning wood was the first thing Ignis became aware of as he slowly woke up.  Prying his eyes open a second later caused his heart rate to double. Colorful scales of blue, green, and black were all around him. A makeshift wall of giant snake tail was looming over him. Suppressing the urge to yell he looked around. Maybe he could still escape if he kept his wits.

However, his brain was slow to catch up as he worked to control his breathing. Not only was he partially surrounded by the maralith, but he was also laying on it too. A smooth scaly pillow of sorts cushioned his head, and there was one under his knees as well. Then, when he noticed that most of his clothes had been removed, Ignis actually whimpered. Being covered by a blanket had prevented this fact from registering properly. He was well and truly fucked.

That’s when he started violently shaking; he was going into shock all over again. This of course alerted the giant snake-man to his troubles. A huge figure soon appeared hovering over him.

“Nocere tibi, movens subsisto,” the monster said in what Ignis was sure was a concerned tone.

Stunned by hearing him speak Ignis merely lay there with his mouth moving but nothing coming out.

“Adiuva me,” the snake man uttered softly.

Curse exhaustion for making him sluggish. Ignis was certain that the language being spoken was something familiar. In an old, ancient, lost civilization kinda way.

“Frigidus es?” The maralith asked.

Cold, that word he knew. This monster was speaking ancient Solheimian. What in eos was happening? Still unable to form a coherent thought Ignis waved his arm around helplessly.

The maralith tilted its head and spoke once more. “Frigidus es?”

“Uh, no, I’m not cold, erm, ego n-non frigus,” Ignis added when he finally remembered some of the old language. He’d studied it in college, all for Noct of course, for when he would go find the royal arms. Now was as good a time as any to use it, what little he could recall.

Surprisingly, the maralith smiled at the admission and turned to point at the brightly burning fire a few yards away. Squinting into the flames Ignis thought he saw crownsguard issue supply crates. Looking into the cave further, along the wall, Ignis spotted a rather large stockpile of crownsguard goods. This maralith had been pilfering supply trucks for months according to reports he’d read. Assuming their small convoy of cars wouldn’t interest the maralith had been a poor decision.

The fact that it’d been stealing goods also played a part in Ignis’ survival at the moment. Otherwise, he’d be freezing to death on a cold stone floor. No blanket and no fire. His shaking had subsided slightly when he understood that he wasn’t going to get killed. At least not right then and there.

Swallowing down his fear he attempted to remember what had happened. He was confused as to why he was still alive. He’d been drowning in a freezing pool. If the lack of air hadn’t gotten him then hypothermia surely would have set in. That meant the maralith had saved him. Even building a fire to keep him warm and removing his wet clothes. Which he spotted drying by the fire, laid out with care.

None of this made any sense. “Why did you help me?” Ignis asked as he rolled carefully onto his side. Curling into a ball made his body feel warmer.

“Non volunt occidere.”

Taking a deep breath Ignis worked to figure out the words. Something about kill, but it also had the word no. “You didn’t want to hurt me? Is that what you are saying?” he tried, hoping the maralith would understand.

When the snake man nodded and smiled again Ignis felt dizzy. He’d been kidnapped and rescued by a monster. “What are you going to do with me? I’ve got to get home.”

“Prima cura, reliqua opus.”

Those words were good, heal and rest, but then what after he’d done that, what did the monster have in mind? “Will you let me go?”

This time the maralith pouted and heaved a heavy sigh. All three pairs of arms were crossed in defiance across his chest, but after a moment he let them fall to the side and nodded.

“Do you have a name?” Ignis asked looking up at the monster. His human half had long dark hair and his eyes almost looked like amber in the firelight.

“Invocabunt me Gladiolus,” he answered with a slight bow. “Et vos?” he added gesturing towards Ignis.

Wondering if giving out his name would cause any issues Ignis threw caution into the wind and answered. “Ignis.”

The maralith, Gladiolus, became excited and pointed to the fire again. “Bonum nomen, tam pugnare tecum.”

Blinking stupidly Ignis worked to translate what he’d said. Gladiolus had complimented his name and told him he fought well. Guess this was a start to not becoming snake bait later. He was about to add more when a loud trilling noise filled the space. Gladiolus growled and immediately pointed to the clothes drying by the fire.

“Malum est magna!” he exclaimed.

Struggling to sit up Ignis wondered if he could drag himself over to his jacket to answer his phone before Gladiolus pounded it into dust. The maralith saw him move and immediately held out one massive hand to push him back. Ignis went to protest until he noticed Gladio grabbing the coat with one of his many other arms.

Holding out in front of him, Ignis searched the pockets for his phone. Surprised it was still working he scrambled to hit the answer button. “Hello! Don’t hang up I’m here!” he cried out.

“Ignis?! Thank the astrals, are you hurt? Where are you? I’m gonna rescue you! Can you walk?” The voice attached to the rather long list of questions was Noct. Ignis was sure he heard his voice crack over the line. He’d been fearing the worst.

“Noctis, I’m alright, please calm down.”

“I was so worried!” Noct breathed out in a rush. “Hey! He answered!” Noct shouted a second later to someone else in the room. “I told you he wasn’t dead!”

The phone sounded like it was being handed off before another voice came over the line. “Ignis, are you alright? What’s your status?” Cor asked in obvious relief.

“Uh, I’m unharmed,” Ignis offered.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Not really, let me ask,” Ignis paused and looked over to Gladiolus. “Might you let my friends come get me?”

Gladiolus narrowed his eyes and pouted again. “Fortasse…”

“Otherwise, you’d have to help me get back down the side of this mountain.”

“Ego auxiliatus sum,” he answered quickly.

“Ignis, who are you talking to?” Cor asked in a high-pitched voice.

“Gladiolus, the maralith that kidnapped me and then saved my life when I almost drown and caught hypothermia.”

“Huh, and you didn’t hit your head or anything?”

“Marshal, I’m well beyond my comfort level at the moment, so I’m trying to find a silver lining where I can.”

“I think I heard the word for help from your er, friend.”

“As did I, what do you suggest I do now?”

“Find out when he’s gonna let you leave and we’ll be waiting. We know the general area you should be in.”

“That doesn’t sound hopeful.”

“Silver lining Ignis,” Cor replied. “Are you sure you feel safe? I don’t want this to be our last communication from you.”

“I’ve already asked if he intends to kill me and he said no, correct?” Ignis added as he again caught Gladiolus' eye.

“Tutum, noli commoveri,” he rumbled authoritatively.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but it appears I’m safe, with the maralith.” Ignis could feel his body starting to shake again. None of this was normal.

“Save your battery and call again when you have more information.”

“Yes, of course.” Before he could hang up Noct came back on the line sounding a lot like he’d been sniffling.

“I don’t like the idea of you still being lost out there. You sure you’ll be okay?” The prince asked.

“I hope so Noct, try not to worry. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, love you specs,”

For Noct to tell him that, meant he was truly rattled. Taking a calming breath Ignis answered kindly. “I love you too.”

The call disconnected shortly afterward, leaving Ignis with more feelings than he anticipated.  Setting the phone down he was surprised to see Gladiolus frowning at him. “You said you’d let me go, did you lie to me?” he checked with worry.

Instead of answering the question, Gladiolus asked one of his own. “Quis est? Amans tui?” the maralith almost looked hurt.

Thinking fast Ignis wracked his brain for what the words meant. Gladiolus wanted to know who he was speaking with and the other word amans that was familiar. Dear six, he’d asked if he’d talked with his lover! “No, no, uh frater, frater meus! My brother!” It was the best way to describe what Noct was to him, they’d practically grown up together.

Gladiolus sagged with obvious relief and smiled again. “Bonum! Tu es amans mei.”

“What? What did you just say?” Ignis checked, he could feel the blood in his body not doing its job. He was getting lightheaded and feeling dizzy. “What do you mean?”

The maralith only grinned at him, “Amans mei.”

Love me? What was he saying exactly? Then in a flash he remembered the saying, used so often in old ancient love poems. Amans mei, my lover. Groaning at the implications Ignis flopped back down on his back. Great, he’d attracted the attention of a maralith. Moving his arm Ignis weakly pointed to his clothes. “May I have them, I’d like to get dressed now.”

--

Staring out over the lip of the cave mouth was making Ignis’ mouth go dry, they were very high up, no wonder the glaive were unable to follow him when Gladiolus took off earlier.

“Curam,” Gladiolus said as he silently slithered up beside him.

That word Ignis knew the meaning of now, Gladiolus kept saying it even though he was fine, mostly. “I’m being careful,” he huffed.

Gladiolus pointed down and shook his head.

“I won’t fall.” Thankfully the maralith didn’t comment further while they waited. Ignis was looking for the convoy of glaive coming to get him. He’d managed to figure out his location once Gladiolus let him see outside. Apparently, he’d been very upset about seeing Ignis with a limp. Getting stuck underneath a pile of rocks will do that to a man. There were no potions in the armiger, and Ignis didn’t want to worry Noct any more than necessary by calling and requesting one.

Finally, when the trail of dust appeared on the horizon Ignis knew his friends had arrived. “It’s time, you’ll not attack, correct?”

Gladiolus shook his head and smiled. “Tutum.” The man’s smile was disarming, considering what it was attached to.

“Yes, as you’ve mentioned already, several times. You’ll forgive me if I’m slow to believe.”

“Tutum,” Gladio repeated, “Safe.”

Turning wide-eyed to the maralith Ignis waited to see if he’d say anything else. “Can you speak English?”

“No.”

Licking his lips Ignis couldn’t think of how to counter that statement. No was a pretty easy word to learn. “How will I get down?”

The maralith pointed to himself and held out two of his hands. Oh no Ignis was meant to be carried. Something about being trapped in the monster's grasp was a little heart attack inducing.

“Hurt, I hold,” he added slithering forward.

Ignis couldn’t help but yelp like a little kid when Gladiolus picked him up a second later. “Curam!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, careful.”

“You know English, you sneaky bastard!” Ignis huffed.

“No.”

Sighing in defeat Ignis had no time to prepare himself when Gladiolus slithered past the edge of the cave entrance and slide down half the mountain on his belly. Ignis was sure he screamed. He hollered when he road rollercoasters, this was no fucking different!

When they came to a stop a minute later Ignis found he was clutching Gladiolus' thumb for dear life. “Can you warn me next time?!” His brain caught up to what he was saying; there wouldn’t be a next time. He was going home never to see Gladiolus again.  Somehow that thought didn’t make him feel good.

Gladiolus gently placed him on the ground and hovered briefly while his knees stopped behaving like jello. Once stable he walked a few feet away and turned back. “Will you kindly stop attacking our convoys?”

The maralith shrugged and looked away.

“Please?”

The nod he received was almost imperceptible but it was there. Nodding back in acknowledgment Ignis waited to see if he’d say anything else.

“Et iterum autem videbo vos?”

Ignis heard something about see and the word again.

Oh.

“Are you asking if we’ll see each other again?”

Gladiolus nodded rapidly.

Taking a deep breath Ignis found himself uttering the most insane idea he’d ever had. “I could teach you how to speak English if you’d like.”

“Yes!”

“You know it already though, liar.”

“No,” Gladiolus tacked on with the most shit-eating grin Ignis had ever seen plastered on a monster’s face.

“I mus--.”

“Ignis! Are you alright?” Cor’s voice asked from behind him.

“Marshal! Thank the six, yes!” Ignis replied spinning around quickly. Running over Ignis stumbled, due to his bruised ankle, and promptly fell into Cor’s arms.

“I gotcha you’re safe,” he added while hauling him upright and slinging Ignis’ arm over his shoulder.

A worried shout from a nearby glaive alerted Ignis to the current situation. Gladiolus was right there scowling at Cor, his demeanor stiff and intimidating. “Amans?” He fumed.

“NO!” Ignis shouted. “You’re terrible, “Frater, dammit, frater!”

Instantly the maraliths face softened and he backed away. “Amans?” he asked again while gesturing to the crowd of glaive on guard.

“No, I don’t have amans.”

That blinding smile came back followed by a phrase, Ignis was learning, gave him heart palpations. “Tu es amans mei.”

After a few awkward minutes of trying to not say goodbye, because who did that to a monster, Ignis hobbled away with Cor supporting his weight, he was going home. Once they were safely in the car and on the road heading back to insomnia Ignis allowed himself to look out the back window. He could see Gladiolus making his way back up to his cave.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem pale.”

“A giant half-snake man told me I’m his lover, Cor. How do you expect me to be?” Ignis could tell Cor was trying not to laugh. “I understand things could have ended much worse, but I don’t have a clue what to do next.”

“First things first, you rest.” Cor rummaged in a bag nearby and produced a potion. “Take this and drink some water. Let us do the rest okay.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Ignis broke the potion bottle and felt his ankle heal. Nursing a water bottle Ignis let his mind wander. Would he come back to teach Gladiolus English? He’d not exactly promised to do so, but wasn’t his word good enough? Perhaps having a maralith as an alley would be a good thing.

[whirlybirdwhat]

East Sea of Monsters - Chapter 19

Thatch loves his new brothers, but something is stalking him in the dark and its not friendly. Also ft. the spade pirates

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Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and author’s notes, especially warnings for content within the fic!! Tag “Ficart” on my blog should also show some fanart and podfics for this fic, as well as the link to translations! give them some love! 

- 

Thatch - Paranoia

There is something on the ship. Thatch doesn’t know what it is or what it looks like, or even if it's corporeal, but he knows one thing.

One.

Thing.

And that is that this creature is trying to eat through all of the Moby’s food stores, one meat slice at a time.

He laments such claims to Marco and Ace, who are training on deck.

“It’s horrible! Absolutely horrendous! I woke up this morning to three – three, Ace, three! – carvings of that sea king from yesterday gone! Gone! And I have no idea what’s causing it, and I’m 99% sure it’s stalking me!” He flails dramatically out, but dead serious in his words. There’s been something in the shadows of late, something he can’t sense with his haki, and little (and not so little) scratches outside his door at night. He’s not the sort to be serious about personal danger, so he explains it as best he can.

Through jokes.

Ace laughs at him, throwing his head back and mirth clear in his eye.

Thatch is proud of him, their newest brother of only two months. He’s going to be second division commander in a week, not that he knows it yet, and Thatch is just so, so proud of him.

He’s so far from the angry creature that stalked around deck and threw himself, with the intent to kill, at Whitebeard every day.

In the sunlight, without the shadows of his usual hiding places, Ace looks even happier than before.

(Thatch could give a description of him, talk about his freckles or the way he smiles, but feels like anything he could say could never truly describe, well, Ace. His eyes are never truly the color Thatch think’s they are and his smile is just so pointy in certain lights, that Thatch often jokes about his feral nature.  But, more than these oddities is the way Ace looks ashy and cracked when he suddenly pops into view and his smile too wide and skin covered in darkness and his fingers tipped in sharp edged claws.

It’s nothing, supposedly, just figures of the mind but Thatch wonders when it seems like Ace is burning from the inside out and not because of his fruit.)

Marco swipes at Ace for getting distracted and then gives Thatch a look. “Have you tried trapping it? Stalking it back?”

He doesn’t ask are you sure it’s even there because Thatch knows it has been clawing at Marco’s door as well.

(Deeper gouges, the scent of ash at sunrise, different from the cooling unburning flames of the phoenix.

And Marco hadn’t noticed it with Haki either)

Thatch huffs, flopping further on the crate he’s using as a table. “Yep. Pulled three all-nighters and tried three different types of traps in the galley, and only wound up with paranoia and giving Jim from Third Division a broken toe.”

Marco winces at that, because getting that means you go down to the infirmary, where their medical staff’s age is ten times worse than any injury.

(They seem to have a soft spot for Ace – Thatch doesn’t know if it’s because Ace is stupidly polite to them, or just makes this confused look when they imply they should be the ones to help his injuries.

Ace tends to go to Deuce more often, (something about fire proof bandages?) but still, the soft spot is there. Thatch has used Ace to get out of trouble for kitchen injuries once or twice.)

“Have you tried bait?”

“Yeah.”

“Ambush?”

“That’s what the all-nighters were for.”

“Asking for help?”

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

“How about- “

Before Marco can give another useless bit of information, Ace cuts in. “Have you tried just, hunting it?”

“Observation Haki isn’t working on the thing.” Thatch explains, casting aside the idea.

Ace’s brow furrows, as if Thatch is an idiot. “I never hunted with haki, you don’t need it.” There’s something more to his frown, something sharp peeking out, but Thatch dismisses it.

“Yeah? You want to try then?” Thatch challenges him.

“Sure, it’s been a while.”

And that’s the start of it.

-

Thatch leaves Ace to his hunting, trusting that he’ll get the work done or give up trying, but that doesn’t stop him from curiously observing his new brother.

“Doesn’t that hinder your grip?” Thatch asks, referring to Ace’s right hand.

“Hm?” Ace says from his position at the top of their storage hold’s rafters.

“Your right hand.”

“Oh! Nah, I’m used to it. Say, pass me the turkey?”

“To eat or for bait?”

“Uh. Both?”

Thatch laughs and almost misses the way a part of Ace’s body seems to sink into the rafters. He tries to ignore it, he really does, but he can’t even tell if he saw it in the first place.

What.

Ace notices his stares. “Thatch?” He asks in that concerned voice of his, which sends all sorts of guilt up Thatch’s spine.

“Uh, nothing!” He searches for a new topic. “How’d you lose it, anyway?”

Shit! Not like that! Could be sensitive you dolt!

The ever present watching invisible creature seems to agree in Thatch’s mind.

Ace’s body (which gets all fuzzy, save for the tattoos, when Thatch stares to long, which he associates with the flame-flame fruit) is missing a crucial part.

“My pinky?”

His right pinky is a stub, stretched with scratched scars, like teeth dragging over skin that didn’t sink in on the hand until the base.

(Thatch is growing increasingly concerned as he swears he saw those marks glowing, he did, he did but he can’t say anything, can he? He can’t mention how the pinky stub itself has something dark around it, like a promise, like a curse, can he, without seeming insane and untrusting?)

“Yeah.” Doesn’t seem to be a sensitive subject, because Ace looks down at his missing finger with a grin.

“Just something that happened when I was a kid. Accidents happen when you live where I lived.”

“And where did you live?”

“A bandit den, for a while.”

“What.”

“Then a trash heap, just for a bit. Place was fun, lots of fights.”

“What.”

“Built a treehouse too though we grew out of it.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Ace looks confused and it would be funny if it didn’t…

“This explains so much, oh hell.” Thatch rubs a hand over his face. No wonder Ace is half feral, it’s a miracle he learned manners at all. He ignores Ace’s face and changes the subject. He’ll wait till Ace brings it up with the others, then he’ll tease him about it mercilessly.  “You done?”

“Yep! If your little thief is who I think it is this should catch ‘em.” Ace looks proudly at his contraption in the rafters – a bed of blankets with a few slices of meat in a bowl.  “Can’t believe I didn’t know he crept on here the bastard. Should have known anyway.”

“Wait, you know who-” Thatch is interrupted by a deep mrrowh? Coming from his left. He turns, catches a glimpse of Ace smiling, and is greet with the vision of an absolutely monstrous cat.

It looks like a lynx with simply monstrous fangs – but that’s the thing. It only looks like it and the way its eyes are wide and unseeing… well…

“What.” Thatch says as Ace makes a delighted noise.

“Kotatsu you little bastard! There you are! C’mere.” The lynx flies into open arms and suddenly Ace is holding a cat almost twice his size. That’s wearing pants. “Have you been stealing from Thatch?” Kotatsu, as Ace calls him, swipes at Ace’s face, smushing it to the side. A faint burning smell fills the air but Ace appears unconcerned, so Thatch lets it slide in favor of staring at the cat.

Upon noticing, Ace smiles at Thatch and tells him “This is Kotatsu! The Spades’ Cat. I thought he was with Skulls and Banshee on Moby Four, but no, you like stealing my food, don’t you? Bastard.”

Ace shoves his face into Kotatsu’s fur and is almost consumed by the fur that… that doesn’t really look like fur.

In fact, a lot of things don’t look like they are when dealing with the Spades.

“I’ll take care of him, making sure he doesn’t steal anything else.” Ace’s voice is strangely unmuffled as he walks away, Kotatsu in his arms and trap untouched.

Thatch stares dumbly and feels the sense of oddness washing away.

What?

God, he sounds like a broken record.

But now that the mystery of the stolen meat is gone…

A new mystery arises.

How the hell did that cat hide itself?

-

Thatch can’t sleep at night, now that he knows the watching feeling is Ace’s giant pet cat, which is too large to fit in any shadow yet still stalks him.

Something is up with the Spades pirates. All of them.

(It’s in the way Ace laughs or fights or exists on deck. His eyes are never the same color, his teeth a tad too sharp in certain lights, and his tattoos, emblazoned on his shoulder and back by Deuce’s skillful hand, have an unworldly shine to them

It’s in the way there is ash left in his footsteps soot where his fingers grip a tad too tight. Looking at him, directly, it’s like there’s a burning sense to eyes, like Thatch is looking directly at a blinding fire.

It’s in the way Deuce never takes off his mask but his entire face reacts a little too late to what he is saying, like he’s a second behind himself, like he’s a fault mask at work. It’s in the way Banshee lives up to her name and Skull’s skulls are always different but look a little too real for the odd horned shapes they have. It’s in the way everyone gives Finamore a wide berth but he’s less than five feet and the way Saber’s hat has five holes on either side, same as Ace. It’s in the way they all grow blurry when the sun goes down but no one mentions it, and the way Ducky Bree’s eyes aren’t ever exactly eyes.

The crew loves Ace, loves the Spades, for they are brothers and they won’t ever not love them, but they shy off, sometimes, when the dark is a bit too dark for anything normal.)

Thatch is going to find out what, because while the rest of the crew may chalk it up to Grand Line madness (a crew of misfits, the newspapers said) Thatch, and the other commanders, and some of the old hands of the crew who were around in Roger’s reign, know better.

What are you, Ace, really? What’s going on here?

He starts talking to the other Spades more often, trying to find out what’s going on, only to be met with laughter.

(Deuce’s mask shifts when he laughs, as if it’s not used to making that expression. He turns his head to fix it and Thatch swears his face slides forward just a bit, like it’s not even his. Its dark, under there, and it's gone for a second, but Thatch can’t stop staring.

He doesn’t talk to Deuce for a while after that.)

“Thatch,” Mihar says, tipping his hat up. “Be careful, won’t you? There are things you do not want to learn.”

Thatch doesn’t heed the warnings and backs off from Mihar too. But the rest of the Spades? Thatch is going insane.

He can’t explain it, he really can’t, he tries to tell Marco and Izo and everyone but he can’t explain anything beyond “It’s off.” His throat locks up when he tries to speak about Deuce’s face or Finamore’s presence or the way Banshee walks through counters in the kitchen and he thinks he’s going insane.

Kotatsu waits outside his door in the morning, and Thatch see’s agonized faces in his fur.

(Save us, they seem to scream voicelessly in inky black non fur (wasn’t Kotatsu brown?) Save us from this -)

He shuts the door before they can finish, and doesn’t come out till Ace starts making noises at Kotatsu to move.

-

He keeps quiet about it to others aft that, but now Ace seems to have caught on. He smiles at Thatch, baring sharp teeth and pricking him with too sharp fingers. When they slump together at drunken parties Thatch feels the point of something poking into his cheek.  

Ace is Thatch’s beloved little brother but he can be a little shit sometimes. Especially when he takes his giant cat around (which Marco avoids like hell and is the source of Thatch’s amusement if not for the fact that Kotatsu keeps stalking him.) and rides the thing, leaving sharp gouges (in the Adam Wood deck) everywhere he goes like a king on a carriage.

(Thatch is sure the beast grown and shrunk twenty different time since it showed up. He doesn’t know how big it is, truly, only that Ace can ride it and carry it.)

He’s no closer to figuring it out than when he started, just more horrified.

-

As always, Pops has the answer, if in an unconventional way this time.

The sky is dark as the Moby battles in the midst of a hurricane. Some upstart pirate, strangely strong, had taken to attacking the ship.

Pops was impressed at his tenacity at first, then caught him throwing crewmates who objected over board. Then that impressment quickly turned to anger.

Now, in the middle of the storm, Pops was taking no chances to prolong the battle especially with the predictableness of a Grand Line’s storm.

Conqueror’s Haki cut through the air like an executioner’s sword, dropping everyone on the opposing ship dead. Thatch didn’t particularly care what happened to them.

But, for a second, Thatch’s eyes were opened.

(The Veil was gone, raging at a King’s force in which it could not fight.)

There was Ace, fire and volcanic ash in the rain, horned and glowing and made up skin just barely holding together some force. His eyes shone as did his tattoos, red in the light but shifting to blue as he watched. The necklace around his neck was floating wrapping around him with soft power as Ace raged with a sharp tooth grin across the deck.

Next to him, Deuce stood, if that was the word, tall, limbs bent and strange and his face…

Deuce didn’t have a face. Only a smile made of knives.

Hot breath went down Thatch’s neck.

Kotatsu, Thatch knew without seeing, K’oltqevo.

(The name comes in whispers)

He doesn’t look back. Ever.

(The Veil hides what should not be seen and not a soul knows why.

But, occasionally, it is so the world doesn’t fall for what it doesn’t know.)

Lightning strikes and Ace is ‘human’ again but Thatch knows what he saw.

-

He can’t come up with an explanation. He can’t. Thatch tries summoning stuff in the basement only to have Kotatsu land on him, maps out conspiracies, places where the Spades might have turned into this, this whatever it is.

Kotatsu laughs at him in that cat way of his, and Thatch is suddenly very afraid of how often Ace insults the lynx looking thing to his face.

(Little bastard, Ace affectionately says, coaxing Kotatsu to leap at Marco, who is more skittish now because he too saw the truth in that storm, Come on, get em.)

Thatch has gone insane.

-

Whitebeard laughs when Thatch tells him his theories.

“You’re brother,” Whitebeard says, “Is a true son of the sea. Tell me, what sea does your newest brother hail from?”

“The East- Oh.” Thatch remembers now.

His father, the one he was born to, had toured the world with him, but never went to the East.

“Son,” He had said, “The devil lives in that Sea.”

Guess it was literal.

(The whispers now, of Garp and Roger and Ace and Dragon, seem a bit more literal now, a bit more terrifying. Monsters, they were called, demons.

But who could have guessed it went beyond mere power?)

“Could’ve explained that from the start.” Thatch grumbles, though he knows no more now other than that the East Blue is a demon sea.

Whitebeard has a twinkle in his eye, and thinking back to the battle he had with Ace, Thatch wonders if he knew it from the start.

(After all, wouldn’t Whitebeard know better than anyone? Demons attacking you in the night (Ace, tenacious bastard, had attacked at all times) would alert anyone to the truth.)

“Where’s the fun in that?” Whitebeard rumbles. “Treat him kindly. This is his home.”

Thatch squawks. “Of course! He’s my brother!” Pops knows that, he knows, he’s just teasing.

He waves goodnight to his father and avoids Kotatsu’s giant tail in the hallway.

Brothers, we are brothers.

Ace smiles, the world darkens, and Thatch wonders what else he can’t see in the dark.

[foxtophat]

I SAID I WOULD UPDATE TODAY and i meant it!!! so here is chapter 5, which marks the end of my “mostly written out” chapters. honestly i had to basically rewrite this one already so i guess last chapter was the last one i had mostly done.  we’re in uncharted waters here on out, boys!!!

this chapter is actually the one that sort of galvanized me to write the story in the first place. i had the first 2 chapters in idea form, and then i had the plot for this chapter sprung on me and i knew i had to make this shit happen. so that’s what i’m doing, even if it’s self-indulgent trash, it’s MY self-indulgent trash!

i’m so grateful that there are others out there who are enjoying reading this fic as much as i enjoy writing it! i hope to keep going forward with the plot (such as it is), and there’s only... i think 2 other chapters that are just going to be about john and the ryes. the rest of the story will actually have other characters in it!!! which is fun, right? it’s not like nick’s friends are going to be offended and upset over john surviving, right???

below the cut is the text of this chapter, in case you don’t feel like going over to ao3. if it doesn’t fuck up your aesthetic, consider giving that lil reblog button a tap, but otherwise don’t sweat it! we’ll see each other next chapter, i’m sure :)

The whole "keeping John as a prisoner" thing starts to fall into routine around the two-week mark. It only takes a few days for John to learn to be awake by the time Nick comes in, dressed and ready to eat quick. A few days later and he's finished clearing the first story out, surprised when the job comes to an end, as if he'd really thought all Nick needed from him was a few days of house-cleaning. Joke's on him — Nick and Kim find no shortage of tasks for John to complete, which he does without complaint. He might scoff at some of the requests, but that doesn't stop him from obediently doing as he's told.

They use John to repair the roof, board up the lower windows and reinforce supports. He drags heavy debris from the house, separating the useful from the useless under Kim's watchful eye. Nick puts him to work repairing the fences that have already blown down after less than a year. One day has him scaling the side of the house, and then the next, he'll be literally down in the dirt.

Sometimes, John can work all day before Nick has to tell him to stop; other times, he'll only manage a few short hours before he looks ready to collapse on the spot. Nick suspects he isn't sleeping enough, but that doesn't mean he's getting out of anything. He has work for John even when he can barely stand up straight, like pulling screws from old shed siding and sorting through boxes of random components. The little, nearly pointless chores that have gotten put off solely for being too trifling make perfect work for an exhausted ex-cultist.

There are times, sure, when John acts... weird . He'll be solemnly working one minute, then jittery and distracted in the next. Sometimes, he'll get... uncomfortably obedient, meticulously following instructions and standing helpless when he's not being actively told what to do. But you know, even Nick's favorite drill had a wonky power-cord and a quirky backspin. He's used to making the most out of old tools like John Seed.

Two weeks is about as long as they can keep Carmina away from home while John is working. It's Kim who caves first on the issue, as they hit a wall coming up with things to do out of the house. It's easier to teach Carmina at home, for one thing. She can't get distracted or attacked by a wild animal while learning how to read or being taught history or math. There's also the fact that winter is coming on soon, and being outside all day simply won't be feasible forever. And anyway, it's safer to have two sets of eyes on John, in case he decides to pull something.

Neither of them are sure what to tell Carmina. They'd done their best to teach her about their history, but growing up in the bunker had kept her from understanding just how bad things had been. She knows about Eden's Gate, the Seeds, her godparent — but it's just a series of fables for her. She's touched Nick's scarred chest with wide-eyed wonder and hugged them through their night terrors in a way a child should never have to comfort their parents, but everything else is hearsay and tall tales. Now that they have the culprit living on their land, working for them — how are they supposed to explain that to her?

It turns out not to matter all that much. Once Carmina sees the man that's been secretly living in the house with them, she almost immediately loses interest. John had been a mysterious figure, someone her parents refused to talk about around her, but it looks like his gaunt appearance, heavy beard and long, scraggly hair has dissolved the mystery pretty promptly. Carmina takes one good look at John as he pries stripped screws from an old crate, wrinkles her nose, and turns back to homework. She doesn't even ask why he's working all the time, who he is, anything . It's such a strong dismissal that even Nick feels the burn.

It's a good thing John isn't his old, charismatic self, or else they might be dealing with it differently. The last thing Nick needs is for him to put a bunch of weird ideas in his kid's head.

Fall is dead and gone before Nick knows it, and winter sweeps in all around them. It's colder than it used to be, and the days are painfully short. It doesn't take long before the morning frost becomes all-day frost. The radio chatter these days implies that most of the county has gone into hibernation mode, bunkering down and preparing to wait out the season. From what Nick knows of living above-ground, the past winters have been literally killer. It's a lesson that everyone seems to have learned by now.

Nick is surprised by the first snowfall, although Kim has been expecting it for days now. It isn't much, barely enough to cover the ground with powder, but it's enough to bring all four of them inside before dark. Nick watches John like a hawk as he sorts out different screws from different projects, keeping him seated on the stairs while Kim and Carmina get into an argument about the use of multiplication tables after the apocalypse. Nick doesn't really see the point either, but then again, he was easily ten years old before he understood his times-tables.

For the first time, Nick doesn't bother to lock John away before dinner, letting him stay on the stairs to eat. First, though, Nick has him drag the large, makeshift cover across the back porch. It's not bad for a piecemeal DIY job Nick threw together in an afternoon, but it's heavy as shit and it completely buries the lower floor in darkness. Their sole oil lamp isn't enough to completely dissipate the gloom, but at least they can see what they're eating. John, sitting at the edge of the ring of light, eats slowly, casting furtive glances at the darkness.

The night turns from chilly to bitterly cold, which is enough to encourage everyone upstairs. Kim and Carmina become professional bed-makers, knowing exactly which blankets should be used to cushion the dirty mattress of the bed and which ones are best for bundling up in. Lately, Carmina's been really into nest-styled sleeping, which has its benefits during the coldest season of the year. Nick can't say he minds getting to cuddle with his family all night — come springtime, the heat will set back in and Carmina will start kicking all the blankets off again. Before long, she's gonna need her own space, and then Nick can kiss this cozy winter set-up goodbye.

Nick doesn't need to goad John into moving. He slips off the stairs before Carmina and Kim pass him, hovering by the support beam and staring at Nick expectantly.

"Well?" Nick asks, gesturing, "Get going."

John hustles up the stairs, shuddering in his borrowed coat. Nick follows behind, pistol holstered and oil lamp raised to give them all some light to work with. Kim is already lighting the bedroom candles by the time Nick reaches the landing, while Carmina has begun meticulously organizing the bed to her standards. Nick can see them both from the doorway as he marches John to the spare room, turning the cold room cozy just with their presence.

John doesn't wait for Nick to order him into his room. He goes willingly, eagerly even, quick to bundle up in his rough blankets. He doesn't even notice Nick watching him from the doorway, pulling off his shoes like he's eager to climb into his homemade bed. The room is practically a freezer, which might be because Nick hasn't bothered to properly board up the windows in here. Wind whistles through inch-wide gaps, sucking out the body-heat Nick is hoping to share with his family.

"You gonna be good in here?" Nick asks, absolutely hating himself for his burst of pity. "Not, uh... too cold, or anything?"

"I guess we'll find out," John replies, shrugging the concern away.

"Guess so," Nick echoes unhappily, shutting the door with every intention of locking John in there like Schroedinger's Jack Torrence. But locking the door doesn't put his concerns entirely to rest. As Nick returns to his room, to Kim and Carmina climbing into a bed full of blankets and tanned hides, he finds himself wondering if John couldn't use an extra blanket or two.

Kim catches him watching and raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay?" she asks, knowing full well that he's probably over-thinking this whole "prisoner" thing again. She's been patient as hell with all his worrying. Nick really doesn't wanna find her limit.

"Yeah," Nick replies, "Of course it is."

Carmina pulls a well-worn copy of The Wizard of Oz out from under the mattress, handing it to Kim for her to flip to the right page. "Is John cold?" she asks, frowning skeptically at her dad. "Is he allowed to have more blankets?"

"What?" Nick asks. She stares back expectantly, until Nick shakes his head and says, "Of course he's allowed to have... I mean, he hasn't asked for any..."

"Don't worry about John," Kim says, gently chastising both of them as she puts an arm around Carmina's shoulders. "Come on, we're almost to the flying monkeys."

It's easy for Carmina to forget about a guy she's never so much as said "hello" to. For Nick, it's a bit more of a struggle. He tries to pay attention while Kim and Carmina take turns reading passages, but they've read this damn book at least a dozen times. Granted, they only have so many books appropriate for a girl Carmina's age — it's either this or one of Nick's old Hardy Boys novels. Thankfully, as the three of them curl up under the covers, Nick gets warm enough to fall asleep, putting John out of his mind at last.

——

Nick wakes up with a few less blankets than he started with, his teeth chattering as he curls under the remaining deerskin. Kim and Carmina are huddled together to one side of the bed, having absorbed the other blankets he'd fallen asleep under. If he wants to get them back, he's probably going to have to wake one of them up.

If he's cold, then John's probably freezing.

Jesus, he's barely awake ten seconds before he's worrying again! This is ridiculous But... his concerns aren't entirely unfounded. John doesn't have the benefit of shared body-heat and excessive bedding — Nick's not sure he'd even count the blankets he does have as bedding to begin with. And — well, he's been doing everything that they've told him to, without bitching or half-assing anything. It's only fair to reward him for good behavior, isn't it?

"Kim," Nick hisses, nudging her until she grunts something like his name in response. "I'm, uh, gonna check in on John."

"Why," Kim groans quietly. One hand slips out of the blankets to cover Carmina's ear, in case she isn't still dead asleep. "It's cold, come back to bed."

"That's why," Nick replies. "He's got to need another blanket."

"We've been waiting for him to die for weeks," Kim mumbles, "Can't you just let mother nature do her job?"

"It doesn't feel right," Nick whispers. Kim sighs in response and he immediately backpedals, sure that he's finally found the end to that seemingly infinite supply of patience. "I know, we've been more than fair, I should just ignore it, it's dumb."

Kim shakes her head. "No, that's not it. I mean... you're right. It's not like I..." Kim pauses, belatedly waking up enough to check that Carmina is still asleep before admitting, "It's not like I want to be the one to bury him, you know?"

Nick does know. He'd been assuming he'd be the one doing that part. "Could always leave him for the wolves," Nick offers half-heartedly.

"As if they'd want any of that ," Kim scoffs, tired enough to be offended on the hypothetical wolves' behalf.

"Look, I'm only gonna give him an extra blanket. It's the bare minimum. Not because we feel sorry for him or anything."

Kim nods, checking Carmina once again for any signs of secretly listening. Thankfully, Carmina sleeps like a fucking log. "Yeah," she agrees. "It's so we don't feel sorry for ourselves."

John is awake when Nick goes to check on him, and he looks fucking miserable. He's trembling, wrapped up in a poor attempt to conserve heat, although he manages to keep his teeth from chattering after Nick opens the door. Nick was right to worry; it's even colder in here than he'd expected. The gaps in the boarded window are wide enough to wash the room in pale moonlight, which just makes the whole room feel even more frosty and alien.

All at once, the blanket he's about to offer doesn't feel like it'll be anywhere near enough. John probably won't freeze to death, but there's a good chance that he might not be healthy enough to fight off the chill. If he gets sick again, that'll be another week or so where they'll be feeding John for free.

"You cold?" Nick asks, hoping that pointing out the obvious will earn him a comeback that'll dim his sympathy. He needs to not feel bad for a man who's tortured and murdered too many people to count. He's a fucking monster, a psychotic maniac. So what if he's cold? So what if he can't sleep? So what if he freezes to death?

John drops his eyes to the blanket in Nick's hand.

"Yes," he rasps.

With a heavy sigh, Nick balls up the blanket and chucks it at John, who grabs it out of the air and immediately adds it to his cocoon. To Nick's absolute horror, John opens his big mouth and says, "Thank you." His gratitude seems genuinely given, as though Nick has finally brought reprieve to some kind of agony, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable weight on Nick's shoulders.

Nick knows he's getting played. He must be. John knows he's a sap, and he's a manipulative liar who was willing to threaten Nick's unborn child to get what he wanted, of course he's doing this on purpose. He's not above pretending to be pathetic for attention, of course he isn't. The worst part is that, even though Nick knows all of that, he still can't help but fall for it.

"You — you're welcome," he says. "Shit, it's freezing in here. Has it been like this all winter?"

"Not all winter," John mutters, like an asshole.

"You should have said something," Nick snaps, "I woulda... done something before now. You could've gotten a couple extra blankets out of me."

John silently pulls the new blanket tighter over himself, and Nick's irritation returns with a weird, unhealthy dollop of sorrow for the stupid asshole. "Fine, be that way," he snaps. He wishes he could slam the door to make a point, but Carmina is still asleep and he'd like to keep it that way.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Nick's first thought is of how much warmer it is than he'd realized. He's been deceptively comfortable this whole winter, not knowing that John's been freezing half to death at night just down the hall. Maybe if John weren't so useful, he could brush off his worries. Maybe if he weren't such a stupid coward, he could be satisfied with the good he's already done for that sack of shit.

"Kim," he calls softly, "You still up?"

"No," Kim mumbles. "What?"

"I, uh... think we need to bring John in here."

" What ?" Kim repeats, craning her neck to stare at him. Carmina grunts against her, thankfully burrowing under the blankets instead of waking up.

"I know, I know, but — it's fuckin' cold in there, Kim. The window's still broke, I never got around to properly boarding it up and —"

"What did he say to convince you this would be a good idea?"

Nick sighs. "He didn't say anything, that's the worst part. I'm doing all the convincing myself." He waits for her to say something, but she doesn't, so he repeats himself helplessly. "It really is cold in there. I.. I don't think I can leave him like that."

Kim looks at him as though he's grown a second head, and she can't decide if it's more or less attractive than the one she married. "He has to be restrained," she says at last. "And you keep him away from Carmina. Even if that means you don't get any sleep at all."

"Yeah," Nick replies. "I can do that."

"I'll have the rifle next to me," she adds. "If he pulls something..."

"Of course," he says.

Nick takes his deerskin, an extra blanket and two pillows, and tosses them into the far corner. He takes the shoulder strap off of the rifle as well, holding it up for Kim to sleepily approve of as an impromptu rope. Nick's not sure what he's going to do if John rejects the terms of this offer, but he's hoping he won't have to look like an ass for suggesting it.

John is still awake when Nick returns. He stares apprehensively as Nick approaches with the length of cord, but he doesn't try to bolt.

"Hands out," Nick orders, gesturing towards his hidden arms. When John hesitates, he sighs and adds, "I'm not gonna hurt you, come on."

John's brow furrows. "Then what are you going to do ?"

"I'm gonna make sure you can't murder me in the middle of the night. Do you wanna sit here and freeze to death, or what?"

That doesn't seem to do much to reassure John, but Nick doesn't need him reassured, he needs him to follow orders. Finally, he holds out his hands, staring skeptically at Nick as his teeth chatter against his will. He doesn't resist as Nick secures his bony wrist.

Once he's satisfied, Nick drags John onto his feet. "Get your stuff," he tells John, "I'm not sharing my blankets with you."

John does what he's told, quickly scooping up the blankets that have fallen to the wayside. Nick gestures for the door, but John only manages to reach the doorway before he stops.

"Hey, get moving," Nick says, scowling as John resists at the doorway. When he doesn't budge, Nick hisses, "Don't get any ideas, now. Kim and I are both armed, and —"

"I know," John replies. His heavy, hooded eyes find Nick's, searching him suspiciously for some hint at his master plan. "Why are you doing this?"

Nick sighs. He's not about to tell John he's taking pity on him, and it's not like John is going to believe Nick's doing this simply because he feels bad. He briefly considers forgetting the whole plan to save himself the trouble of explaining himself. "I'm lazy and I don't wanna have to carry your dead weight downstairs," he snaps. "Either you keep your mouth shut and come with me, or you can sit in here and freeze."

John goes quietly from there. Kim is awake when Nick marches him into the room, and she regards the entire procession with extreme distrust. That's fair. Nick doesn't trust it anymore himself, and he's the one who had the idea in the first place. She doesn't say anything, but she watches as Nick points John to a spot against the far wall.

Nick thinks John will comment on the temperature change, but he doesn't. He also refrains from commenting as Nick settles against the wall next to him with his own set of blankets. Nick nearly tells John not to get comfortable, but that would sort of defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? What he should do is tell John not to get used to it — tomorrow, Nick's gonna fix that window and ensure that this won't happen again.

There's no way that Nick is going to get a good night's sleep tonight. He can't afford to slip off and leave John effectively unwatched around his family. Thankfully, that's not gonna be a problem — after three tries he gives up on trying to find a comfortable position and settles for sitting slumped against the wall like a kid waiting for gym class to end. He's got a good view of his comfortable bed and lovely, sleeping family, and he's just within grappling range in case John makes a break for it. With how exhausted John looked today, he probably won't have to worry too much on that front.

At first, Nick expects John to lie down and get some rest, but as time passes he finds that isn't the case. John remains sitting, holding the blankets close to him with his bound hands. His gaze is fixed on the floor every time Nick looks over. Despite how much he's improved since they took him in, John still reacts sluggishly, dragging himself through chores without complaint but also without energy. The perpetual exhaustion that seems to come with surviving hasn't missed him, even as he lived quietly by himself for eight years.

Eventually, John lifts his eyes to rest on the bed opposite them. Nick doesn't notice it at first, halfway into a doze himself. When he does, his first instinct is to tell John to knock it off, but John's pensive stare stops him. Whatever John's thinking about, Kim and Carmina are only distantly related — he seems miles away as usual, wound up tight in his own thoughts.

He isn't trembling anymore, though, and his teeth aren't chattering either. Nick can count that as a win, at least.

"Was it difficult?" John asks, right as Nick's about to nod off again. He jumps a little, surprised by the question, confused until John elaborates quietly, "Raising her after the world ended."

"It was never gonna be a picnic," Nick sighs, too tired to work himself into an outrage over John's interest in his family. It's not like knowing about their post-apocalyptic baby-rearing is going to give John leverage. He shifts, sighs again and admits, "Yeah, it was. Not as bad as it could've been if we hadn't had the bunker, though."

For the first time, Nick wonders if John ever wanted kids. The way he'd talked about his past back in the day, the way the deputy would talk about him, well, Nick wouldn't be surprised to find the guy had a slew of bastard children, all of them scraping by on child support and harboring awful thoughts towards their psychotic dad. The idea of John being a father , of having control of and being responsible for a child, it's downright ludicrous. There's a lot to be said about passing on your own traumas to your kids, and John already has a habit of making his problems everyone else's. An actual child of his would probably be messed up before it could walk.

"You know, in a weird way, the cult prepared us for the worst. We moved all of our supplies down there so you couldn't come steal them. When the bombs dropped, we didn't have to worry about baby formula or non-perishables."

John lets out a quiet breath. "If only others were as smart as you," he rasps.

"Or, you know, you could have respected other people's property."

"Yeah," John sighs. "I guess so."

Nick skeptically eyeballs John, whose own gaze has dropped back to the floor. Nick has taken every opportunity to remind John that at least part of the state of things is his fault. So far, John hasn't disagreed with him, quietly accepting blame whenever it's laid on him, even when Nick himself figures he's reaching a little. Nick had assumed he was just doing what was best for his survival, but tonight he can't help but admit that John at least seems sincere. Sure, sincerity doesn't mean much coming from a notorious liar, but if he's trying to play Nick, he's doing a good job. Nick would never have expected John capable of acting so sympathetic.

"Get some sleep," Nick sighs, resting his head back against the wall. "It's gonna be a long night if you don't."

John doesn't sleep. Nick can feel the hour dragging by, and he knows the next one is going to be just as godawfully tedious, but John doesn't so much as rest his eyes for a minute. This time of night, Nick will sometimes hear John muttering from his room, which means that this might just be John's normal routine. He probably stays awake until his body shuts down against his will, the same way Nick and Kim used to when they first started sleeping topside. Nick's not sure why , though — there hasn't been so much as a hint of trouble since Nick brought him here. If he's worried either Nick or Kim are going to pull something on him, then he's being ridiculous. If he's staying up all the time waiting for his brother to swoop in and rescue him from being the enemy's slave labor, well, he's going to be waiting a hell of a lot longer than he already has.

Although Nick drifts here and there, he manages to keep enough of his wits about him to notice when John finally nods off. The nap lasts all of fifteen minutes before a hypnic jerk jolts him back into consciousness. His hands reach up, palms braced upwards in front of his face, then drop just as quickly, and he sucks in a huge breath through his gritted teeth. His head jerks from side to side as he stares uncomprehendingly at the room around him, catching sight of Nick and staring at him with glassy-eyed panic.

"What?" Nick snaps quietly, as if John's nightmare will respect his sleep-deprived irritation. "Quit staring."

John's eyes dart back to the dark space around them. He stares at the bed for only a second or two before seeming to think better of it, choosing to close his eyes entirely.

Nick had never understood the way Dep had pitied the Seeds, each one earning Rook's sympathy in some way or form. He'd had plenty of arguments with them over it, especially whenever John was concerned. Nick simply didn't believe the sob stories the Seeds wanted to spin, and the fact that the deputy wanted to hem and haw over shooting them had been, well, a little offensive, honestly. The only one he'd ever really felt bad for was Rachel, and by the time she became Faith, he'd gotten tired of feeling sorry for a bunch of crazy cult ladies. Sympathy never was something the cult looked for, even while they peddled pitiable lies about themselves. Maybe that's why it was so weird when the deputy freely gave it.

"Just..." Nick sighs, scrubbing his beard heavily. "Relax, alright?" he whispers, "Nothing's gonna jump out at you."

"I know," John replies. He doesn't sound sure about it at all. Frustration wells up in his voice as he hisses, "Why can't I sleep anymore?"

The question is definitely rhetorical, but Nick considers how to respond anyway. He knows that his family is lucky — they have a defensible location and enough weapons that they don't have to worry about being attacked in their sleep. It wasn't always like that, though. The house had been torn apart, and wild dogs were all over the place, which had been especially terrible considering they were about the right size to snatch a seven-year-old up and make off with her. It'll be two years this spring since they started taking their home back, and it's all of that effort and their good fortune that's made their lives safer.

Most of the other people they've met haven't been so lucky. Finding intact, structurally-safe shelter is a roll of the dice out here, so a lot of people have had to rebuild from the ground up. They have to defend against wildlife, arrogant looters and desperate scavengers, and a lot of them have to do it on their own. Even Grace sometimes mentions thieves coming for her armory, and she's made herself a decent stronghold. Combine that initial survival instinct with the fact that John's only recently climbed out of the bunker, and it's no wonder that he's having trouble sleeping.

"It'll sort itself out if you'd just relax ."

John jolts as if being abruptly awakened, not expecting a response and definitely not expecting a sympathetic one. But Nick is tired, and damn it, Rook's pity must've rubbed off him. You'd think sympathy would have a shorter half-life than eight years.

"Your internal clock is shot, that's all. It happens when you come out of the ground. You don't have to be an over-dramatic asshole about it."

He means for it to be an insult, but the nature of the conversation and his own tiredness soften the blow. He can't help it. It's a hard adjustment to make, and he remembers having to do it himself. It had been pretty awful when he'd managed to get back on a nocturnal sleeping schedule and Kim hadn't... mostly because Carmina thought that meant she could stay up all night and all day.

"You got about four hours left until sunrise," Nick says, whispering even though he's definitely woken up Kim by now. "You're gonna need those hours of sleep when we head out to the hangar tomorrow." He gestures loosely with a hand. "Just — lie down and close your eyes. It's so easy a kid can do it."

For a moment, John looks irritated at being instructed on how to sleep, but he doesn't argue the point. Slowly, he sinks down, lying with his back pressed against the wall. There had been a few feet separating them, but now Nick can't even put his hand down next to him without feeling the curls of John's hair. Ugh, they've been putting it off, but somebody is going to have to do something about the matted mess John's got. This Tarzan-slash-doomsday-prepper look is disgusting, and it can't possibly be hygienic.

John doesn't speak for the rest of the night. Nick doesn't know for sure if he's really sleeping — other than his hands and his matted hair, John is pretty thoroughly bundled against the cold — but at least he keeps quiet and pretends to get some rest. The last thing Nick needs is for John to be so weak tomorrow that he needs more coddling. Nick's sympathy is in short supply and bound to run out soon, so John better be sleeping through the exhaustion crazies.

For his part, Nick mostly just dozes, sliding in and out of focus but never quite managing to fall asleep. He's afforded a rare view of his family from the outside, although mostly all he can see is the back of Carmina's head. She's wound up tight in the first deerskin she ever had a hand in tanning, which has become her go-to blanket during this winter. He can still remember Carmina complaining about the smell and almost throwing up when she first started scraping. Nowadays, she has no trouble getting her hands dirty.

It's not the kind of life that he had imagined for her, but Nick's glad Carmina seems to be adapting. Hell, she's more accustomed to this life than Nick is — he grew up out here, sure, but the tamed wilderness of an unincorporated county is a hell of a lot different than the wilds they now live in. It's been a hell of a learning curve, and Nick's not sure he's gotten the hang of it yet. It's funny — he used to imagine his kid scoffing at him for not understanding some new technology or internet fad, teasing him for not getting what the kids were all about. He has no idea what kind of stuff Carmina's gonna school him on in the future these days — all he can hope is that it won't have anything to do with blood or bullets.

The sun starts to lighten the deep murk of the room. Kim rolls away from the windows, throwing an arm over Carmina's shoulders. She might be sleeping now, but Nick bets it's been hard to come by. No matter how much she might have agreed with his reasoning, there's no way Kim's been sleeping for long with John in the room.

Nick waits another thirty minutes or so before he gives in and shakes John's shoulder. He does it gently enough at first that John doesn't react, which at least assures Nick that the bastard managed to fall asleep after all. Should Nick feel good about that? He's not sure. It's sort of irritating him at this point in his sleep-deprived state, but it is what he wanted. At least he knows John will be able to handle working later.

"Hey," he hisses, shaking John harder this time and earning a muffled grunt in response. "Time to put you back."

That manages to get a reaction, although it's a little much. John jerks away from Nick's hand, hitting the wall with a muffled thump. "No," he gasps. Nick can't quite tell if he's still asleep or not from here.

" Hey ," Nick repeats under his breath, grabbing hold of John's shoulder. "Quit squirming."

"You can't," John pleads, trying in vain to twist out of Nick's grip. He's not trying very hard, probably because he's sleep-addled and confused, but Nick shouldn't be fooled by that. He should know better than to let John get the jump on him.

Despite himself, he lets go. John doesn't bolt, doesn't even move in response, trapped staring at Nick until Nick quietly explains, "I'm talking about your room. Just down the hall."

John doesn't seem to believe him at first, his bound hands grasping at each other as he tries to catch his breath. But eventually, he nods once, very stiffly.

Nick waits until he's pulled John outside of the room to comment, standing in the chilly hall next to John's door. "Look, you don't have to worry about —"

John cuts him off. "Don't do that," he snaps, trying to hide the tremble of anxiety in his voice. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do, just — don't."

Nick should push the issue. At the very least to remind John that he's not in the position to make demands. But, damn it, if John doesn't want to talk about it, why the hell should Nick? He barely likes talking about his own problems, and he's invested in how that baggage is handled. John's a whole goddamn shipping container of twisted thoughts and terrible coping mechanisms, and that's a load that Nick doesn't want to carry.

Honestly, he's relieved. As long as John's nightmares motivate him to continue not being a monstrous asshole, Nick's fine with ignoring them altogether. Bring on the night terrors, as long as they keep John docile, right?

"Fine, whatever." He half-heartedly pushes John through the doorway, only realizing afterward that some snowfall managed to drift in during the night. There's a dusting of light powder on the floor around the window, which will melt into an unhelpful slush once the sun comes up. If the room was too cold to sleep in before, it's got to be worse now.

John ignores Nick as he waffles by the door, retreating back to the tarp he'd left behind. Sure, it's still freezing in here, but the sun is coming up. That should keep the worst of it away.

Nick stands awkwardly in the doorway as John crawls back into his bed, a few feet from a patch of soft snowfall. He doesn't seem willing to look back at Nick, rolling to face the wall as he lies down. Which — is fine. Should be fine. Nick shouldn't care one bit whether or not John wants to talk.

"Feel better?" Kim asks, once he's back in their room and crawling gratefully into the still-warm bed. He'd abandoned one more blanket to John's bundle, then locked him up as if everything were fine — because it is. Right? The risk had paid off, sort of, and now everything is back to the way it should be. So, of course he feels better.

Nick sighs with sleepy gratitude as he folds his cold arm over Carmina, squeezing Kim's shoulder as he questions his gut response. "Sure," he whispers, although it's not exactly the truth. He thinks about it some more, then elaborates. "I'll feel better once I fix that window."

"You're being too nice to him," she tells him, although she says it too fondly to be an admonishment. Still, she's going to run out of patience for his dumb ideas, his gut reactions and his lousy instincts. There's nobody on earth with that high a tolerance for dumbassery, no matter how well-intentioned it might be.

"I know, I know." Carmina presses her face into his chest, hopefully still asleep, and Kim's hand lifts to cover his hand on her shoulder. "Your dad was right," he jokes, closing his eyes, "You didn't marry a smart man."

"I didn't want to marry a smart man," Kim chuckles, "I wanted to marry a good man."

She squeezes his hand. Nick's sure there's more to be said, but this isn't a conversation to have at daybreak after a sleepless night. Maybe later, they can figure out how to keep Nick from making stupid, potentially dangerous decisions like he did tonight. For now, there's a chance for a few hours of sleep in a warm bed with his family, and Nick isn't going to pass that up for anything.

[thewritewolf]

Rekindle Chapter 30: Prey/Hunt

Marinette, worried for Chat Noir, heads out into the city to find him. What she doesn't count on is something finding her...

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@marichatmay 

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

The call ended and Marinette carefully set her phone on the couch beside her. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and tried to make herself relax. The conversation with Alya had gone on for much longer than she had intended it to and all she wanted was to lay down with Adrien and pretend everything was normal for a little while. He still wasn’t back though which was weird since he’d been gone for… she cracked open an eye to peer at the clock, only for her eyes to fly open when she noticed it was two hours into the new day.

Had she really been on the phone for that long? Or had the rest of the night simply dragged out for that long? Just earlier that night, they’d been preparing to go to a banquet in their honor. Now that felt like a lifetime ago. It was strange how quickly things change.

“Tikki?” Her kwami emerged from where she had cocooned herself in blankets. “He’s been gone way too long. I think it’s time we looked for Chat Noir.”

She nodded. “I’m behind you one hundred percent!” Her enthusiasm waned a little as she added, “I have a bad feeling and I’d feel better if you two were together, just in case.”

Sounds ominous, but how much worse could things get? “Tikki, spots on!”

Almost immediately, she collapsed to the ground from the weight of voices and visions. “Spots off, spots off!”

The power of Ladybug left her and everything slowly faded away, like a scream turning to an echo. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision and focused, using the same techniques she’d gained that night. It was faint - probably because of distance - but there was no question the same sort of dark energy she’d felt before. She groaned. Was it too much to ask for this night to just end already?

Belatedly, she realized Tikki had been talking. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, what are you going to do now? I don’t think we can be Ladybug for very long, and Chat Noir probably isn’t aware of the danger.”

“Then we’ll have to find him the old fashioned way.” Marinette threw off her pajamas and rushed to put on street clothes. One purse filled with cookies later and she was out in the Parisian streets.

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

Adrien rubbed at his eyes as he took a rare break. The confrontation with his father had been deeply satisfying, but for some reason the anger he felt hadn’t gone away yet. Knowing he wouldn’t be any help to Marinette in this state of mind kept him from going home, but he was starting to get too tired to keep running. No doubt Plagg was getting exhausted too. Despite their frequent training over the years, Plagg was at his heart a lazy glutton. He wasn’t well suited for these extended periods of transformations.

All other thoughts were put aside when he heard a scream in the night. He was on the move immediately, searching for where it had come from. The scene he came upon sent a bolt of panic through his heart.

In a dead end alley, Marinette was desperately tossing whatever she could get her hands on at a creature that looked like a feline version of a werewolf. It’s fur was a stark white, and Adrien could see the scratches its claws left in the stone of the alley floor as it dragged its long arms along. In the small space, the feral growling echoed and overlapped with itself. It raised one arm with a snarl, galvanizing Adrien into action.

It began to turn around, but Adrien was already swinging his baton. Emerald green eyes set against the monstrous visage of the beast shook him to his core, but he got his bearings quickly. They began a dance of Adrien avoiding a swipe and his baton connecting against it. Unfortunately, the werecat’s fury only seemed to grow with every hit that Adrien landed against it and before long, it was on the offensive. One backhanded strike slammed Adrien against the wall and pinned him there while the other claw was raised to rake him.

Before the beast could deliver the blow, a trash can was slammed onto its head. When the beast dropped him, Adrien beat against it with his baton, stunning it. Marinette, who had positioned herself behind the monster, motioned wildly at Adrien to get away from it. Taking her cue, he scooped her up onto his back and began running once she had a hold on him.

“My lady! What are you doing out this late?”

“Looking for you,” she spoke into his ear over the wind. “Another shard got corrupted, I think. We need to purify it before we can stop Chat Blanc.”

He blinked in confusion. “Chat Blanc…? Wait, you don’t think I made that thing, do you?”

He could feel the sarcasm in her voice as she replied, “No, of course not. I mean, it’s only a cat-themed rage monster that got more powerful the more fiercely you fought it. Just a coincidence, right?”

Despite the circumstances, he chuckled. “Okay, okay, fair enough. Any idea where it might be?”

“Yeah,” she replied and something in her voice wiped the smile from her face. “I’m pretty sure I do. Just do what I say and I’ll get us there. Can you do that for me, kitty?”

“For my favorite civilian? Always.”

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

If it were any other situation, Marinette might have taken a moment to pause or acknowledge the tumultuous emotions that were stirred up at being in the same place that Hawkmoth had taken her months ago. The place that had put her life on a wildly different course - the reveal, the defeat of her arch enemy, the breaking of the peacock miraculous. But with the physical embodiment of Adrien’s anger no doubt bearing down on the both of them, she didn’t have the luxury of reflection right now.

She leapt off of Chat Noir’s back, ignoring the brief moment of vertigo from all the negative energy. “Come on! We need to find it before Chat Blanc shows up!”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.”

Chat Noir bolted off to the opposite end of the storage building. Since they’d been here last, crates and barrels and various tools had started to fill the still mostly empty space. While there was still plenty of room to move around in, there was also plenty of places to hide small magical objects in. As she violently tossed things around, she couldn’t help but wonder how they had gotten spread out like this. Was it simply random chance that the shard ended up in a place that was steeped in negative emotions? Had Nathalie placed it here, knowing it could cause more harm to them? Or did the shard seek out these sorts of places, drawn to power it could work with?

There was so much she didn’t understand about the miraculous, even after using the most powerful one for a decade.

The door came down with a crash and a blood curdling roar. As her head whipped in that direction, she saw Chat Noir rush up to meet Chat Blanc. He shouted over his shoulder.

“Keep looking! Finding the shard is the only way we’re going to beat this thing!”

Her searching became more frantic as the sounds of battle echoed strangely in the large space. Roars and battle cries and puns and cries of pain blended around her as she fought to maintain clarity in this storm. Through it all, she didn’t dare look behind her, terrified of what she might see. After what felt like an eternity, she found it - a blackened shard that practically warped and darkened the air around it, as if it were a weight upon the fabric of reality.

She took a deep breath. “Tikki, spots on!”

Once again, the visions came back in full force and for a brief moment she was nearly swept aside by the tidal wave that slammed into her senses. But she stayed standing, an inner fire burning bright against the encroaching darkness. Removing her yoyo from her side, she went through the process of cleansing the corrupt shard.

“I release you from evil!” She captured the shard in her yoyo, the energy evaporating before the power of the ladybug miraculous. The warehouse was silent as she caught the shard before it hit the ground. It was back to its usual teal color, but she didn’t inspect it for long before she ran over to Chat Noir’s side.

He seemed bruised and his breathing wasn’t coming as easy as she would like, but he was standing and smiling at her. Unable to contain herself, she ran up and threw her arms around him.

“Good job, lovebug.”

“You too, kitty.” She settled her chin on his chest as she looked up at him with all the love in the world. “Almost ready to go home?”

“Yeah. Do your thing and we can head out.”

After calling for the lucky charm and miraculous cure, Chat Noir was looking better - not at his best, but definitely better. His arm rested over her shoulders and she leaned into the embrace as they walked out of the building.

“So I suppose this is our life now?”

Marinette giggled. “I guess so. Never a dull moment, huh?”

“No, never.” He gave her a squeeze. “But there is no one I’d rather have by my side.”

“You’re not half bad yourself.” She yawned and noticed the skies that were already beginning to lighten up ever so slightly. “Let’s go home. I feel like I could sleep for years.”

Chat Noir grinned. “You always have the best plans.”

[fireynovacat]

When I See You Again (I'll Tell You All About It)

A/N: Whoo-hoo! This is probably my longest fic ever and the first one for the Life-Link Universe. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! Anyway, there are some hints at what happened, but the next fic will be about Ezra and Dume. Sorry, I can’t figure out how to do cuts and the formatting’s probably awful. Enjoy! ~Five Days Post-Endor~ In some ways Sabine did miss the Ghost, she hadn’t been back much since she decided to stay on Lothal. She had returned for the final battle, the final push against the Empire. In some ways the warrior couldn’t process the Empire being defeated. It had been in power for almost all her life and she couldn’t remember a time before it. She stretched and shut off the holo-map, she had her next steps planned out. Now she had to tell everybody, it was time to bring Ezra home. She slipped from her old room out into the familiar hall, automatically her feet took her to the galley. Hera was sitting at the table, sipping caf from reading through reports, Zeb was moving around the kitchen cooking, Alex was sitting in the old woven chair reading something, probably a report, and Rex was holding Jacen and telling him a story. Sabine couldn’t help but smile when she heard the tail end of it, “...and your older brother, being the Jedi he is, convinced the old clankers to fight the Empire.” This resulted in a quite giggle from the child. “There ya are!” Zeb said, turning around with bowls of thick stew balanced on a tray. He set it down on the table and Hera smiled and set her work aside, “Thank you, Zeb.” Everybody took a bowl and settled down to eat. A few bites in, she announced, “I’m going to find Ezra. I’ve narrowed down some planets and areas based on hyperspace lanes and trajectories. I think if we work in teams we-” “Sabine!” Hera interrupted harshly, “It’s useless! Ezra is dead!” “Actually we don’t know that,” Alex chimed in from over his soup bowl, “Ezra is quite resourceful and a survivor.” “No,” and now the Twi’lek looked a combination of sad, hurt, and angry, “he was dying from the moment Kanan died.” Silence reigned for a few heartbeats while they processed the revelation. “Hera, what do you mean?” Sabine had rarely seen Zeb this quiet and subdued. “Ezra and Kanan shared a Life-Link. I-I don’t know much, Kanan told me most of what he knew about them.” She looked up from her lap, “You know that Force Sensitives can’t be alone, right? Well, a Life-Link is very grounding and beneficial to the Linkmates, but it’s also dangerous. Linkmates become dependant on each other for that grounding they need, they’re stronger, but it comes at a cost. T-they can’t be grounded by anybody else, if one dies…” the pilot fiddled with her sleeves, “the other one follows shortly afterward.” Sabine sat in shock, before her rage and grief boiled back to the surface. She slammed her hands down and everybody jumped, “Why didn’t you tell us earlier? Why did you all keep this from us?” She nearly screamed, “You let us all hold on to false hope! This was vital information and you didn’t tell us!” “Sabine, I’m sorry. I thought -” Hera began. “You thought. Oh, you thought keeping this from us was a good thing! You let Ezra do all that Force stuff, knowing that IT WAS ACTIVELY KILLING HIM!” Jacen was now pressed firmly against Rex with a distressed look on his face. Hera stood up and left the room at practically a run. They sat in pained silence for what felt like eternity, until finally Rex broke the silence, “Ezra knew he was dying, that’s the only thing that makes sense. Except for his last message, he didn’t say a final goodbye. He said he couldn’t wait to come back. That doesn’t sound like somebody about to die.” It was a tiny sliver of hope, but she was willing to cling to that. ~One year Post-Endor~ Sabine was surprised when she received the call from Hera she was half tempted to decline the call. However, she steeled herself and flicked on the comm. She didn’t talk, but Hera started in, “I want to invite you on a rescue mission.” The Mandalorian raised an eyebrow, but let Hera continue. “One of our informants disappeared, leaving only a distress signal. I want,” she sighed, “I want you to come help us find them. I know you’re angry at me and you have every right to be, but I want to do this. To try and fix this.” Sabine was silent for a minute and she thought it through. “I’ll come if Zeb, Alex, and Rex come along.” Hera looked relieved and happy, “I’m sending you the coordinates to roundevue with the Ghost and the Starcatcher. I’ll see you soon.” The connection was cut and Sabine was left with her thoughts. A rescue mission for a Rebellion Informant. Odd, weren’t most of those recalled? There were still some small pockets of the Imperial forces, but not enough to warrant an informant. Unless there was something else going on. There must be something that Hera wasn’t telling her or Hera didn’t even know. If somebody was deep undercover they must be after a big problem. She threw her extra supplies into her bag and hit the button to take the elevator to the bottom of the old comm tower. The Starbird stood ready for her and in a few minutes she was in space again. The roundevue was in orbit over Naboo. Sabine docked with the Starcatcher frigate and exited her ship. A soldier was waiting for her, “Commander Wren, follow me, please. Admiral Syndulla is waiting for you.” Sabine raised an eyebrow, but followed the man anyway. ‘You couldn’t come meet me yourself, Hera?’ She was mildly miffed Hera hadn’t come for her, but she supposed they were still on thin ice. When they arrived in the war room Hera was already looking at a layout map of some building, Zeb was talking in a low voice with Alex, and Rex was standing across the holotable from Hera keeping the projection under a scrutinizing gaze. ---------- The lack of resistance was unexpected. Not that Sabine was actually complaining, she just thought there would be more if this agent was so deeply undercover there would be more soldiers. She turned down the hallway and came to a stop at a door. She opened up the panel and rewired the lock. The door slid open with a quiet *woosh* and she stepped in. There was no need to adjust to the darkness, her helmet automatically did that for her. Sabine stopped short on the threshold of the cell. Understating it? Unexpected. In actual terms? Completely and utterly shocking. The figure in the cell was sitting on the bench, leaning against the wall. He was dressed in a tattered uniform an obvious blaster wound to his left side. But, Sabine would recognize that face and blue hair anywhere. Ezra Bridger was alive. Sabine flicked on her comm, nearly breathless, “I found the informant. I need help, he’s injured.” “On my way.” Zeb’s reply was short and punctuated. The Mandalorian rushed forward, “Ezra? Ezra can you hear me?” She reached out to check his pulse and he jumped a little at her touch. Blue eyes locked on to her hazily. “What?!” Both flinched at Zeb’s sudden voice. “That can’t be Ezra!” “Zeb, we don’t have time. Grab him!” Suddenly, the wall to her right wavered and a huge white Loth-wolf leapt through. It locked on to Ezra and shoved past Sabine to gently nuzzle him. “What is that doing here?” Zeb asked. The white-furred beast turned to stare at them and then moved back, allowing Zeb to step forward and scoop Ezra up. The human groaned quietly, but otherwise didn’t protest. They turned and charged out of the cell. “Hera, fire up. We’re coming in hot!” The Imperials stood no chance, as the wolf tossed them like rag dolls. They rushed past Rex and Kallus up into the Ghost. “Hera, go!” The ship shuddered as they barreled through the defenses and out into space. Zeb laid Ezra out on the floor of the bay. He had two blaster wounds; one to the gut and one to his left shin. The Loth-wolf crouched down to gently press its nose against Ezra’s scarred cheek. Alex dropped into a crouch. He pulled out the scissors and cut away the fabric from around wounds. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll last. He might die.” The comm came back online, “We’re docking.” ----------------- Ezra considered going back to sleep. Hera was trying to drill Dume, which was hilarious considering that Dume couldn’t fully verbalize. ‘Haha, stop laughing and YOU try.’ Ezra groaned and pushed himself up, ignoring the dull ache in his abdominal region and his left leg. The ache meant that he was nearly healed , but the faint pain might last a little while longer. “Ugh, well, I blew my cover, but whatever.” It took less then a second for Hera to swing around. “Ezra! How are you alive? Where is Kanan?!” Ezra yelped in surprise and as the world winked out around him and the Ghost’s galley burst into view all he could think was, ‘Kriff it. I thought I finally had control over that.’ He was sitting on the table and a young kid with green hair had stopped eating a bowl of ice cream to stare at him. “Erm, hello?” The kid stared at him for a moment and then replied with, “So, you’re Ezra?” “Yes, I am.” “Could you get off the table? You can have some ice cream.” Ezra grinned and slipped of the table before grabbing a spoon and taking the offered ice cream. “You seem pretty relaxed about me appearing out of nowhere. What’s your name?” The boy, who appeared about six, shrugged. “You are supposed to be dead and I’m Jacen.” “Fair point, kid.” -------------- “Toolld youuu.” The wolf grumbled. “I didn’t think you meant jump in that way.” --------------- They had moved to the Ghost’s main cargo hold to talk. Ezra was sitting on one of the crates with a blanket wrapped around him and nibbling on a ration bar. The huge Loth-wolf sat right behind him resting it's large head on top of Ezra's. He was leaning back against the beast’s chest and the end of it’s tail resting in his lap. “Why can't we talk in the galley?” Hera asked. Ezra gave a small grin, “Because Achal here is being clingy again. Do you honestly think he would fit?” The wolf huffed almost annoyed and swatted it's fluffy tail against Ezra's side. Ezra snickered, “You have more questions.” Hera took a deep breathe, “How are you alive? You should be dead.” Ezra raised an eyebrow, “The shooting or Kanan dying? Because those are two different questions.” Hera rushed in barely after he finished, “You should have been dead for five years now. How are you alive? *If you're alive then where is Kanan?*” Sabine could see the tiny finch. It was small, but otherwise Ezra looked unaffected. “After the purgill dropped out of hyperspace I was dying. Achal found me and created a Link to save my life. Kanan is gone Hera and he can't come back. And before you ask, apparently being Linked to a Force Wolf means teleporting and quicker healing.” The young man grinned at them, “Blame him.” He said gesturing up at the wolf. Achal rolled his eyes and snorted. Ezra was lying and Sabine knew this. That's not how Links worked. Which meant that either Kanan was alive or Kanan and Achal were the same thing. She wasn't going to address that openly, Ezra wouldn't lie without reason. Then Rex chimed in, “What was your reasoning for not telling us you were alive?” Ezra turned his head to look at the veteran, which was hilarious since the wolf's head turned with his. “Long story short? Palpatine knew who I was and was out to get me. I couldn't come back until he was gone or that Sith would have come for you. I did it to protect you.” This did not soothe Hera, “You didn't think to contact us? At least let us know you were alive?” The Twi’lek nearly shouted and the Lothal native pulled back in surprise with a slight look of shame. Achal growled and lifted his left leg and placed the paw in front of Ezra, so that he was nearly tucked under the wolf. “Hey! I'm fine!” He said, trying to free himself. “I'm sorry, but I couldn't risk anybody knowing I was alive, but I'm here now, aren't I?” Sabine smiled, “It's good to have you back.” Ezra grinned, “Let's go back to Lothal, I haven't been home in a while.” Sure, there were new adjustments to be made, but one of their own was home; and that, made everything a little better.

[forever-dreaming-cullen]

[FIC] Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme - Chapter 8

Image credit: @screenscapes

Hello, my lovelies! I am back with another chapter of my fic, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme for your reading pleasure — or not.

Thanks go to the lovely @ekoorb03 for her amazing beta! Go read her stuff on AO3 — it’s really sexy and good!

Of course, I also have to thank all my readers for staying with me, and new readers, too, for taking a chance on this fic. As always, reblogs and likes are love!

Read it on AO3: From the beginning or Just the latest chapter

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather

Cullen sprang up from the bench, pushing the Inquisitor off him, all color drained from his complexion. “Eala!  Maker — fuck, this — this isn’t what it looks like. Please let me explain!”

He stumbled toward her, his arms outstretched in entreaty, and the shocked expression on his handsome face nearly made her hesitate. Almost.

“Really, love,” drawled the Inquisitor, slinking up to his side and pressing herself against him. “Such excuses from those beautiful pink lips!” The sultry look she gave him drove a spike through Eala’s heart.

Cullen wavered on his feet, raising one hand to his pinched brow as he side-stepped away from the elf. “I — I don’t — I didn’t — Maker, my head hurts.“  Again, he tried to close the distance between them, his eyes pools of confusion.

Anger rescued her. It boiled up fierce and fiery from her gut, drying her tears.

“No,” she said, her voice cold and controlled. “I don’t want to hear it. You lied to me — made me believe in something that was never real.” She flicked a glance between him and the Inquisitor who arched a smug eyebrow at her. “You win, Inquisitor.” She curtsied and turned away.

“Eala, please!” he called after her as she walked briskly in the direction of the clinic, but she ignored his pleas.

His office was quiet when she entered, his desk scattered with missives, reports, and alarmingly, several empty bottles of liquor. Turning away from his desk, she quickly climbed the ladder to the loft they had briefly shared.

“Maker’s mercy!” she gasped as her eyes took in the destruction around her. His armor stand lay on the floor, his mattress lay askew, all the pillows and blankets haphazardly tossed around the room, and every single one of his chests lay upended, their contents strewn on the floor. As she picked her way through the mess, she spied more empty liquor bottles.

What in the Void was he doing to himself? Shouldn’t he be happy to finally be with the woman he’d been pining for since Haven? Eala shook her head. Perhaps he was drinking to ease his pain. She would have to see if she could find another healer to treat him now that she could no longer do it. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Just because she was now at odds with her former patient was no reason to neglect his care.

Finding her chests intact, spared from the carnage that obliterated the rest of the room, she quickly gathered a few important items. She would send for the rest of her things later. As she turned to leave, she heard one of the doors downstairs creak open then slam shut, then the sound of booted feet on the stone floor.

Blast and botheration! She knew the sound of those footsteps; it could only be one person, and she very much did not want to see him just now. As she considered her next move, she heard the ladder creak. Maker, he was coming up! What should she do?

He took the choice away from her when his head appeared above the ladder. His appearance mirrored the state of his loft; instead of its usual perfectly groomed style, his hair was a mess of curls, and his jaw was covered with three days’ growth of beard. But it was his eyes that concerned her most: their usual bright golden color was now muddy and dark, and the circles beneath them were deep purple, like old bruises.

“Eala?” his voice was hesitant and rough. He scrambled up the rest of the way and came to stand in front of her. He raised one hand and brought it to her cheek, and she strained to avoid melting into his touch. “Eala. You’ve come back.”

She steeled herself against the longings of her heart and stepped back, clearing her throat against the painful lump that formed there. “I just came for some of my things.” His hand fell away, and the dim light of hope in his eyes died.

“I — I see,” he said, his voice fracturing. He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. ‘Um — will you — will you at least let me explain what happened?”

Eala shifted the box of her belongings from one hip to the other. Did she want to hear what he had to say? She looked around at the wreckage of his room and back at him. He looked so exhausted and forlorn. Did she owe him this much? The memory of him sitting on that bench with the Inquisitor in his lap, sucking on her lips the way he had done to her sparked the flames of her anger. She lifted her chin, her eyes turning frosty.

“What possible explanation could you give, Cullen? I know what I saw.”

“That’s just it — no, you don’t, Eala.” He ran his hands through his hair and began pacing back and forth. “I —I was called down to the gardens —a messenger — he ran in here and told me that there had been an altercation there involving my men and that I should come straight away.“ His breathing grew rapid and labored, and his hands gesticulated wildly, his every movement uncontrolled and frantic. “I— I went, of course, and when I got there, I didn’t notice anything amiss. I looked around, but there was no one around, and all was it should be — except for that smell.

“I should have known then and just left — I wish to the Maker that I had —“ he stopped pacing and turned to look at her, his eyes bright with tears and pleading for understanding. “Lyrium. The smell of it was everywhere, and I — weak bastard that I am —“ his tone became derisive, and a snarl of disgust twisted his features. “I became dizzy with it.  My head spun, and I could not see. I think I would have fallen except for a hand pushing me down on the bench. The next thing I knew, the Inquisitor was in my lap, and her mouth was on mine — and you — oh, Maker — you walked in, and the way you looked at me, it killed me.”

Eala shook her head, tears prickling her lids as she met his tortured gaze. “I have to go,” she said.

“Eala, please, you have to believe me — I —I would never — could never hurt you like that. Please! I — I love you!” The shell she had built around her heart burst at his words, pain flooding her chest and fueling the rage burning in her gut.

“You dare to speak of love?” she shouted at him, a small mean part of her reveling in the way he flinched at the words she flung like barbs. “You think you can offer up weak explanations, tell me that you love me, and then I’ll fall at your feet? “ She tossed back her loose black curls and threw him a glacial look. “No, Commander, I will not be your plaything. Go back to your Inquisitor. I’m sure she can soothe whatever hurts.”

He seemed to shrink in front of her eyes, his shoulders slumping. “Of course you don’t believe me. Why would you?” Turning away from her, he stumbled to his bed and collapsed on the crooked mattress, tossing one arm over his eyes.

She averted her gaze from the broken man on the bed, guilt dampening her anger. Was it really necessary to throw his feelings back at him like that? The part of her that still loved him, and always would, urged her to go to him and tell him she was sorry and that they could work this out, but the burgeoning part of her that was learning to stand up for herself ruthlessly squelched her softer feelings. Her box of belongings in hand, she slid down the ladder and left the Commander’s office for good.

“The Commander isn’t doing very well…just thought you might like to know that,” Dorian said as he strolled into the clinic one afternoon a few days later.

Eala sighed. “I know, but there is nothing I can do if he won’t accept treatment from anyone other than me. The stubborn man has rejected every healer I’ve sent to him. Maybe the Inquisitor will have better luck with him.”

Dorian gave a short bark of laughter. “Lysarah? Care about what Cullen needs? My dear girl, that woman is only concerned with winning the war and looking good while doing it!”

“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” She threw down the treatment logs she was reading, irritation sharpening her voice. Inside, a worm of worry wound around her heart and squeezed.

The Inquisitor wants him back on lyrium — she asked her to convince him to do it

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I know, dear, and had I walked in on Bull kissing someone else like you did with the Commander, I would feel the same way. But,” he raised a beringed finger. “I still think something is fishy about the whole thing. Fasta vass, the man is besotted with you — why would he jeopardize your relationship like that? It makes no sense!”

“Truthfully, Dorian, I don’t think he even knows,” she told her friend. “He told me a preposterous story, did I tell you?”

Dorian’s gray eyes sharpened. “No, what did he say?”

“Come, “ she said, getting to her feet. “I'll tell you while I fill potions.”

In the workroom,  she took down a crate of empty glass flasks from a shelf and set it down beside the cooled pot of healing potions on the table.  Inserting a funnel into each empty flask, she related what Cullen had told her — about smelling lyrium and blacking out, only to wake with the Inquisitor kissing him.

Handing her a ladle, Dorian leaned a hip against the workbench. “Have you considered that he might be telling the truth?”

She scoffed. “Really, Dorian? Even a child could come up with a far more creative and believable tale than that!”

He gave a long sigh. “Well, darling, I’ll say no more except for this: consider that there are others in Skyhold who have a lot to gain by weakening the Commander. Just think about that. Now,” he straightened and brushed his pants off with a flourish. “I have an appointment with Bull. I’ll talk to you later.”

“See you later, Dorian.”

After he left, Eala turned her attention to spooning the yellowish mixture into each flask. A frown settled over her brow.  Could she really believe Cullen when it went against what she had seen with her own two eyes? It was madness!

And yet, she missed him. She corked each filled vial and set the finished crate aside, biting her lip. She missed seeing him every day, she missed touching him, she missed his kisses. Cullen was the only man to ever give her a second look, to treat her as if she were desirable. He made her feel beautiful.

Angrily, she wiped her wet eyes. Why had he kissed her, especially after how she treated him? Was he really just like most other men, beguiled by a pretty face? Had he been lying all this time?

But the way he had looked at her that day in his loft haunted her. The pleading look in those golden eyes and the resignation of his slumped shoulders when she had rejected his explanation He had looked as if she had physically struck him, cowed and beaten. None of that fit the puzzle, either.

Could he have been telling the truth? But he had been kissing the Inquisitor; she had not imagined that. Whatever his explanations, that fact rankled like a burr under the saddle.

Eala huffed in disgust and returned her attention to her work, resolving to put the matter from her mind for now.

“You don’t look so good, Curly. Maybe you oughta sit this one out. Want me to talk to the Princess?” Varric’s voice was saying. Eala quietly entered the great hall, staying in the shadows, a box of healing potions in her arms.

“I’m fine, Varric, and you will do no such thing,” Cullen responded, reaching into the pocket of his tan breeches and extracting a handkerchief. He used it to wipe his forehead and his neck, then tucked it back into his breeches. “As much as I detest the Game and Orlesian nonsense, I have duties to attend.”

Watching the two men from her position not ten feet away, she had to agree with Varric: Cullen looked ill. No longer was his skin that beautiful golden color; instead it was as pale as the white shirt he wore. His cheeks were gaunt, and although his golden hair was impeccably styled, as always, it had lost its luster, appearing dull and lifeless.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re as stubborn as a druffalo?” Varric shrugged. “Suit yourself, Curly. Hey, what happened to that little healer you were with?“

Cullen stiffened and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, doing up the last three before shrugging into the red and gold military jacket that completed his uniform for the ball at the Winter Palace. Hugging the crate tighter against her chest, Eala listened closely to hear what he would say.

“Maker’s breath, Varric!” growled Cullen, “have you no better subject to gossip about than —“ he cut himself off with a heavy sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose.”Never mind, don’t answer that. As for your completely inappropriate question, let’s just say she and I had a misunderstanding and leave it at that, hm?”

Varric’s laugh boomed across the hall. She didn’t miss the way Cullen winced at the loud sound. “Alright, Curly, don’t get your feathers all ruffled — and you still look like shit.”

The blond ex-Templar looked around the hall impatiently. “Are we ready to go yet?” Eala sucked in a breath as his eyes passed over where she stood pressed against the stone wall, tucked into the shadowed corner of the large room. She caught the telltale deepening of the line between his brows and the sharp creases around his mouth; the man was suffering from a migraine.

Oh, Cullen.

She wanted to go to him, to rub his temples, neck, and shoulders the way he liked, to help him relax so that he could rest. Guilt flooded her, and she ducked away before he could see her, fleeing all the way back to the clinic. She handed the crate to another healer and told her to take it into the main hall at once.

Sitting down at her desk, she tried to busy herself with work, but the Commander’s white face, bruised eyes, and clammy skin kept intruding on her thoughts. Clasping her hands together in prayer, she asked the Maker to protect him and bring him home safe.

“Eala, you must come to the Commander’s tower at once!” Dorian cried, his voice breathless as he ran into the clinic two days later. The dark-haired man stood shifting from foot to foot in front of her desk, clearly agitated.

“Alright,” she said, picking up her healers’ satchel and following him out, dread quickening her steps. “What’s happened — what’s wrong?” Remorse and guilt twisted in her gut.  Why hadn’t she done anything? She could have insisted that he should stay in Skyhold for a rest. As chief healer, she had the power to do it. Why hadn’t she?

“We got back from the Winter Palace late last night, and everyone went to bed. I didn’t like how Cullen looked on the carriage ride back,  so this morning, I go to check on him, and I found him collapsed in his loft, mere feet from the ladder. He must have just climbed up before he dropped. Thank the Maker he didn’t fall.”

“Maker! I knew he wasn’t well. I — I should have seen to him myself.”

“Now, now, Eala, don’t blame yourself. If you think you could have persuaded him out of going, you’ve got another thing coming.  You know how stubborn that big blond oaf can be!”

She laughed weakly as they entered Cullen’s office. It was odd for it to be so quiet at this time of the day. She glanced at his desk and thanked the Maker that it wasn’t still littered with empty liquor bottles. A wry smile twisted her lips; her Commander was too responsible for that.

In Cullen’s loft, she found that everything had been set to rights from the last time she’d seen it, other than the fact that the Commander lay abed at this hour of the morning when he was usually up seeing to his duties. He lay on his back, the covers pulled around his waist, utterly still. If it weren't for the soft rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought he was dead.

Maker, please, no!

She sat on the bed beside him and lifted his eyelids one by one to check his eyes. Good. His pupils were reactive to light. Leaning over, she reached into her satchel for a bottle of peppermint and elfroot wash. She glanced behind her to Dorian who stood uncertainly at the foot of the Commander’s bed.

“Get me a bowl of water, please,” she ordered calmly, pushing aside her worry. Accepting the item from him, she nodded her thanks. “Tell me everything that happened. Did he take anything for his headache?” Her mind raced, thinking through all the reasons he might have collapsed, exhaustion at the top of the list, but he could also be having a reaction to another drug.

“I don’t think so. I can’t be sure of course, because I wasn’t with him the entire time we were at the Winter Palace, and he had his own private rooms during the night we spent there.” The Tevinter sat on the edge of the bed on the Commander’s other side. “He most certainly did not enjoy the ride home — we had to stop about five times for him to be sick along the side of the road.” He inhaled a long breath. “And every time he got back in the carriage, he looked paler than before. I tried to make him as comfortable as I could — I used ice magic to cool a cloth and held it to the back of his neck, but every jolt of the carriage seemed to make him wince.”

Pouring a measure of the wash into the water in the bowl, she took out a cloth and dipped it into the mixture. “He had a headache on the day you left, I know that because I saw him in the hall that morning.” She began wiping him down with the cloth, starting with his face and working her way lower.  “He is probably just exhausted, and the pain became too much for him. But we have to be prepared for anything.”

The mage looked sick. “Lysarah will want to hear about this,” he said, getting to his feet.  He  reached across the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder.“Be prepared for her to come storming in here demanding that you give him lyrium right away.”

“Let her just try it,” Eala growled as she continued her ministrations on the Commander.

After Dorian left and she was alone with Cullen, Eala allowed the tears to fall. Her hand shook as she gently ran the cloth across his sweaty skin. He looked almost fragile as he lay there; he was still a big and muscular man, but he was also smaller than he had been, the ropes and sinews of his close to the surface of his skin, blue veins winding their way up his arms.

“Oh, Cullen, my dear Ser,” she whispered as she bathed his chest. “I am so sorry that I haven’t been here for you.”

He moaned as she dragged the cloth down his chest toward his abdomen, the muscles there clenching and rippling as his breathing grew rougher. She looked up at his face, startled to see his eyes half-open. His brow wrinkled and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as his eyes slid in her direction, but there was no recognition in them.

“Please,” he croaked, and the desperation in that one syllable nearly unmade her. “Please kill me. I can't do this anymore.”

[mothmckrakken]

Renruki week Day 1: Childhood and Happy Birthday, Renji! 

I actually went with teenhood, but that’s kind of in the childhood category...? Anyway here it is! Hope you like! :D ~ @renrukiweek ~

Also on AO3 here ;)

Horizon’s Calling

The air was heavy with heat. Renji could feel the sun burning into the back of his neck as he stood rooted to the spot in the river, fishing spear in hand and watching the current rush by his legs. At least the water is cool, he thought bitterly, abandoning focus briefly to mop his furrowed brow with the back of his hand. 

Curving around the outside of the town, this river wound through an area overrun with tall, wavering yellow grasses and stunted trees that seemed to bow under the sun’s almighty reign over the sky. It was difficult to see anything in the moving water because the sunlight reflected off of it’s surface in blinding flashes that left Renji blinking hopelessly. Eventually, with a growl of frustration, from both his throat and his stomach, he stormed back to the river bank, or rather he waded through the thigh-deep water with strides as forceful as he could muster, which unfortunately had a less dramatic waddling effect.

After giving the water a final vengeful kick, Renji slumped onto the ground and threw his spear to the side, stretching his legs out in front of him and lying flat on his back, eyes closed to avoid a staring contest with the sun that he would only lose. The cicadas were deafening and the soil beneath his bare arms and legs burned but he didn't care, he didn't have the energy to; it was the afternoon already and he still hadn't had a bite to eat. The dry grasses prickled against him, scratching lightly at his cheeks as he tried to brush them away. He squinted over at them, teasing a stem between his fingers. Sun and rain. That's all you need, isn't it? The grass bobbed gently at his touch, scattering sunlight and shade across his face. Find some good soil to sit in, then just wait for the sun and rain to come to you. Must be nice. Maybe I'll try that out for a while.

With a final glance behind her, Rukia slowed to catch her breath. It sure wasn't easy keeping out of sight while carrying a crate, even if the thing was only half full. Regardless, she thought, her scuffed feet stepping nimbly over the dusty ground as she neared the outskirts of town, it would be worth her trouble just to see Renji’s expression when she showed its contents to him. 

Recently, as they had travelled through the districts, she had noticed a change in Renji. It wasn't always obvious but she would sometimes catch it in the slope of his shoulders as he walked, or in the distant look in his eyes when he didn't know she was watching him. When they had decided to become soul reapers a couple of weeks before it had been a huge decision to make, but, as far as she could tell, neither of them felt motivated. If anything it was a reminder that they had nothing left now, no friends for whom to keep a promise.

Rukia turned to see the sun beginning to set and wondered how he had done with the fishing; she was looking forward to having a dip in the river that he’d had to himself all day. At first she didn't see him as she navigated her way through the sea of grass, but then her eyes caught sight of the shock of red hair standing out against the ochre field. Smirking, she moved stealthily towards him, rather impressively for someone with such a large bulky box in their arms.

As she had suspected he was fast asleep. This wouldn't have bothered her were it not for the fact that there was no sign of any dinner nearby, cooked or otherwise. Did he really just go for a swim and then fall asleep in the sun? Rukia couldn't help but speculate angrily as she compared her exhausted, hot and bothered self to this restful boy calmly napping in the warm grass. Her fingers were straining under the rough wood of the crate. He’d better have a good explanation for this. She dropped the crate next to Renji with a loud thud and he woke with a start.

“Wha-Rukia?!” He shielded the sun from his eyes to look up at her, and as he focused in on her raised eyebrows and pointed look his confusion turned to guilt.

“Look, I haven't been sleeping that long I swear,” he began quickly, scrambling to his feet, “I stood for god knows how long in that river, but it was too bright to see, and it was so hot...” his sentence tailed off miserably. He was painfully aware of how pitiful he sounded.

“Sorry, Ok? I'll go catch some fish now,” he said fiercely, turning to grab his fishing spear from where it lay discarded on the ground.

“No need.” Renji stopped at the sound of Rukia's voice and turned back, finally noticing the large box in front of her. With a mysterious smile she wrenched the lid open and he stepped towards it to peer inside. Rukia watched with anticipation as his expression transformed, his eyes widening in shock, and then he leaned further down and reached inside with a disbelieving laugh.

“Are you serious?” He asked, raising one of the fish-shaped cakes up and examining it in wonder. It shone like precious gold in the sunset and Rukia could not get over the happiness in his face, her own smile must have reached her ears. He turned his gaze to her and under the full power of his beaming smile she could only shrug proudly.

“I've got the fish dinner covered today.”

The sun was low on the horizon as they sat side by side on the grassy bank, eating taiyaki and overlooking the river.

“I was walking through the town when I saw this guy unloading crates of food into his shop,” Rukia explained rather ungracefully through a mouthful of food, not that Renji cared as he made his way blissfully through his own; as far as he was concerned this girl with crumbs all around her mouth and bean paste smudged on her sleeve was a goddamn hero.

“I must have been staring ‘cos the guy suddenly yelled at me,” she put on a gruff voice - ‘Oi! If you got time to gape you got time to help, girl!’ - making Renji splutter with laughter.

“So, I did,” Rukia continued, “He said he would pay me for it, and besides the cakes smelled amazing. The shop was so big!” She gestured wildly with her sticky hands.

“There was a staircase and a back room, he directed me back there even though I really wanted to take a look upstairs...he just kept shouting to be careful and to stack them neatly or whatever.” She stretched her legs out in front of her and dipped her feet into the water, breathing a contented sigh.

“I've been wanting to do this all day...” Much as he appreciated the sight of the water lapping around her ankles and the beautiful way her head was tilted towards the sun, eyes closed and smile so serene, he had to insist on hearing the end of her story. Or rather he was going to, but the previously mentioned sight proved a bit too mesmerising for him to interrupt, so she ended up continuing of her own accord a few moments later.

“So,” she said opening her eyes again, Renji quickly continuing eating and pretending he hadn't just been staring, slightly agape, “I had shifted several boxes, heavy things by the way, when the guy tells me to wait there a moment while he gets the next cart, so once he'd gone, I thought I'd just take a peek upstairs, you know?” Renji groaned at her innocent tone and covered his face with a hand while Rukia gave his shoulder a shove.

“Yeah yeah, it's obvious now that was a bad idea but if you were there you would have done the same thing! Anyway, so I went up those creaky stairs and at the top there's no door or anything, just this little dusty room with a blanket covering something in the corner...” Another muffled groan, another shove.

“So you lifted up the blanket,” Renji said, a laugh cracking his voice,

“So I lifted up the blanket,” Rukia confirmed, miming it out, “and turns out it was hiding - guess what? - More crates. Except these ones weren't food. They had a symbol of a bottle on the side so I'm guessing they must have had alcohol in them, but just then he got back and started yelling.”

“Oh hell,” Renji winced, “what did he do?”

“Well that alcohol must have been dodgy ‘cos he was making threats and all that. He lunged at me but I swerved around him and got down the stairs, trying to apologise and calm him down but he was having none of it.” She took another cake from the pile and bit into it.

“I realised he wasn't gonna pay me now, and since he was getting violent I thought I'd do things his way. I winded him with a punch to the stomach, swept his feet from under him, then legged it. He'd dropped a taiyaki crate in the doorway and half of it was on the floor, so I picked up what was left and took it with me. Money would have been good payment, but hey, this'll do,” she finished, lifting the half-eaten food up with a grin. Renji laughed, raising his own in agreement.

“This'll do just fine,”

The last of the sun’s rays were flickering over the river and it was getting dark since it had been too warm to light a fire. As they had finished eating, Rukia placed the lid back on top of the crate to store the last of the taiyaki for the next day.

“You know what,” she heard Renji say, “I think taiyaki might just be my favourite food.” Rukia smirked, sitting back down beside him.

“Of all the crates he could’ve dropped, it happened to be one with your favourite food inside.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Seems like the universe gave you a gift.” Renji shook his head.

“You gave me a gift.” He said looking at her, a sunset blush colouring his cheeks. “Thank you.” Rukia felt the sincerity in his words and went a bit sunset coloured herself.

“Well...it's about time we set a date for our birthdays isn't it? I heard someone in town say it was the 31st of August today. How about next August I get you a full crate of taiyaki?” Her face grew excited, “Hey, maybe by this time next year I could buy you some with actual earnings!” Renji smiled slyly.

“Good plan, pay for the cakes and when his guard’s down swipe the alcohol...” Rukia punched him lightly. 

“Seriously, Renji,” She insisted, as he wrestled her fists away from him, “think about it, being able to buy the things we want and not having to watch our backs all the time...” She slowly stopped pushing against his hands and met his gaze with a calm confidence. 

“We’re gonna make it, ok?” 

He could see the sparkle of the water reflected in her eyes. Something about her quiet words held a steadiness that reassured him that she meant exactly what she said. He dipped his head in a nod, and for the first time it felt as though a flare of determination had been lit between them. As the last of the sunlight disappeared, Rukia turned to the sky.

“Look,” Renji’s eyes followed her upward-pointing finger. A day of cloudless skies had left the night clear, and now countless stars lit up the darkness. Rukia pulled Renji backwards with her as she lay down to face them. The wavering grasses swayed overhead, as if they were trying to reach the stars above, and Renji kept his hand in Rukia's, knowing he had to reach no further.

[ghostprincekeay]

Do AI Need To Breathe?

-A Churchington oneshot set at the bases in Valhalla- *Canon-divergent* Church stood quietly in the doorway of the new base. He could faintly hear arguing from the other side of the canyon before Washington let out one of his signature squeaky yells of, "Fine! Do what you want," before storming off back in Church's direction. "Hey, Was-" Church greeted, before Wash brushed harshly past him. Church looked back at him, a look of hurt ghosting across his face. He watched as Wash snatched his rifle off the table and stalked back outside, where he threw himself down on a stool in front of a crate to begin field stripping the weapon. Church let his gaze roam between the arguing Reds and Wash grumbling to himself before his eyes locked onto the cliffs overlooking the water. "I bet that spot is nice and quiet." He thought to himself before striking out down the path. "Epsilon." Wash called, harshly, not even looking up as the cobalt soldier passed him. Church stopped but didn't turn around, just gave a quiet, "hm?" "Don't go far. Training is in 10 minutes." "Yeah, yeah," Church said with a dismissive wave as he headed toward the cliff. "My name is Church," he grumbled, "not Epsilon, not Alpha. Church." His voice rose as he reached the top. He stared out over the water, the sun glistening off the waves, "like I wanted all that shit to happen to me. I didn't ask to be tortured! Ripped apart! And I didn't ask to be paired with him!" Church hung his head, shoulders slumping, "I didn't want to hurt him," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm sorry, David." After a few moments, Church sighed and turned back toward base. Wash was still cleaning his rifle, but the canyon now seemed quiet, so he figured it was safe to head down. Just as he turned back, an explosion shook the canyon, knocking him off balance. He felt the earth crumble beneath him and knew he was falling. A scream tore from him as he flailed, helpless. He reached out, grabbing for anything to stop his fall, but only coming back empty handed. It felt like time slowed to a crawl as the dark water came closer and closer. His mind raced, "What do I do? What do I do!?" Finally his mind screamed at him to hold his breath. He gasped just before he hit the freezing water. Wash watched as Church stormed up the path to the cliff. He thought back just a few moments to the confrontation in the doorway. Had that been hurt in his eyes? "No! He has no right to be hurt! Not after what he did to me." Wash thought bitterly. Despite this thought, a pair of bright blue eyes flashed across his mind. They looked hurt, afraid, but also furious. Not with him, no, they were pleading with him. "They hurt us!" The voice, screaming, echoed through his memory, "help us!" Washington tightened his grip on the rifle he was cleaning as he focused on those pained eyes, almost glowing. He squeezed his own eyes shut, trying to push the memory away. But before he can, an explosion rumbles the canyon and pulls Wash from his thoughts. He whips around to see smoke billowing from Red Base, but before he can start yelling at them a scream pierces his mind with the same panic as the one in his memory, only this one is real. Wash jerks his head around in time to see a dark figure go over the cliff's edge. "Epsilon!" Wash screams as he throws his rifle down and sprints toward the cliff. He reaches the top but doesn't even slow down as he dives over the edge where Church had fallen. He could still see the ripples from where the other man had broken the surface, and he hits the freezing water right next to them. Church began to panic as the murky cold enveloped him. He tried to kick or move his arms, but it did nothing. He was drowning. "I have memories of swimming, I know I do! Why can't I remember!? I need to remember!" Church thought frantically as he flailed, his lungs burning. He could look up and see the sunlight shimmering on the surface, but he just couldn't reach it. His vision began to dim and darken in the corners. He tried to fight it, but when his vision went completely dark, he felt the breath he'd been holding leave his body and went still. Washington immediately began searching the dim water, and it didn't take him long to find Church. He swam deeper toward the man who was kicking and fighting the water. As Wash neared him, he saw Church's body start to go limp. When he was close enough, he saw those same eyes, filled with panic and pain, before they dimmed and closed. "No...no!" Wash thought as he reached out and wrapped one arm around the smaller man's waist, using the other to pull them toward the surface. They broke the water's surface and Wash began to gulp in air as he looked down at the other. He was pale and limp as Wash dragged them both to the shore, and when the water was shallow enough, Wash lifted Church up into his arms and ran to the sand. As they got far enough from the water's edge he laid Church down as gently as he could, falling to his knees beside him. "Epsilon! Epsilon, can you hear me?" Wash called, voice ragged. He laid his head on the other man's chest. He had a heartbeat, but it was weak. He moved to place his ear near Church's parted lips. "Do AI need to breathe," Wash thought, feeling no breath against his cheek. He pulled away, looking down at the man's still, pale form, soaked black hair matted to his forehead. Another memory flashes behind Wash's eyes. Its a man with the same dark hair, same pale skin. He's holding Wash on either side of his head, fingers tangled in his hair. He's screaming, pleading with him for help for his siblings. Then, those same bright blue eyes go wide and roll back as he falls limp into Wash's arms. He lays the man gingerly onto the floor and with shaking fingers, checks the AI's pulse and breathing. 'Do AI need to breathe?' The question echoes again. "Better safe than sorry," Wash whispers out loud. He reached down, laid a hand on Church's forehead, tilting his head back and pinching his nose closed. He placed his other hand under Church's chin, parting his lips more. Washington drew a breath before sealing his mouth over the other man's and blowing deep into his lungs. He pulled back to see the other man's chest fall. After no signs, Wash blew in another deep breath, and another. He sat back on his heels to watch the small chest fall again. Still nothing. Wash was beginning to feel desperate as he parted his lips once more and sealed their mouths. "Please, breathe. Please." Wash begged, pulling back to take another breath. 'Epsilon! Epsilon, you have to breathe!' In Wash's mind's eye he can see himself sealing his mouth over the AI's, blowing air into his lungs. He drew back and blew in a few more breathes before laying his hands on the smaller man's chest and pressing down, hard and fast. After a cycle of compressions, he breathed into his mouth again, but before he can take another breath, the AI gasps and his eyes fly open, lunging at Wash. 'Don't let them take me back! They'll say I'm broken! They'll destroy me! You have to help me! Please!!' The AI screamed as he clawed at anything he could, scraping the walls of Wash's mind raw, but, just as quickly as all of it had began, it was over, and all Wash could feel in the man's place was an empty, hollow darkness. "I've already lost you once, please, don't make me go through that again. Just breathe, please!!" A few breaths later and Wash felt the body beneath him shudder. He pulled back and scanned the dark haired man's face, waiting for any sign that he was alive. Church gurgled, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Wash grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto his side as coughing wracked his thin body. "Epsilon! Epsil-Church! Church, I've got you! It's okay, you're okay...thank God, you're okay!" When Church had finished expelling the water from his lungs, Wash held the smaller man's frame tight against his chest. Church shook as he gasped for air, wrapping his arms around Wash. "W-Wash," came the breathless voice in his lap, "Wash, I...I'm sorry...for everything...I-" "Shh," Wash smoothed a hand over Church's soaked hair, "don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. I know...I know now." Wash's jaw clenched as he thought about the memories of what had happened to the man in his arms. "David..." the voice was barely a whisper, and when Wash glanced down he didn't see blue eyes full of fear and hurt, but bright green, calm as they fluttered closed, the head of dark hair falling onto his chest. "I'm not going to let anything take you from me...not again. I'm going to protect you." Wash was standing, the small, shivering body cradled against him when Tucker came running down the beach. "Dude, where have you bee-oh my God, Church! What happened?" "He fell off the cliff into the water. He should be fine, now, but you and Caboose go grab every spare blanket you can find." "Got it!" Tucker bolted back toward the base. Wash carried Church back into their makeshift home and into his room, and started peeling the soaked clothes off the paler man. Once he had gotten Church into dry clothes, he laid him on the bed and wrapped him in the pile of blankets they had gathered. Wash sat at the side of the bed as Church's shivering finally stopped, then stepped to his own room to change. When he came back the small form under the mountain of blankets began to stir. Wash rushed to his side, placing a hand on his cheek, "are you okay? Warm enough?" "Yeah, I'm okay...thank you, for, um, saving me." "Don't thank me for that. Don't thank me for something I should've done a long time ago," Wash said, resting his forehead on the bed, "I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't gotten to you in time. I couldn't take losing you again. I care about you, Epsilon," Wash paused, "Church." Church lifted up the blankets as best he could, gesturing for Wash to crawl into the space next to him. He did, and when Church wrapped his arms around Wash's chest, he whispered, "yeah, well, you can't really be inside someone's head and not care about them, too...that's pretty intimate." Wash felt a lump form in his throat,and pulled Church tighter against him, nestling down into his hair, where he eventually fell asleep.